Great Expectations.

There’s nothing like being twenty-four years old and still getting teased about the status of your dating life and all your subsequent suitors.

Or in this case, lack thereof.

You’d think that by now, people would’ve stopped bothering to ask if there was anyone in my life because up until this point, there hasn’t been anyone in my life for a very long time.

See, in many chapters of women my age, big news comes in the form of giddy engagements, wondrous weddings, and life changing pregnancies. But in my chapter, big news means I got asked on a date (or me asking someone).

To be fair, Elan having a date with a man is a big deal. My dating life is about as exciting as a dusty attic and when I do happen to be lucky enough to hang with someone of the opposite sex that isn’t directly related to me, it’s like the entirety of my surrounding community comes out and watches to see what happens next with rapt attention.

It’s that rare.

And I know this community is simply supportive, interested, and often vocal about how unusual it is that men aren’t falling over me (trust me, I’m just as confused as they are) but the constant attention makes me feel like I’m missing something that everyone else has experienced.

Heck, I overheard a conversation the other day between my dad and a family friend and they were talking about “oh, wouldn’t it be nice to see Elan settle down with someone” and “I just want to see her get a second date!” and my goodness, the fact that it’s such a big deal just makes me feel awful.

It’s not like I’m Shakespeare’s Kate Minola, the shrew-like woman who’s unfazed by men (though we do share a similar bond with being strong on the outside but fragile and insecure on the inside). I like men, I love men, but it seems they don’t feel the same way about me.

One date.

One date is all I get to impress, woo, and entice them into asking me out on that second date, and I usually fail. The invitation never comes.

So I’m thinking back to all the guys I’ve dated before and there’s one that sticks out, one that didn’t disappoint, that did ask me out on a second (and third and fourth) date. A man who was genuine, kind, respectful, and willing to peel back layer after layer with patience and adoration, who appreciated my complexities and saw myself as I did.

*I’ll name him Jack (Jack is my favorite name)

What happened with him?

Nothing.

See at the time, I was young. Not only young, but naiive, and inexperienced, a doe-eyed Bambi who had just discovered what men were (I was a very late bloomer). And there was nothing wrong with him, just as there is nothing wrong with me, it was just bad timing. I wasn’t ready. Of course later on down the road I realized what a gem he was, but at the time, I just wasn’t prepared for all the intensity and commitment of being in a real relationship.

But all those qualities? Those are the kinds of things I now look for in someone, all these years later.

So I’m thinking about him, and I start to wonder if maybe I’m now him and all these guys I go on dates with are past mes.

Like Jack, I’m looking to get to know someone intimately and passionately, and the guys I happen to have dates with are like who I was all those years ago, simply not ready for a whole lotta woman.

On top of being a whole lotta woman, I’m also a hopeless romantic, which doesn’t bode well for me when I do go on casual dates. I typically wind up over-thinking into oblivion and projecting my idea of what romance is on someone I have only just begun to get to know.

Combine that with not getting the invitation for a second date and I end up feeling pretty darn crummy.

What I need to remember though, is that I can’t change how other people feel about me, but I can change how I feel.

My mom once said that if I don’t have any expectations, I’m never let down.

While I know that changing my mentality is way more difficult than it sounds, I’m beginning to have faith in the belief that there are others out there like Jack who will want to take the time to get to know me, who will ask me out on that coveted second date. And third and fourth….

Pasta With a Pulse.

A couple of weeks ago, I made myself dinner.

Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary, just following a simple recipe for one: walnut pesto gnocchi.

Easy, right?

I’ve made gnocchi plenty of times before and I’ve made pesto just as much.

So I’m following along, ingredients displayed before me, wine glass filled on the generous side and I begin to cook.

Step 1: toast the walnuts

Ok, I can do that. Wait a second: do they mean chopped or whole? Eh, whole will do.

So I toast the walnuts and go to step 2.

Step 2: pulse the next four ingredients together with the walnuts

Pulse. Ah yes, pulse.

Pulseeeeee.

Pulse. Pulse?

Standing curiously at the stove as my walnuts turned treacherously darker, I didn’t have long to contemplate what pulsing meant before I finally just decided to put all four ingredients in the skillet with the walnuts and pulse.

Pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse.

What followed next was my interpretation of what pulsing meant. I ended up kind of shimmying the ingredients around on the stove mumbling to myself repeatedly pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse as my spatula took on a kind of dance.

As I finished up the recipe and prepared to sit and enjoy this hearty feast for one, I looked down in disappointment, as my dish looked nothing like the photo on the recipe. As I put a forkful in my mouth, I also came to the conclusion that my dish tasted nothing like the recipe intended to, I’m sure.

I later found out that the cause of my clumpy pasta with too many textures for one bite was my pulsing dance moves.

They meant pulse as in a food processor, not pulse as in a dance on the stove...

Relaying this humorous tale to the kitchen staff at Addie Camp, I knew that the best way to redeem myself was to make it again, properly this time.

I mean, this isn’t the first time I’ve miraculously made my way through a kitchen despite disaster and ignorance of the rules.

I mean, for the longest time, up until a few months ago, I didn’t know you had to peel skin off both an onion and garlic before cooking.

There was also the evening in which I attempted to make homemade gnocchi only to watch in horror as my balls of pasta literally disintegrated once I put them in hot water to cook (so much for being my meals for the week).

Or the one time I trusted my dad and ate raw salmon sashimi.

Like I said, I’ve made plenty of mistakes before, particularly in the kitchen.

But, like with most things, you make mistakes, you learn from them, and then you don’t do them again (hopefully).

So the other night, after purchasing fresh Genovese basil from fresh365, I took all my ingredients home, immediately pulled out my blender (still don’t have a food processor but I figured a blender would do just fine), and went about proving myself right about not making the same mistake twice, at least as far as pesto goes.

Well, it was a success.

Pesto came out creamy and green, and all in one smooth texture, no clumps or chunks!

Sitting down with my fine cuisine, I marveled at how much I learned from just one mistaken misread of a recipe.

Pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse.