Creative Cooking

Today, I decided to be creative.

I've cooked a lot of things in the kitchen before, but most of it has been simple, run of the mill stuff (think: spaghetti, beans and rice, omelets). On the few occasions that I have cooked anything slightly more fancy, I followed the recipe. To a T. Almost neurotically, in fact.

(I want to get it right. I don't want to screw up. This seems to be a theme in my life: more on that later.)

But tonight, I wanted chicken (it's also the option in my freezer right now) and I wanted rice instead of pasta. However, I've had chicken and rice several times since living here (in my apartment, having to cook for myself). What can I say: it's easy. I like it. I know how to not screw it up (usually). I also have pomegranates right now too (yay fruit/veggie trucks!), and thought it would be fun to use one.

So, I google searched. As you do.

My results were....less than fruitful.

Oh, there are some great recipes out there. They just called for things I don't happen to have on hand. A slow cooker, apple cider vinegar, pomegranate juice, or some sort of alcohol. (Since I'm not quite 21 yet and go to a school where I'm not allowed to have alcohol in my on-campus housing, even for cooking, bear with me.)

So I thought, hey! Why not make something up?

I decided to smush up about half of the pomegranate seeds I currently have out of the skin (cooking for one here, remember) and cook the chicken in the product, braising style.

Problem: I don't have a blender or juicer. I do have a nut/fruit/veggie chopper thing. I threw the pom. seeds in that and got to work.

(Note: blending would be much easier.) (Note 2: there are no sees in the chopper in that pic. Just in case you were worried. That's just a pic of the device)

I threw this in a pot when I was done and added a bit of allspice and a tiny bit of cranberry juice.

(then I forgot to take any more pictures.)

I placed slices of chicen breast in the pot and covered them with water. (Note 3: if repeating this recipe, do use pomegranate juice or enough pomegranate puree stuff instead of water for better flavor.)

I then braised the chicken. (Heat until boiling, turn down to a simmer until chicken is cooked through.)

Luckily, I already had a bit of leftover rice made up and the beans were frozen, so while the chicken was cooking, I popped those in the microwave. When everything was done, I plated the beans and the chicken over the rice, used some of the extra juice for flavoring on the rice and sprinkled some of the leftover fresh pomegranate seeds on top. The beans got a little garlic powder and voila! My first freehand meal!

The chicken was good, juicy but not super flavorful. next time, I would probably use more pomegranate and less water, and even more allspice or other seasoning. (Does lavender go well with pomegranate?)

All in all, a pretty good meal. Would try again, with a few tweaks here and there.

I did learn a few things, however:

1. The internet doesn't have all the answers, especially when it comes to creativity and individuality.
2. Sometimes you need to learn to stop being afraid of messing up in order to be creative. Great things can come out of this. (Delicious things even.)
3. Messing up is a part of learning. Even if the overall outcome was a success, I learned more by not getting it perfectly right the first time. 
4. Pomegranates, chicken and rice do actually go well together.

So there you have it! My delve into creativity on this monday evening. Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think or if you ever decide to try a similar recipe. Thanks for reading!

Applications, Shotguns, and Proverbs 31

“This is priceless!!”

“Awesome!”

“I love it!”

“I’m using that.”

I’ve seen this picture before, but just recently ran across it on Facebook again. With almost 200,000 shares and multiple comments like the ones above, not to mention all the references to actual, literal shotguns being cleaned (I really hope they were joking, but sometimes I wonder), I decided I was ready to put my two cents in.

Before I get started, yes, I know this is a joke. I know most people, especially (I hope), the good Christian parents that I’ve seen post this, don’t take it seriously. But there is always some truth in humor and sarcasm and satire, and while you may not actually believe in actually using something like this, the fact that you find it worthy of sharing means you align yourself with the ideas it represents. (Seriously. Google it and see what you come up with. Doesn't it make you cringe a little?) The thing is, some people actually do take this, and things like it (Rules for Dating my Daughter, for instance) completely and 100% seriously.

