Journal

On this Christmas Day, I’m going to capture memories of Christmas Days gone by. When I tried to think of memories, I was surprised at how few I had and at how randomly they were ordered in my memory. I won’t try to put them in perfect order here, I’ll just think, write and share.

I remember sitting on the ground with my red teddy bear, Red Ted (I know), painting his paws with my mum’s nail varnish. I remember my dad recording it on his camcorder. I wonder if that video still exists.

I remember ignoring most of my gifts and instead cutting up a bar of soap with a plastic knife, because “I’m a dentist” and “this patient needs multiple fillings.” I don’t remember why I wanted to be a dentist.

I remember visiting Santa Claus at Selfridges in London. I remember asking for a car (“a real one”). I remember buying Animals of Farthing wood afterwards on VHS, and watching it over and over.

I remember getting two whole bottles of pop to myself as gifts (orangeade and limeade in my memory, but I know that I loved dandelion and burdock). I remember hiding them under by bed for safekeeping.

I remember Christmas stockings filled mostly with clementines, but usually a box of clotted cream fudge, too. I remember, I think, the fudge coming from my grandfather. I can’t remember if that was true.

I remember receiving a toy parrot that repeated everything it heard. I remember my grandfather gleefully telling it to “fuck off,” and cackling every time it was repeated back to him. I remember laughing too.

I remember attending midnight mass on Christmas Eve at St. Stephen’s. I remember not wanting to go, but the deal being sweetened with an early gift. I remember choosing the Meccano race car kit.

I remember my dad revealing that we couldn’t afford gifts one year. I remember his boss buying us bike accessories for when we got bikes “one day.” I remember coming back downstairs to find brand new bikes.

I spent most of my life in England, between the West Midlands and East London. You come to associate Christmas with your entire experience of the holiday, of course—the big things and the small. The food you eat, the music you hear, the stores you (frantically) shop in.

Now that I live in California, in the Bay Area, I find myself missing things that I didn’t really know I appreciated. On this Christmas Eve I’m thinking of a few of those things, and I wanted to capture them here. I’m not writing them down because I’m sad that I don’t have them, I’m writing them down because I’m happy that I did.

1. The pub. I can’t properly explain it (though I’ll try), but pub is Christmas. They look like Christmas. They smell like Christmas. Some of them have an open fire that feels like Christmas. People are in various states of wrapped-up. The mood is good, the laughter loud, and the lights dim. It’s cozy, and comforting, and perfect.
2. Boxing Day. I’d argue that the day after Christmas in England is the real Christmas. It’s the day where many of the folks who worked tirelessly the day before get a minute to themselves. A day where you eat leftovers, watch crap movies, and eat as much chocolate as you can. The afterglow of Christmas, with a little more peace.
3. Regent Street. Too specific? Doesn’t matter. If you want to feel like it’s Christmas, walk down Regent Street in December. Just writing about it is giving me a strange feeling in my chest. You’re wrapped up warm (as is everyone else), the lights are so beautiful, and every store makes you feel like a kid again. Truly, the best feeling.
4. Christmas Markets. There was something close in New York when we lived there, but even so, there’s nothing like the endless markets across London (and England in general) to make you feel some sort of way. Wonderful food, Baileys hot chocolate, and (in my home town) stall owners fully in character as Victorian merchants.
5. Yorkshire Puddings. Yeah, we could make them (and we do), but on the years you can’t be bothered you could always grab a bag of Aunt Bessie’s and chuck them in the oven. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside, and filled with hot gravy. There are few things that Christmas dinner needs, but it always needs Yorkshire puddings.

One of my favorite Internet Easter Eggs is the Konami Code, because it’s a reminder that humans build websites—humans who are open to play, and to injecting a sense of humor into Otherwise Serious Things.

This list won’t age well I’m sure (though I hope it does), but at the time of writing there are a couple of websites that bring me the most joy when punching the Konami Code into my keyboard:

• Stripe
• Vercel

Both of these bring up controls that let you manipulate the shader used in their hero graphics. Try it! Visit the links above, and when the page has fully loaded punch in the Konami Code (reminder below).

1. Up (↑) Up (↑)
2. Down (↓) Down (↓)
3. Left (←) Right (→)
4. Left (←) Right (→)
5. B A

As you browse the web, try it from time to time. Pop open the console in the browser’s developer tools and see if there’s an easter egg hiding there. Look for other bits of fun tucked away in unexpected places.

The internet and the web and every website you visit was made by people. People who are building businesses, sure, but people out for their own fun too. People who are wonderful, curious, and creative.

In a world where it feels like we’re often so separated from the creators of the things that we use, easter eggs bring us closer.

I wasn’t in the mood to write today. I’m sat on the dog bed in my office, with Cacio curled up next to me—looking undecided as to whether my presence is a good thing—and ailed by a deep, dull headache.

I closed my eyes for a moment, my legs crossed and my laptop rested upon them. After a couple of minutes I felt my left foot start to tingle, so I uncrossed my legs and experienced that rare feeling: pins and needles, followed by an involuntary and painful sort of half-giggle.

I say rare but it wasn’t always, and that’s what I’m writing about today—because once some of the tingling had worn off my mind started to fill with memories of morning assembly at school. From my first day of school up until year nine, I’d have to sit cross-legged and would get pins and needles in at least one of my feet every single time.

After year nine I got to sit on an actual seat rather than the unforgiving floor of the gymnasium. Until then, though, we were packed together with crossed legs, sore wrists and tingling feet.

I remember the absolutely alien feeling of standing up at the end and one of my feet feeling three times its size. I remember chuckling alongside my classmates as we hopped and hobbled out of the gymnasium waiting for feeling to return. I remember when it did, we’d partake in the classic mischief of drawing on the gymnasium floor by way of scraping the sole of our black school shoes along the surface.

I attended a Church of England high school, so our usual assembly was sometimes replaced with holy communion, and a gaggle of 12 year olds would come jostling out of the gymnasium believing that they were out-and-out drunk from their absolutely-not-alcoholic wine, but with the criss-cross induced limp of someone who’d drank a bottle.

I’d almost forgotten about that—almost forgotten about assembly entirely, to be honest—but now it’s all coming back to me, just from a tingling sensation in my foot. Memory is a strange thing.

I remember at Northwick Manor the animal… person (that’s all I’ve got; occupation unclear) coming in to school and bringing a bonafide menagerie along with them including snakes and owls.

I remember the mystery man with the guitar who would have the whole year sing along to popular spirituals: “he’s got the whole world, in his hands, he’s got the whole wide world, in his hands…”

I remember the Cadbury Mini Eggs handed out at Easter assembly, and thinking that finally something good had come of this whole affair. I’ll take the chocolate, you can keep the bread and wine.

I wonder how many other memories are locked away behind a physical sensation. A vote, surely, for feeling things. Rain on your face. Wind in your hair. Whatever. Sensory, meet memory.

We just wanted to see if we were good and ready to have a dog in our life. We signed up to foster, and then walked around our Brooklyn carriage house giving a virtual tour to the folks evaluating us.

We thought it would take a while. A few weeks, maybe even a few months. A few days later, we got a call: “there are two 8-week old puppies—siblings—looking for a new foster home right now, can you take them?” Of course. Of course. Yes. We had no idea what we were doing, but how hard could it be? They’re so small, after all. It’ll be fine?

We didn’t own a car in New York, because who owns a car in New York? We quickly rented a Zipcar and we were on our way. It was exciting. We were excited. Two puppies! Two. Two… puppies. Huh.

They already had a foster home, but she was struggling—it was just her. When we got to her home, she invited us into the living room. Right in the middle was a pen, two crates, and two adorable, tiny puppies. One was yellow with a tinge of ginger, and the other was black.

“This one is Cacio,” the foster said, pointing at the yellow one.

The other, of course, was Pepe. Cacio e Pepe.

We were in love (obviously).

The weeks that followed were intense. I don’t know what I thought looking after two 8-week old puppies would be like, but I had not fully considered just how much they would be be. All. The. Time.

Waking every couple of hours to make sure they went potty.

Hours of daily play because they couldn’t yet go outside.

Taking things—what is that—out of their mouths.

Cleaning, cleaning, and—oh god no—cleaning.

We were exhausted, but we were coping. We were, I think, being good carers. They were healthy, and seemed happy, and I felt proud—of us and of them. I’d almost forgotten that they weren’t a permanent part of our family, and were destined instead for another home.

We had to take them into Manhattan for an adoption drive. We didn’t rent a car this time, so we each placed a puppy in a tote bag and jumped on the A/C from Utica. After pitching them to just about everyone on the subway and fighting our way through the rush-hour crowds, we arrived.

For the next couple hours, we watched as they were passed around, photographed, and hogged by one or two families for a little too long. We were happy to be helping them find their forever home, and devastated that it wouldn’t be ours. We were fostering. That’s the game.

A few days later we got the call: they’d both found homes on Staten Island. It couldn’t be much more perfect—two sisters had both decided to adopt one each, which meant that the puppies would be separated but would stay in each other’s lives. We were so happy for them. We started preparing for them to depart, talking about our memories with them and occasionally consoling one another when it felt a bit too sad.

A few days more, and we got another call: one of the sisters had dropped out. As if it was some sort of pact, the other sister dropped out shortly after. We were back to square one. We felt lucky to spend more time with them, but it was still a sad moment overall.

Folks new to fostering weren’t allowed to adopt the animals that they were fostering—or so said the rules. We wondered whether the rules were flexible, but we didn’t want to be those people. Eventually, we sent a timid message, so that we were only those-people-esque:

Hey Rachel, it’s Craig (Cacio and Pepe). We’ve just heard the news about Cacio’s adoption falling through. I know y’all have rules around this, but since there’s no harm in at least letting you know, we’d be more than happy to adopt Cacio if that was possible and helpful. Let me know one way or the other.

One of the other rules was that you couldn’t adopt siblings, which meant that we could only adopt one of the puppies (if we could adopt one). Besides, we lived in a Brooklyn Carriage house, and really couldn’t fit two adult dogs without it feeling unfair to them. We loved them both (we still love both) but Pepe had even more energy than Cacio, and we agreed that it made more sense to find him a home with more space.

The reply came back 13 minutes later: they’d love for us to adopt Cacio, and were so happy that we asked. The first rule was apparently less firm than we’d thought, and thank goodness (for us) that it was.

Cacio has been in our life for over two years now, and you’ll hear a lot more about her some other day. As I sat down on the couch this evening to write, though, and as she immediately jumped up and lay next to me, I realized what I wanted to write about. What I wanted to remember.

Half of what I write about on this blog is really just to help me remember a moment, and I don’t just mean to remember it later. Just as it’s written in every Field Notes book: “I’m not writing it down to remember it later, I’m writing it down to remember it now.”

True solitude is being uninterrupted by the thoughts of others, or at least that’s what I’ve been telling people for years, since 2019 actually when I first heard someone say it on the Ezra Klein Show, and I’ve been telling people it was Will Storr because I guess I also listened to his interview with Ezra Klein and it seems like something he’d say, and yet it turns out that it was Cal Newport (or that’s what ChatGPT Deep Research tells me because of course that’s how I checked), and for some reason I think I’d have repeated it less if I had remembered it was Cal Newport and not Will Storr, but I can’t really tell you why, though I wonder if it’s because I enjoy Will Storr as an author more than Cal Newport, or actually if it’s because Cal Newport speaks like Simon Sinek giving a TED Talk, which… I literally don’t know if he does, but in my memory he does, and anyway, what’s the matter with that, and what do I have against Simon Sinek, because I can’t think of much except that I worked with a consultant once who quoted him every five bloody minutes, and I think that made me dislike Simon Sinek a little bit, which is unreasonable but true… so wait a minute, I like the idea less because a consultant annoyed me into disliking Simon Sinek and Cal Newport maybe-but-might-not-actually-sound-like Simon Sinek giving a TED Talk, and I’m sitting here by myself trying to decide what I think and actually I’m just being interrupted by the thoughts of others, and even if all of that wasn’t true I’d be sat here by myself thinking about solitude and the strongest idea I have comes from someone else six years ago, so I can’t even consider solitude without being interrupted by the thoughts of others, in which case I’ll never experience solitude, at least by that definition, but maybe I’m supposed to come up with my own, and now because I cannot stop myself from being interrupted by the thoughts of others and because I remembered something you’re supposed to forget I’ve lost the game, and if you’re reading this you’re both being interrupted by my thoughts (and the thoughts of not-Will-Storr-also-known-as-Cal-Newport and Simon Sinek and some consultant and maybe every TED speaker you’ve ever listened to and maybe Ezra Klein and every guest he’s ever spoken with) and AND and you have also lost the game, and if you don’t know what the game is you might Google the game and land on the Wikipedia page and be interrupted by that and every other link on the page and every other tab in your browser, and finally you might tell someone about the game and the fact that you’ve lost the game and they might or might not know about the game and they’ll both lose it and learn about it and… and.

