RochelleBilow.com

“How I Briefly Lost Sanity and Regained it in a Cup of Coffee and the Thought of Seasoned French Fries.”

Craziness is fleeting – at least it is so for me – but it is persistent and rude while it lasts, knocking at my doors, windows, skull and shoulders.

It wasn’t the nagging feeling of insanity behind my eyelids and knees that was so worrisome as was the realization that I had absolutely nothing, save study, to do. All day. That surely can’t be be a good situation for staving off madness.

I clunked out of bed and materialized in the kitchen, where I busied myself with very important, mind-occupying tasks, like slicing one and a half apples and dipping them into cinnamon and sugar. I read every single article in the Sunday styles section of the New York Times and scanned every headline of the front page. I cleaned my rabbit’s cage and picked up the Times again, poring over the magazine insert. I warmed a bowl of lobster bisque, which was slightly spicy with a kick of heat and very reminiscent of white wine, and I tore up a head of frisee lettuce, peppering it liberally and eating it with a small fork. I still felt outrageous and odd.

It’s every so often that I feel as such – I imagine you have days like this too. (If you don’t, I’m awfully sorry; madness can be rather conducive to excellent writing.) It’s nearly impossible to describe what the madness is, but it’s always unsettling and very difficult to smooth. I constantly lick the palm of my hand, attempting to flatten the tuft of wild hair it boasts, but rarely does the cowlick calm before it’s ready.

When the madness strikes, I tend to stave it off with a culinary adventure. The conversations I have with myself at these moments play out like this:

Me 1: Hmm, what to do today? What do normal people do on days like these?

Me 2: I know! I know! You could stare at your eyebrows in a magnifying mirror for 3 hours!

Me 1: Oh, no, normal people don’t do things like that.

Me 2: Oh. I’m sorry.

Me 1: It’s quite all right; why don’t you suggest something else?

Me 2: What if you baked a chocolate charlotte and tied it up with a red ribbon, and then took 79 pictures of it, and then spent 3 hours deciding which photo you like best?

Me 1: Excellent! I think I shall!

Me 2: So glad to be of help.

So anyway, most of my brief encounters with insanity are solved with a spatula and parchment paper. Cooking is a surefire way to feel like myself once more; it’s what I do, and it’s who I am. It helps to know these sorts of things.

Today, though, I was coming down from a week of baking Christmas cookies and wasn’t entirely in the mood to deal with a hot oven. I decided that the best course of action would be to leave the house in search of a cup of coffee – and perhaps some sort of baked good. Food should be involved, I thought. Best not mess with a tried and true method of curing one’s ails.

Coffee can, of course, be made and consumed within the comforts of one’s home, but when one is feeling mad, it helps to enter the public arena and interact with other, real, sane people. I grabbed my notebooks and set off for an adventure.

“Let’s find the perfect cup of coffee!” I said, out loud and to no one in particular, as I started my car.

When I arrived at the outskirts of downtown Syracuse, I realized a slight flaw in my plan. The Sunday shopper is hard-pressed to find any open establishment, be it a restaurant, boutique, or cafe. Ah, well. Not one to get easily discouraged, I hugged my arms around my chest to keep warm, and began walking. I passed a small jewelry store that was, surprisingly, bustling with business. Shocked and entranced by the activity, I ducked in and immediately bought a Christmas present for someone who will remain nameless, lest he/she reads this blog.

My spirits brightened by the purchase, I found yet another open store, this one housing locally crafted pottery and glassware. I stood in front of the handmade card section, giggling out loud at the clever and witty greetings. The cashier approached me. “I couldn’t help but notice you laughing to yourself,” she began, and my cheeks reddened. Definitely not sane-person behavior.

I left the store with another bag in tow, and came across the city’s outdoor skating rink.

“Aww,” I whispered, watching two young girls clutch each other as they took a spill on the slippery ice. I stood and watched families glide and laugh for a few minutes, briefly considering renting a pair of skates before realizing that no one – not even questionably mad people – goes ice skating alone. Standing at the edge of the rink, though, and staring intently wasn’t just weird, it was a little creepy. I turned from the ice. The chilly scene had jogged my memory of my original quest, and I set off with renewed intent to find and buy an excellent cup of coffee.

My first attempt was a French restaurant located nearby. (Who am I kidding; everything is “nearby” in Syracuse.) I just about flew there with excitement when I remembered the establishment and envisioned myself, sitting at the bar, impossibly stylish and beautiful, sipping a small cup and nibbling on some sort of fabulous French pastry. Alas, the restaurant is closed from 2-5 on Sundays. It was 2:30.

I continued walking.

I then encountered a Starbucks. It was open, but I shuffled by. Honestly, I couldn’t expect to cure a bout of insanity with a $4.00 cup of coffee.

A few bars blurred in and out of my vision, and while they would’ve surely offered a hot cider or something equally cozy, they were all closed.

Finally, I came across a small, independent cafe that I’d frequented as a teenager. The decor seemed to change every time I entered, and, as I remembered it, the drinks were mediocre. But it was warm and welcoming, and my toes were starting to tingle. I pushed on the door. I pushed harder. It wouldn’t open. “Ah,” I blew my bangs off my forehead and sighed angrily. I’d turned away from the building and was contemplating that magnifying mirror when I heard a voice tumble over the gray sky.

I turned around.

“I’m sorry; the door wasn’t supposed to be locked,” a man said, holding it open for me. “I’m glad you came back,” he continued as I entered.

I smiled a bit, though at this point I was cold and frustrated, and just about ready to give into my increasingly abstract mind.

I shuffled in and ordered a cup of coffee, making small talk with the store owner. At the last moment, I remembered my insistent stomach and asked for a piece of almond biscotti as well. The cookie wasn’t excellent; it tasted slightly of baking powder, I thought, as I bit into it. But the coffee, I acknowledged and sipped, was very good. Well worth the adventure.

Flipping my book open, the pages fell to a section of notes about marketing and selling. Underneath a subheading dated 11/4 and titled “Seasoned Sales People,” I’d sketched a bucket of french fries and written “SEASONED FRIES, HA-HA! ” As soon as I saw that, I laughed out loud, not caring who noticed or commented.

Maybe, I wagered, lifting the mug to my lips, maybe I was insane. Maybe a little bit. But at this point in time, I just felt happy and silly and very much like myself.