So, firstly, I’d like you to take a step back and look at this critically with me. What sort of thing does a person fill out an application for? Jobs, school, apartments, etc. All good things. But there is one key point that makes me a little sick seeing something like this.

Each of those things is dispensable. Each of those things is part of consumer economy. Each of those things is, well, a thing.

You know what is not a thing? Your daughter.

I realize that you want to keep your daughter safe. You want to know that the boy she’s dating is trustworthy and will care for her the way you care for her. Will love her and respect her and treat her the way she deserves to be treated.

But I also know that your daughter is a human being, capable of making her own decisions. She is not an apartment that you are leasing, she is not a job that you are letting someone else take care of for a while. She is her own human. And while you want to protect her, she is not yours, not really. She is God’s. So if anyone should be handing out applications for permission to date her, it should be Him.

Too much in the Christian culture, I see society’s ideas of women as “less” than men seeping in:

“Women are the weaker sex.” “Women must be protected.” “Daughters belong to their fathers until they belong to their husbands.”

“Women are responsible for keeping their brothers in Christ from stumbling into sin.”

I could go on a tangent for that last one, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. The point is that I am not a possession.

But more importantly, I am not a prize to be won.

See, with “jokes” like these, you are teaching the boy that his past is more important than how he behave in the future. You are teaching your daughter that the boy’s past is more important than her freedom of choice. Beyond that, you are teaching both of them that if only this boy can “pass an application”, he is “worthy” of your daughter, no matter what her thoughts and opinions are.

All are very dangerous trains of thought, and dare I say, not biblical.

For some reason, I think first of the Capable Wife in Proverbs 31. She is said to be trustworthy, strong, honorable, filled with wisdom and loving instruction. She is not idle. She is called blessed. She is good, and it is clear she is capable and intelligent, as she is able to “evaluate a field and buy it”, and “sees that her profits are good”. She is generous and kind and good and fears the Lord.

What’s more, her husband is “known at the city gates”. He sits among the elders. He praises her, finds value in her. To him, she surpasses all the other capable/skillful/competent women.

I do not think that this woman’s father sat at the door with a shotgun or application for dating while she sat inside, waiting for him to make a decision for her. (Ok, yes, he probably gave his approval for marriage and may have even arranged the marriage because of customs at the time, but he clearly did more than that.) He taught her to go after what was right, to find value God, first and foremost, value in herself next, and then to do what was right in the eyes of God. 

Because of this, her husband is a good man, and clearly worthy of attention too. Not only is he well known among wise leaders of the community, he sees her value for what it is: hers.

Don’t tell me this is “just a joke,” because the mindset behind it is very real. And it is very dangerous.

It is dangerous because teaches daughters that they are not strong or trustworthy or intelligent. They are not worth their own thoughts or feelings or instincts. It teaches them to rebel.

It is dangerous because it excuses fathers from setting a proper example. It takes away the responsibility of teaching their daughters how to make a decision critically and wisely, of teaching them to respect themselves above all else. It teaches them that dad’s opinion on their life is more important than theirs.

It is dangerous because it teaches boys that all they have to do is answer the right questions and to please the father, instead of valuing the daughter for all that she is, all that she is capable of.

And it’s not just the “application” that teaches this. Dad coming to the door with a shotgun, telling young girls “you’re not dating until you’re 30”, lists of rules on rules for dating her, even interrogating the boy before the first date, all of it teaches these girls the wrong message.

I realize that this is done out of a place of love and protectiveness over your daughter, but there are much, much better ways of going about it.

Open conversation is one of them.

I know: I’m not a parent. I don’t have a daughter (though I hope to someday). What could I know about all this? Well, I may not have a daughter, but I am a daughter. I know what I expect from guys that I might want to date, and it certainly isn’t simply the ability to please my father.

Quick sidenote: pleasing the dad isn’t a bad thing. I want to make that clear, that’s not the point. The point is that “pleasing dad” isn’t the most important thing.