A cone of chips so they don’t get squished and soggy. A little wooden fork (is it called a fork?) that just about holds a chip long enough to fling it into your mouth. The hoof-hoof-ahh-hoof as you fling it in when it’s too hot. And then again. And a third time. The feeling of a hot chip on a bitterly cold day as it warms your neck, and then your stomach. The subtle but oh-so-fucking-wonderful feeling of your teeth first breaking a crisp skin, but then sinking into soft potato. The lashings of salt and vinegar for that enviable trio of salt, fat and acid in a single bite. The last chip, a vinegar sponge, that makes your jaw smart but your mouth smile; eyes, close.

One of my favorite books—by which I mean book as object—is A Drive into the Gap by Kevin Guilfoile, published by Field Notes Brand Books.

I re-read it every few months and it usually stays—whilst I’m reading it and in-between reading—in the pocket of my denim jacket. Whenever I wear that jacket and reach into the pocket, I’m reminded that I have something wonderful to read, or re-read, or just flick through.

It’s beaten-up, dog-eared, and the screen-printed title is rubbing off (I’ve started to scribble it back in). The spine has a kink in it, the cover has a crease from testing a bone folder, and there’s hastily scrawled marginalia using whatever pen I had with me at the time.

It’s a great book, a wonderful story, and an object that I just love so much. It’s the perfect size, the ideal number of pages, and it’s meant to be in a pocket. The rounded corners avoid snagging, the sturdy pages hold up to anything, and the cover only looks better with age.

There are so many books that I love for the content of the book, but so few where the form of the book itself brings me this much joy. Buy the book. Gift the book. Use the book (I mean really use it).

Woke up. Walked to office to look at the neighbor’s tree. Raining. Drizzle? Bit more than that, but on the light side. Involuntary smile. I like rain, sometimes. I liked it today. Light wind, low fog, more-than-drizzle. Perfect. Threw my cardigan on and watched for a minute more.

Felt a bit homesick for rain.

Finished work. Walked to meet wife at BART. “We don’t have anything for dinner, right?” Nope, need to go grocery shopping. “Maybe just beans on toast and a cup of tea then,” I offer. “Perfect.” And it was. Heinz beans, white bread, butter, cheddar to finish it off. Barry’s Tea, strong.

Felt a bit homesick for bread.

My wife and I traveled around Italy after we got married. In Florence we had a beautiful, delicious and unassuming dish that we’ve been making ever since. It’s all of those things whilst also being quick to make—perfect for when you’re feeling squeezed for time but still want to eat well.

Today, as it turns out, was one of those days. On the way to the pharmacy—just before closing—I stopped by Berkeley Bowl to grab the ingredients. I’ll share the original below and the substitutes I used.

• Trofie (I used Campanelle)
• Burrata (I used mozzarella)
• Pesto (bought fresh or made)
• Cherry Tomatoes
• Olive oil
• Sea salt

1. Put the water on to boil; salt it like the summer sea.
2. Whilst the water is boiling, slice the tomatoes; cut them in half lengthways, and then in half again for quarters. Salt them generously (come on, more than that—life is far too short).
3. Once the water is boiling, add the pasta (you do you).
4. You’ve earned a lovely break; grab a fork and eat some perfectly-salted tomato slices (go on, a few more than that).
5. Once the pasta is al dente (please, thank you), drain it; reserve a little of the pasta water (you’ll use it in the next step).
6. Return the pasta to the pan and stir through the pesto; add a splash of the pasta water (you’ll know when it’s enough).
7. Plate the pasta, scatter an obscene amount of the (remaining) sliced tomato throughout, and top it all with the burrata; finish with a few grinds of black pepper and a drizzle of olive oil.
8. Enjoy, knowing that you have a small taste of Florence and a shared experience with us (for which we’re very glad).