Sunday Bake Shop

I hit the gym early last week for the first time in 18 months. It felt awful.

It wasn’t the inability to lift any significant weight, the fact that I couldn’t sit without screaming for two days, or the sudden, crushing need to go to bed at 8pm. It wasn’t even the blow to my ego.

For reasons that still elude, I’ve always loved lifting at the gym. The strategic lighting that does the impossible – making invisible muscles suddenly pop and evening out sleepy skin tone without concealer, foundation, whatever – and the music of clanging plates had been a kind of sanctuary. Humming with adrenaline in the power rack, I couldn’t believe I’d left this place for so long, how fearful I’d been to crawl back.

Happy in a way I haven’t been here in Tokyo, I hit legs twice last week. “Noob move,” Josh said after I told him I did squats and deadlifts on my first day back, “I wish you were here so I could punch you in the quads.” He was right. I spent half of yesterday – my second heavy leg day in the same week – sprawled motionless on my bed, sweating and feeling clammy at the same time, tired but restless and nauseous. The stress of a few pathetic deadlifts had also touched an emotional nerve that felt intensely raw. I cried for no reason, then promptly passed out.

Through it all – the overloaded CNS manifested in utter exhaustion and a mini meltdown – I remembered a particular berry crumble cake. I remembered the chewy oats, the soft crumb of a sweet, cinnamon-scented cake contrasted against the tartness of berries, the shortbread-like bottom crust. I couldn’t move, but I would have walked to Sunday Bake Shop again if it had been open.

Open on Sunday and somewhat inexplicably on Wednesday, I’d trekked over there with my sister-in-law last week. An adorable space tucked away in Hatsudai, a long table greets customers, laden with brownies, pound cakes, carrot cupcakes, perfect cheesecakes, and small mountains of scones. The open kitchen in the back lends a view to the entire process, where trays of pastries come out of ovens and on that day, a focaccia was being prepared. Seating is limited, but the espresso machine entices lingering over baked goods with friends.

We headed home with two boxes of deliciousness. The carrot cupcakes disappeared before I got a taste, but I inhaled half of the berry crumble cake later that day. I’m still thinking about it.

“You should have tried that carrot cupcake,” my sister-in-law said a few days ago. I probably should have. Maybe after my next leg day.

 

Sunday Bake Shop

1-58-7 Honmachi

Shibuya-ku, Tokyo 151-00071

Map and website

Now, I know I'm pretty....

Inspired by this scene in a personal favorite...

Drexl: Sit down boy, grab yourself an egg roll. We got everything here from a diddley-eyed-Joe to damned-if-I-know.

Clarence: No thanks.

Drexl: No thanks? What does that mean? Means you ate before you came down here? All full, is that it? Nah, I don't think so. I think you're too scared to be eatin'. Now, see, we're sittin' down here, ready to negotiate, and you've already given up your shit. I'm still a mystery to you. But I know exactly where your white ass is coming from. See, if I asked you if you wanted some dinner and you grabbed an egg roll and started to chow down, I'd say to myself, "This motherfucker's carrying on like he ain't got a care in the world...Who knows, maybe he don't. Maybe this fool's such a bad motherfucker, he don't got to worry about nothin'; he just sit down, eat my Chinese, watch my TV." See? You ain't even sat down yet. On that TV there, since you been in the room, is a woman with her breastses hangin' out, and you ain't even bothered to look. You just been clockin' me. Now, I know I'm pretty, but I ain't as pretty as a couple of titties. 

Film: True Romance (1993)

Subject: Gary Oldman as Drexl Spivey

Materials used: spring roll crumbs

Whisky, Owls, and Coffee

I was lucky enough to get a good friend to visit me in Tokyo a few days after arriving home. He put up with my jet lag while we checked out Omotesando Koffee...

Let me drag him to an owl cafe...

Went to an amazingly cool whisky bar, Zoetrope...

Had more coffee at my favorite coffee place, Cafe de l'ambre...

And did other cool, designer stuff because Kyle is cool and designer-y.

Thanks for visiting - we'll do it again soon! 

Scenes from San Francisco

Oh, San Francisco. You let me gorge myself on coffee (Blue Bottle and Four Barrel)...

Eat my weight in pastries from Tartine...

Experience the phenomenon that is In-n-Out...

Plus, oh, yeah, La Taqueria...

Showed me what heaven might look like...

Provided super fun times with a bro for lyfe...

And got me hooked on Humphrey Slocombe's P.O.G. (that's Passionfruit, Orange, and Guava) sorbet).

I miss you so much already!

Feeling Colorado

The decline was so slow that I didn’t notice it until it was nearly a free fall. It had started with lingering self-doubts that riding suddenly couldn’t erase, and only exacerbated. In response, like most idiots, I had clung harder, binding my identity to the bike, trying to ride off old wounds that kept opening up. When the physical symptoms of stubborn unhappiness emerged – then persisted – it felt like my world imploded. Previously, I couldn’t stand to look at my bike, but guilt usually got me pedaling. Suddenly I didn’t even have that unhappy choice. My identity became a blank hole which I attempted to fill with food (for those that are wondering, it didn’t work; I just got fat). About a year ago, I realized I was in a depression so deep I didn’t recognize myself.

Unable to control them, I attempted to tie up all the unraveling emotions. I stopped feeling as a form of damage control; it seemed like a reasonable solution for someone inclined to feeling too much. That is, until the sadness – unable to be contained – seeped out, staining everything it touched. Even writing couldn’t save me. I turned to food art to stem the flow, stuff down the anger, cover up the massive sink hole of hopelessness. I cried a little less, but still felt surges of self-hatred so intense I wanted to cut off my own face.

I started taking a small white pill in March and have felt the best kind of normal since moving back to Japan. Most days I can effortlessly keep my shit together. America, however, gets me feeling.

Like extremities gone temporarily numb, when prolonged periods of emotional apathy are interrupted, the unfamiliarity of feeling takes some getting used to. Once I’m warmed up, though, I don’t want it to stop. However intense or extreme my emotional scale, it is – embarrassingly – a significant part of who I am. It’s the thing that drives me just crazy enough to create, limits the number of friends in my inner circle to a small, very tolerant handful, and often makes me a huge asshole.

Stateside, the emotions hit like a heat wave, only heightened by the curves of a language I love, the promise of possibility, new friends, the whispers of adventure. It’s overwhelming, but for once the act of feeling wasn’t coupled with guilt or weighed down with melancholy.

The ironic thing was that on this trip, adventures – for safety and conservation’s sake – were, like those pesky emotions, neatly contained within clearly marked trails. In a loop of Chatauqua Park, up Mount Sanitas, or on the ascent to the Hanging Lake, containment was given structural reinforcement in the form of fences, barriers, signs. “Closed Area No Trespassing,” they stated, allowing only a peek into either unforgettable adventures or bad decisions and inevitable bodily harm. When scrambling up the last stretch to the Hanging Lake, I made full use of the man-made railings, but was reminded of how small my heart can get when bound to the safe, simple, and unfeeling.

Because, like Colorado will show you, there’s beauty out there. And unlike protected parks, maybe I don’t need so many barriers for protection and experiences limited to well-trodden paths. Maybe I can grow back without safeguards and stay open to exploring the sometimes risky and treacherous. Maybe I can keep feeling without getting stuck in those dark places.

Maybe feeling all those feelings isn’t such a bad thing after all.