If you’ve raised your daughter to follow God, to value herself, and to make good decisions, “dating applications”, “shotguns”, and “no dating until you are 30!” simply aren’t necessary or productive implications to enter into the conversation.

I’m not against having rules in the household, especially for teenagers. Not dating exclusively until, say, 16, or not being alone/excluded with a boy, or parents meeting the boy before the first date. However, with these rules should come that open conversation I was talking about earlier, rather than just threatening an application or shotgun. (Which will only introduce fear and rebellion, two things I hope you’re trying very hard to stay away from.) If you present your reasoning for these rules to your daughter, making it clear that you do trust her opinions and choices, but want to be invested and on the same page, chances are you won’t even need to joke about “dating applications”. Make sure your daughter knows how much you respect her, how much you think she is worth, how skilled and smart and passionate and kind and talented and clever she is. Make sure she recognizes that she doesn’t have to settle.

If you do that, you might turn out with a Proverbs 31 woman, and with or without a husband, that might be more than anyone could ask for.

(Once she does start dating, get to know the guy. Find a way to interject the questions you are most concerned about with him, or even ask your daughter in a non-judgmental way. THEN if there are problems, ask your daughter to consider what you have discovered. CONVERSATION!!!)

So stop joking about things like this. Stop joking about little girls being their father’s property, about boy’s faults and past’s being the most important things about them. Stop devaluing people under a guise of being protective.

We are supposed to be in this world but not of it. Why then do we act so much like it? Value and trust your daughters the same way you would with your sons, and I think we might all be a little better off in the end. 

If you want to talk more about this with me, please, shoot me a message or comment or email. I'm  more than willing to keep this conversation going. As always, thanks for reading!

Underneath This Skin (there's a human)

Will You still love me when I cannot love myself? When demons haunt my bones and spill my blood? When my mind cannot hold onto anything good or bright or hopeful?

The sky here is so open and bright. Every evening, there's a different sunset. Every evening it's beautiful. I want to reach out and touch it, drink it in and forget all my troubles, to sink down into the soft clouds and sleep for years, to paint my skin with the colors, to dance until I become the sky.

I tend to forget that there is more to life than the one I lead. I forget to find joy and peace and comfort in simple moments. Some days, I feel like all that's left of me is the skin that covers my bones.

Will You still love me when I can't stop telling myself lies? When belief is too much for me to comprehend? When the darkness seeps beneath my skin and fills my lungs with prideful shame?

The clouds are incredibly beautiful to me, and I usually like them better even than clear skies, simply for the aesthetic they provide. I like sunsets better than the brightness of mid-day, impending nighttime allows the sun to bring out better colors.

It is our blemishes, our faults (and dare I say our affinity for the darkness?) that make us unique, that allow us to become beautiful. For if we were perfect, if we were clear and clean and bright like a cloudless sky at noon, there wouldn't be any need for saving. There wouldn't be any way for us to relate to those around us, those with scarred hearts and broken souls.

"Will your grace run out
If I let you down?
Because all I know
Is how to run.
Will You call me child
When I tell you lies?
Because all I know
Is how to cry.
 
I am a sinner,
If it's not one thing it's another.
Caught up in words,
Tangled in lies.
But You are a Savior,
And You take brokenness aside
And make it beautiful."


My soul might be broken and charred from the darkness I cling to, but You will turn it into something beautiful, if only I can let go of myself long enough to let You. When we stop pretending to be perfect, lean to accept our faults and give them up to the One who can make them new, we too will turn beautiful, colorful, and luminous like the sky at dusk.

If all the clay was already made into pots, there would be no need for a potter. If all the canvases were already covered in paint, there would be no need for painters. Without the color black, white would mean nothing. Without bad days, good ones would be mundane. Without the darkness, we wouldn't need Him.

Don't dwell in the darkness, but don't shun it either. Don't pretend it doesn't exist. Learn from it, talk about it, allow Him to take it and turn it into something. Something new, something beautiful.

You are amazing, even more so than the sky, and He will use the darkness in you, just as He does at sunset and sunrise. There is always a chance for a new beginning.



[Excerpts from my journal; lyrics from "Brokenness Aside" by All Sons and Daughters; title from the song "Human" by Daughter.]

Flee With Me

Oh, lets run away,

Darling flee with me

To the land beside the river

Hidden in the trees

Come and dance beneath

A canopy of leaves

As long as you are by my side

I’ll know my spirit sings

 ~C.R. Sutton

Between Wandering and Home, I Found You

[Note: I wrote this segmented essay for my creative non-fiction writing class a few weeks ago, and thought here would be a good place to share it. Enjoy!]

Age 3:

The sun rises through a dingy plane window. All I know is that we are headed to a new home. The bright oranges and pinks over the horizon capture my attention more than anything though: I’ve never been up early enough to watch the sun rise.  I have no sorrow for leaving Germany, no fears about coming to Iowa. Home is a meaningless word. As long as Mommy is next to me, I am safe.

Age 4:

Uncle Bill’s little traditional New Mexico home reminds me of a house from the Voyage of the Dawn Treader book, but I don’t need a portal to open and whisk me away to a strange new world, for this one is fascinating enough. We have to get up early for the Balloon Fiesta, and my breakfast burrito is so spicy it makes me cry. Mesmerized, I watch hot air balloons go up, one after another until the sky if full, and wonder what it would be like to ride in one, the sky stretched before me with nothing to hold me down.

Age 10:

Amelia and I stick our feet in the ocean even though it’s December and the sun is setting. California is warmer than we are used to this time of year, but the water is still freezing cold. City lights blink as the sun disappears and I wonder what it’s like to live here, tall buildings instead of corn fields, planes that can take you anywhere at any time. The tug of the waves against my ankles pulls at something in my heart, a yearning for travel that will never quite go away. My sister and I run barefoot in the sand, and I begin to realize I only need the love of my family to make me happy.

Age 11:

The Star Wars run is our favorite, simply for its name, even though it’s a Black Diamond. Kaa is a close second because of its windy path, the tracks through the trees, and the little jumps. Brian crashes going over one on his birthday, but it doesn’t keep him down long. The rocky mountains of Colorado re-awaken a thirst for adventure in my veins; I feel invincible as I ski the slopes. At night, we play Pictionary and eat Mama K.’s curry and rice. It doesn’t matter that one half of our group is not related to the other: this journey in the mountains has turned friends to family.

Age 12:

Jazzy saxophone wafts up through the window of our hotel room and lulls me to sleep. I never knew that the city could be filled with such wonderful things. Before, it was all tall buildings and museums, now it is street musicians and cherry blossoms in front of Jefferson’s Memorial, delicious fish’n’chips at the Elephant and Castle, and new friends at a hotel swimming pool. Before, when I thought of travel, I thought of mountains and nature, now I think of people and culture and new friends. My world is expanding, my family is growing, and the seed of wanderlust swells in my veins. Daddy still holds my hand as we see all the sights, but I find I don’t need to let go to experience life.

Age 16:

Hot is the first thing that comes to mind when we land. The Jamaican airport is small and busy. The roads are windy and the people are oh so kind. I have a purpose, and helping the doctors and med students give medical treatment to the locals makes me feel important. I don’t mind that I’m away from our annual 4^th of July picnic back home when the little Jamaican kids get excited about new toothbrushes. I realize that a life of service is the best kind. My new friend’s name is Jalehl, and he watches as I clean tools for the dentist. This is his home, and now that he has a piece of my heart, it somehow is mine too.

Age 17:

Big Creek is almost 800 miles from home; farther than I’ve ever been from my parents before. Eight students and five adults from my youth group travel to the mission center in Kentucky for an entire week. We are the only group there made of High Schoolers only; everyone else is younger. I learn how to lead as well as how to serve, and build better friendships with those that have come from home. Alex and I play Frisbee with the guys in the afternoon and share music before bed, and our small group grows closer throughout the week. We share stories in the evenings of where we’ve had to mature and what we’ve learned through our service to the people of Appalachia. We grow together, and this creates a bond that lasts even after we return to Iowa. This trip gives me new brothers and sisters, and in them I find solace when home is not enough for my wandering bones.

