Just WHAT, pray tell, am I supposed to do with these?
Nowhere on the bag does it say coffee BEANS.
It should say, “These are NOT grounds. They are BEANS. So, if you do not have a coffee grinder, do NOT buy this bag.”
Amiright?
Now I somehow have to finish this post, get dressed, and drive my car before I can get a fix and actually wake up.
Which means that if you’re smart and live in the Fort Bragg, NC area, you should probably stay off of the roads until then.
Also, after I wrote that last sentence, I had to run down the street in my socks after the recycling truck because I forgot to put out the bin. Because I have no coffee. And even brisk morning sock running did not do coffee’s job for me.
So I’m sorry, dear readers, that the rest of the Cleveland chronicles will have to wait. If you have a problem with that, you can thank our friends at Archer Farms for not presenting with clear packaging. Because the truth is, I can barely write a coherent sentence, let alone an entire blog post. Coffee and I have a problem with co-dependency, you see. Or maybe it’s just my problem with dependency. But I’d like to think that the coffee needs me as much as I need it.
It helps with my self-esteem.
Any other habits out there that you almost NEED to start your day or get to sleep? Tell me I’m not the only one.
***UPDATE*** It has been pointed out to me by my friend Lacey that I am a colossal, blind idiot because the “Whole Bean” label is right there. In the photo. The photo I took and stared at, along with the bag itself, for a good 5 minutes making sure it did not say “Whole Bean”. It must have been my coffee-deprived state of mind that blinded me to this label. My apologies to the fine folks at Archer Farms. Though. I’m thinking maybe some people have a hard time seeing writing inside of circles. It could be a serious disorder, the likes of which I’ve only begun to uncover. Did the Archer Farms marketing people ever think of that? I didn’t think so.
Despite the fact that everyone around me is popping out bellies and babies like we’ve reached some kind of colossal Lemming-like tipping point of a giant cliff and after the first person stepped off, everyone else just followed right along because they had to — because jumping off of cliffs is the thing to do, didn’tcha know, and somehow I’m stuck standing at the precipice, staring down into the abyss, thinking it looks kind of interesting down there in the clouds and I’ve always enjoyed a free-fall, but do I really want to fall that long at that fast?
So despite the fact that all of that is happening, I’m happy because there are still people in my life who are in the we’re-getting-married-so-let’s-have-a-kick-ass-wedding stage.
That doesn’t mean I’m happy because I’m a girly girl who loves planting my bony butt on a rock-hard pew and crying through an hour-long pomp and circumstance of nuptials. And it’s certainly not because I’m a girly girl who loves donning a fancy dress, sparkling jewelry, and enough hairspray to fuel a rocket launch to the moon.
Nope.
It’s because I’m a girly girl who appreciates a fully stocked open bar for an evening, champagne toasts, line dancing with strangers, and a vast assortment of “special occasion” food: from little trays of bacon-wrapped hors d’oeuvres and plates of fruit and cheese, to a buffet or sit-down dinner of various stuffed chicken, pasta, and steak, to a veritable smorgasbord of meal-ending sweets in the form of wedding cake, pastries, and an actual bar full of candy. Just take a bag and fill it up! Seriously? Does it get better than that?
Oh, it does. Because at this particular wedding, the thoughtful bride — or, probably more accurately the thoughtful bride’s father — provided baskets of flip-flops in the ladies’ restroom for when our footsies got sore after all of that dancing.
And after several champagne toasts, complimentary Cabernet, and a vodka sprite with a twist of lime, wearing those bright-pink flip-flops felt like walking on a cloud.
A cloud.
It mattered not that the flops clashed horribly with my royal blue dress (which is way darker than it looks in the on-line picture). In fact, I’m pretty sure hot pink and royal blue is the next up-and-coming color trend.
(This is the part where you hate me because I don’t have a single picture of myself in the dress. Not one. Though I’ll keep an eye out for any wedding photos that happen to crop up with me in them.)
Anyway. The whole thing got me thinking about weddings, and how silly it seems to spend all that dough for just one evening to impress people, and how no one really would’ve cared if there weren’t any flip-flops or extra pastries or bacon-wrapped delicacies or free booze, because a bring-your-own-beer barbecue in the back yard would have done just as well to celebrate the joining of two lives among family and friends.
But then.
The groom, whom I’ve known since my freshman year of college, chose his father as his Best Man. His heartwarming toast was followed by that of the bride’s father — the guy responsible for keeping 200+ people swimming in booze, food, and flip-flops for the evening.
And he said something.
He said, “We all know that every little girl* grows up dreaming about her wedding day — about the dress she’ll wear, what kind of cake she’ll have, and what kind of footwear she’ll provide in the ladies’ restroom.” (Just kidding. He didn’t say that last part.)
*I did not grow up dreaming about my wedding day. I for sure thought I’d elope. If I even got married at all.
Then he said, “What we don’t know is that every girl’s father dreams of her wedding day, too. Except it’s more like nightmares.”
[Insert uproarious laughter from the crowd.]
“But then,” he said, “you look out across your friends and family, all smiling and here for your girl. And you look at her and see how beautiful she is — ”
And that’s where he lost it.
His voice cracked.
The tears came. Not just from him, but from every. single. woman in the room.
Myself included.
He finished with something about love and how his love for his daughter makes the fact that he’ll be living off of nothing but Ramen noodles for the next 3 years entirely worth it. (Just kidding. He didn’t say that last part.)
But I’m pretty sure that’s what he meant.
And you know, even though my first choice for a wedding would have included about 8 people barefoot on a beach in Fiji, it doesn’t really matter. The bride was happy. The groom was happy. Their parents were ecstatic. And when the champagne buzz wears off and they have a mountain of bills and beautiful photographs to show for it, Real Life will start and at least they’ll have started it off exactly the way they wanted.
And, for a rainy day, they’ll have the gift I bought them.
Tucked inside a cooler hand-picked from their registry is a bottle of good champagne and a 6-pack of Natural Light.
On the card,
Three gifts: One for remembering the past, One for celebrating the future, And one for keeping it all cool.
I’m pretty sure that’s about all the eloquence I can muster this morning. Lemme try again.
Oy.
Yep, that’s it.
I kind of feel like I just got home from a whirlwind weekend trip to Cleveland, OH, whose biting winds and rains gusting off Lake Erie tried their damndest to blow me right back to North Carolina the entire time we were there.
Prepared was I not for winter to hit me after a mere 9 hour drive through picturesque North Carolina and West Virginia mountains, and it was probably somewhere along that invisible border between barbecue and banjos that I realized the most obvious item to pack — aside from the dress I planned on wearing to my friend Collin’s wedding — was still tucked safely inside my not-often-opened coat closet all the way back home.
Because it’s a coat.
A coat I forgot to bring.
To Cleveland.
And apparently I’m not the brightest crayon in the box.
Although I’d like to think of myself as more naively optimistic — like, if I think hard enough that it’s going to stay summer forever, it just might happen.
Either that, or we’ll get magical orders from the military to move to Hawaii.
Tomorrow.
So. Despite the fact that I had no coat, we didn’t let that stop us from having a fantastic time at the wedding and exploring Cleveland in all its glory.
If I’m lucky, I get to see him every few years or so. And this year, I’m very lucky.
Not only because we got to hang with my brother, but because he humored our need to brave the weather to see a famous movie house, eat the fanciest hot dog I’ve ever eaten, and sample nearly every flavor of martini under the sun.
Those posts are coming, I promise.
But for right now, I need to finish my coffee and stand under a steaming shower for about 45 minutes in order to prepare myself for venturing off to work. Because I’m pretty sure I have to thaw before I can once again become a functioning member of non-vacationing society.
And that’s a major bummer.
(Not thawing — that will be nice. But becoming a functioning member of non-vacationing society? Total buzz kill.)
Throughout my life, I’ve always felt… a little out-of-place.
A lot out-of-place.
From the time a boy named Jason puked on me after the mile run in 6th grade (I still don’t feel clean), to my bespectacled, brace-faced, promless high school career, to my time spent trying to understand and accept life as a Yankee living in various parts of the South (um, boiled peanuts? really?), feeling out-of-place has actually become my way in the world. The only way I feel in place.
Make sense?
In fact, I’m not really sure what would happen if one day I woke up and found myself where I’m supposed to be. Where I feel comfortable.
Probably the last of the loose screws would detach itself from my mind and fall out of my ear and, as I watch it roll-bounce down the pavement toward the vanishing point of existence, the nice young men in their clean white coats would come and take me away to a place where I would never feel comfortable again.
Probably.
But that’s just speculation.
This whole out-of-placeness was only further confirmed in a recent memo from my editor at Re-Nest. It read (and I paraphrase):
I’m so pleased to welcome five new members [to the team]: Laurie (New York), Alexa (San Francisco), Liana (New York), Julia (Chicago), and Katie (Sanford, North Carolina).
Okay. Aside from the fact that they all have movie star names while mine is so girl-next-door, notice anything… odd? I don’t know… something that makes it all too painfully clear that I’m ridiculously out of my element?