Age 18: (part 1)

Landing feels like coming home, even though I’ve never been to Spain before. We’re met at the gate with hugs and smiles. It’s been a year since I’ve seen Sara, but now everything feels right again. Daniel begs for a piggyback ride as we walk the streets of Madrid, Spanish chatter filling the warm June air. The light atmosphere warms a part of my soul that constantly longs for adventure. In Barcelona we eat food from street vendors and admire the ridiculous architecture. I get used to riding public transportation and walking everywhere, gelato and the sweet smell of the ocean wafting in with the breeze. This is more than vacation: it is taking a journey with the people I love, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Age 18: (part 2)

It’s summer in winter when we land in Australia. Peace surrounds me the moment we step off the plane, and I’m suddenly not bitter that it took us an extra day to get there because of weather delays in Minneapolis. For 12 whole days we get to experience paradise. I thought Spain felt like home; this is something even better. Warmth from the air and from our friendship fills the house as we lay on the couch watching Australian TV, later as we swim in a backyard pool, and only strengthens as we eat leftover wedding food. Kendrea and I sing Frozen songs nonstop and she teaches me Australian slang. This bond in our hearts keeps us cozy even in the chilly mountains later that week. I have tasted true life in these hills, I have found a belonging on the cement of city sidewalks. I leave a piece of myself there when we go, and can only pray one day I’ll return to find it again.

 

 

Age 19:

I feel so much older on the return flight from Australia, and it has nothing to do with the birthday I had there. I don’t sleep the entire flight home, which means I’m up for over 36 hours straight. Iowa is cold and snowy and bland, none of the light from down under remains. In two weeks, I make my way back to Chicago. Emily and Rachel throw me a late surprise birthday party, and I know I’ve found the right friends. Slowly, we figure out how to fit into each other’s lives. Kirstin and I find the best ice cream in Andersonville, Hannah and I study in a cozy bookstore together. We aren’t a family yet, but we could be soon. With no one else to turn to, we find solace in each other, and the group that forms makes this city another place to call home. My desire for adventure can easily be quenched, and my thirst for family fulfilled, as long as I open my heart, step into the hot air balloon, and learn to let go.

 

 

[End note: this is not an all-inclusive list of the people i consider my family. If you're in my life or were at some point, chances are I consider you family too :) Love you all, and thanks for reading!]

Open Hands, Open Heart

My mother’s hands are gentle as she tills the earth, pulling weeds from beside her flowers and placing vegetable seeds in the ground. At a young age, I loved to join her outside in the garden. She taught me what plants to pull and which to leave, but mostly I just enjoyed digging in the dirt. I liked to discover what each different type of dirt felt like on my skin- the softness of damp dirt, the dustiness of dry dirt, the roughness of sandy dirt, and even the smoothness of mud. The cool feeling of the earth on my fingertips was all I needed to entertain myself. When we got a sandbox, I would play in it for hours, not only building castles and digging trenches, but also letting the grains sift through my fingers and finding smooth pebbles to rub between my palms. 

I didn’t limit my tactile experience to the outside world though. The hands that raised me cultivated more than dirt; they also cooked the food that sustained me. My favorite days were the days that Mom made bread, the days when mixing was not limited to a wooden spoon or spatula; our hands are tools too, just as important as any bowl or cup of flour. I love the squish of dough in my hands, releasing the sweet scent of flour and yeast, pulling and pushing the air bubbles from the unbaked bread. Kneading uses palms as well as fingertips to turn and press. If unwatched, I would knead the bread too long, loving the dusty flour coating my hands and how it caused the dough to pull away from my skin—almost sticking, but not quite.

My father’s hands draw music from the violin. When I was four years old, I joined him in the art, reveling at the ridge a string makes under my finger as I press it down. He would move my fingers around on the instrument so I played the notes in tune until I learned muscle memory, and we would play my songs together. I learn better by listening to the music than by just reading it off the page, but I learn best when I play a piece with someone the first time. Doing something, physically touching it and experiencing it etches the new skill into my brain better than anything else. When playing a piece of music, hands are very important. My fingers need to know what to do in order to play the piece properly, and I find it hard to do that if I’ve only heard or seen the piece. I can hear it in my head, but not properly transfer it from the paper to my hands until I’ve experienced it.

Hands are important to me. Fingertips have some of the densest groupings of nerve endings on the body. It’s no secret that everyone has unique fingerprints. A human hand has 27 bones all to itself. When we think of our sense of touch, we usually thing of hands first and foremost, even though it applies to all the skin on our bodies. These are just a few of the reasons I find hands fascinating. They are so different and so similar on every person. Some people have long thin fingers, others have broad palms. Some are rough and calloused, some are smooth and soft. Hands, and specifically, opposable thumbs, make our lives as humans so much easier than they would be without.

I am a very tactile person, and the touch sense is significant to me. Even as a child, I used my hands a lot. When I made up stories, I often had a stress ball that I would transfer back and forth to keep the thoughts flowing. Now, I have Silly Putty on my desk for when I get distracted while reading something for class or trying to spark a new ides. Molding a rubbery, not-quite-sticky ball of goo with one hand while working on something else does wonders for my concentration. Occupying the tactile part of my brain clears up the rest of my mind enough that I can focus on whatever else it is that I need to get done.

Part of this need for tactile occupation comes from being a kinesthetic learner. I learn by doing, by touching. I’ve always sort of known this, but was never able to put it into words until I took a test in middle school, determining learning types. Suddenly, with the word on the paper in front of me, it all made sense. I like to keep my hands busy. I like to mold state maps out of clay instead of just looking at paper ones so I can feel the ridges of Colorado’s mountains beneath my fingers. Busy hands to me means accomplishment. Even if that is just typing something onto a computer or writing in a journal, busy hands mean busy minds, and I admire everyone who creates beautiful things with their hands.

            I think about hands a lot. I am left-handed, and that might have something to do with it. I notice when a person in my class or a character in a movie is also left-handed. It gives us a sort of connection in my mind. We hold our pencils in the same way: the wood is in a different place on our skin than on everyone else’s making us unique. However, everyone’s hands are special. Some people are especially good at painting or drawing; others can make beautiful pottery or sew dresses or braid hair. Others throw baseballs, build houses, and play pianos. No matter whom they belong to, hands tell stories. Scarred with memories and lined with the passage of time, hands hold so much to offer.

            When I think of my hands, I often think of my grandfather’s hands. They were old and wrinkled, weathered by age and hard work, spotted by time spent in the sun. They were calloused and arthritic and still covered in soft, leathery skin. Those hands carried so many things that I can only dream of. They also tilled the earth, guiding machines across the land, they fixed cars with tools and grease, they wrote out letters with pen and paper, they cradled newborn babies. Holding my grandfather’s hand, I felt safe. I knew that his hands were strong, I knew that his hands were gentle. The thin leathery skin beneath mine held pain of the past and promise of the future, stories that I could explore forever. 

            Hands are not much of a legacy. But when I think of what I’ve done with my life so far, so much of it comes back to hands. Everything I have carried, I carried with my hands, from brand new books with smooth covers, to my soft baby blanket, to meals made for new neighbors and boxes transported to help friends move. I make music with my hands on glossy wooden instruments with metal strings, I have made scarves with large metal needles and soft colorful yarn to give as gifts, I have formed smooth clay into pots and painted it slick with paint. The legacy extends beyond carrying and creating, though. Who have I broken bread with, who have I shaken hands with, who’s children have I held? When I marry, I will wear a ring on my hand, when I have children, I will hold them and care for them with my hands. I write words with my hands, provide comfort with my hands. I will teach my children how to use their hands for good and beauty, as my mother and father taught me, and show them the stories written on my palms, like the ones etched into my grandfathers skin. My hands are the tools I will use to continue the legacy of my family before me, and I will strive for the rest of my life to use them to touch and embrace the world in hopes of making it a better place.