I’ll give you a hint.
Maybe — maybe — it’s the fact that I’m the only person whose city needed to be followed by the state name for clarification.
Maybe.
Maybe because Sanford is not really a city, but more like a town with a Waffle House and a Cracker Barrel.
Maybe.
But you know what?
Since feeling out of place makes me feel in place, I’m going to take this as a positive sign. If I can’t go to the Big City to get a job, I’ll make the Big City job come to me.
And it’s so painfully obvious, I can’t believe I’m only just now coming to this realization over my morning coffee as the pups gnaw away on their bones.
Because this is something that’s been gnawing on my bones for over a year. Probably longer. And it’s really not until we get down to the marrow of things that my issues become clear.
My epiphany?
It’s not this place I have a problem with.
Well I do, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that I’ve been in this place too long. See, until this place, I hadn’t lived in any one place for more than 2 years for the past 10 years. Even if I stayed in the same town, I at least changed residences. Sometimes the moves have been circumstantial. Sometimes just because I wanted change. Sometimes because the military made me, once I got married. Sometimes because adventure awaited.
Then, when we moved to North Carolina, we knew we were going to be here for at least 4 years — a certainty that’s rare in military life. So we thought we’d take advantage by buying a small home. A chance to feel a sense of permanence. Of belonging to a community and calling it “home,” rather than simply a place to rest.
It never occurred to me that I might be bad at it —
That 4 years could pass, I’d open my eyes and realize I’d never even tried. That I don’t know this place like I should. I don’t know the people.
Instead, I was counting down. Wasting 4 years because I wanted to be somewhere else.
I wanted to move, people! To me, the world becomes alive when we’re forced to change scenes and meet new characters. Explore different radio stations. Get lost on unknown streets. Discover hidden coffee houses and cafes and consignment shops. Become a stranger in a bar.
It’s no secret that I love to travel. And moving is just travel with everything you own. Which isn’t much, when you move frequently.
But now I have all this stuff. This stuff I’ve been accumulating for 4 years and I think that every thing that we buy also takes up residence inside my head — a bit of retail space otherwise reserved for calmness and peace gets replaced with “There’s a sale at Bath and Bodyworks?” and “Will I ever be able to find a window treatment to fully cover that bedroom window?”
And now, I’m told, we will be here a while longer. Two years, maybe a lifetime.
And I know now that I can’t do what I did before. Before I was just telling myself — consoling myself — saying, Don’t worry. You’re still young. You still have plenty of time to figure things out.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you should probably try blinking.
Or not, because then you might realize how much time has passed. How many birthdays you’ve experienced here with really no one to celebrate. How many people you spent time not getting to know. How many southern vinegar barbecue places you haven’t discovered and how many times you haven’t experienced the foreign taste of the word y’all on your tongue.
There were things to do and see, but in your head, you had already moved on. To someplace better, you thought. A quaint seaside village in California. A Mountain town in Colorado. A northeastern city with ethnic restaurants and fall leaves and lobster rolls.
But that’s no guarantee.
And it hits you, all backhanded and rough, maybe with rings on the knuckles with pointy prongs and solid gemstones, that it’s no guarantee. That the next place might not be “home,” either.
And then what?
You’ll let another 2 years pass unnoticed?
Unexperienced?
Unloved?
Enough. I’ve finally figured out that if home is only where the heart is, we might not ever get there. And that, to me, is unacceptable.
Home is where I make it.
This place has things to offer. I just need to find them.
How about you? Whether you’ve lived somewhere 10 months or 10 years, how do you go about keeping the place interesting?
Justin and I have had more than our fair share of you got some ‘splainin’ to do moments.
On Justin’s part, they usually involve my discovery of some new piece of schmancy electronic equipment residing in our living room or the amount of money he spent on movie rentals for the month.
On my part, however, the ‘splainin’ has to happen whenever Justin discovers a new disaster area denoting the latest project I started in a frenzy and then gave up on a tenth of the way through.
And I think it’s safe to say that through the course of our marriage…
It happens when something — whether it be your career, your home life, or even your behavior, doesn’t seem to reflect the person you want to be. Or worse, the person you know you really are.
Like someone who never ends sentences with prepositions. Or overuses fragments.
Just for example.
Remember my letter to myself? Oh, yes. I have skeletons in my underwear drawer.
And I would venture to guess that *94% of people who feel this way just learn to live with it.
Discontent and disappointment is a part of life, they say. Get over it.