CALLING ALL COLLEGE STUDENTS

.....especially those headed into finals this week or next. Here are a few tips and reminders for getting through the last bit of the semester. You all are beautiful cupcakes and will make it through!

1. Get Enough Rest. seriously. Don't go pulling all-nighters every other day just because you need to study or write a paper. Plan accordingly and get sleep. You'll feel better, do better on those tests, and be a healthier person. Get earplugs if you have to (I did). But seriously, get sleep.

2. Take Study Breaks. Research shows that after an hour (or was it 2?) mental productivity starts to decline. (I think anyway, don't quote me on this, i read it somewhere a while ago). Either way, taking study breaks helps you feel better and study more productively. Turn up the music and dance for a little while. Play games with your friends. Just remember to come back to the books eventually :)

3. Wash Your Sheets. Seriously. It will help you sleep better. Our mom's weren't kidding when they told us it was a good idea. Don't put it off until the end of the semester. You need it now. Sleeping in clean sheets feels wonderful anyway. So do it. It's not that hard.

4. Drink Enough Water. No, coffee doesn't cut it. You can drink coffee too, but make sure you drink enough straight up water. Hydration is key for life, not to mention stressed out times such as these. Carry a water bottle and fill it up when needed. Again, not that hard, but if you are hydrated, you will feel better and focus better. Yeah, you might need to use the bathroom more often, but so what? You might get better grades. That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. At the very least, drink tea instead of coffee, occasionally. Which brings me to my next point.

5. Drink Tea Instead of Coffee Occasionally. You all know I love tea. (well, you should if you don't.) I love coffee too, but tea is just wonderful. It better hydrates you, can reduce stress, has antioxidants, and is easy to make. if you want a full 10 reasons why tea is "better" than coffee, look over here.

6. Fuel Your Body. Don't forget to eat, and more importantly, don't forget to eat healthy. (Or at least as healthy as you can if you must subject yourself to dining hall food, as I still must.) Get enough protein and vitamins and carbohydrates. Don't just eat candy. Invest in some oranges or fruits to snack on. But don't forget to treat yourself, too. M&M's are excellent study motivators. So are goldfish and skittles. Coffee is a yummy way to start the day, or the beginning of a study session. (Just remember: if you study on coffee, take the test on coffee too. If you learned it on caffeine, you will remember it better with caffeine.)

7. Be Considerate of Others. You may want to stay up until 2 am blasting music and dancing in your room, but other people might not. Especially if you live in the dorms, know when to turn it off (or at least down). People study better at different times of day, know that you will not always feel most productive when your neighbors are, and plan accordingly. Let those of us who like sleeping at normal times of night get our rest, and let those who sleep in until noon rest. If you don't appreciate loud music at 2 am, they don't appreciate it at 7 am (probably). Be nice.

8. Know When You Are Most Productive. Like i said, people are productive at different times of day. If you find that you work better at 8 am, get up and study then. If you know you don't study well unless it's late at night, plan to study then. However, still be considerate of your roommate and neighbors! :)

9. Find Some Good Study Music. Music is good for motivating you to study and write papers. (Or at least, it's good for me. If you know it's not for you, skip this point.) Find something you know will keep you on track. (Classical is good.) Something upbeat, but not too much. You don't want to get distracted, but rather have background noise.

10. and finally.... Stop Writing this Blogpost and Go Study for Your Test Tomorrow. Ok, obviously this is more for me than you. but if you have a test tomorrow too (or a paper due, or whatever) you should probably stop reading and get back to your responsibilities, or got to bed because it's getting late. Whatever.

Adios, and I hope you all do well on your finals! I believe in you!