Pessimism:
Then there’s about 5%, poor souls, who haphazardly try to make changes here and there, or who wait for signs or divine inspiration to point them in the right direction.
They think a dream is going to wake them in the middle an epiphanal moment and suddenly, out of nowhere, their skin just fits. Like Jame Gumb sewed a new one just for them.
Custom tailored.
Except not as gross.
The problem here is that we’re people — not snakes. We can’t just shed our skin when it gets a little itchy or starts to feel confining. (And those of you yelling, What about microderm abrasion or skin peels, huh?! can just be quiet because you know I’m talking about figurative skin. Smartasses.)
So in most cases, waiting for Santa to bring us a new skin suit is futile. It ain’t gonna happen. Even if we unzip the one we have, drop it on the beach, and run clear across state — or country — lines, our own skin has a creepy way of stalking us.
And I think this is what that last 1% of people — those mal dans sa peau people — figure out. The only way skin can be changed, really changed, is slowly and deliberately over time.
Think about it.
I wanted a new career, and it took me over a year to figure out that no one is going to walk up and hand it to me all wrapped up in a pretty blue box with a white ribbon. And if something like that were to happen, it would most likely be wrapped in a brown paper bag covered in grease stains and secured with duct tape and should, as indicated by the chickenscratched and misspelled address, be approached with extreme caution.
I think I’ll pass.
Which unfortunately means I have to work for it.
Damn.
And if I don’t like the fact that I’ve somehow managed to turn into a tightly-wound stressball at home who can’t stop thinking about how much money I used to make, I can change that, too.
It took me time to get here, but I used to be someone I liked.
I can be her again. It just takes more time.
So. The good news is we’re not stuck with the people we’ve become. If you’re bad in your skin, maybe it is time for a spa treatment. Sandpaper that shizzle right off and start fresh. The healing process might be painful. And it might make you look ugly sometimes. But if you keep in mind that person you want to be, it’s worth the funny looks you get in the meantime.
“I got a chemical peel. Is it bad?”
My name is Katie, and, in a nutshell, I’ve gone from waitress, to Geographic Information Specialist and Sustainability Coordinator, to unemployed, back to waitress, and now an underpaid Real Estate and property management assistant who kicks people out of their homes for a living.
I know, right?
W.T.F.
But don’t worry. It’s all part of the process.
I think.
*All percentages referenced above are 100% concocted from my own imagination. Do not use them for reports, statistical analyses, or a master’s thesis on anything other than a psychological analysis of people who pull random statistics out of their asses. In which case I want to be cited. And let in on the results.
It’s sleek. Smooth. Luminescent and lightly reflective. Seductive. Natural. It moves.
And, while I try not to take the beauty of my granite for granted, I’m just going to say it — that thing that will most likely put me on the combined hit list of decorators, kitchen designers, Realtors, and people who make their living carving away the earth one layer at a time — if I had it to do over, granite is not the material I would choose for my countertops.
"Okay, now show me how something white looks next to it."
Actually, if I’m going to be really honest, I wouldn’t be picking counter tops at all. Because I’d be living in a grass hut in Fiji. Where our counters would be made of shells and sand. Or something. Which totally isn’t practical, but it would be Fiji, so practicality would be like… the last thing I care about. Because I wouldn’t cook. I’d subsist off a diet of tropical fruit, Nutella, and cocktails made from coconuts and rum.
I hope so. Otherwise I might have to re-think this whole thing.
Anyway.
For the last 5 or 6 years, anyone who’s even thought about remodeling a kitchen — even if they don’t own kitchens but just like to watch HGTV — knows that granite has been like THE counter material of choice. In fact, if you recently remodeled your kitchen and used a material other than granite (or marble, but the idea is natural stone), you’ve likely been told that you better love it because you will never be able to resell your home ever again.
Ever.
It’s gotten so bad that I’ve seen people stick slabs of this gorgeous rock across the tops of old, rickety base cabinets from the ’70’s — original hardware still intact — and call it complete.
Now please don’t get me wrong. I love the look of our granite (though I still wish we’d gone with something a bit more neutral). I mean, I minored in Geology and had a very impressive rock collection as a kid (seriously — I had a geology reference book when I was 12), so if anyone can appreciate the beauty of this stone, it’s me.
So if there was a way to say… hang a huge slab of it on my wall, or better yet, make a whole wall out of this stuff cheaply and without tearing massive scars into the earth’s crust, I’d be all for it. It’s like art — truly.
Millennium Cream
But for a countertop? Just. Not. Practical. Why? Here goes.
1) As proven by the fact that I’m not sure I want kids because it will cut into my “me” time, I am inherently lazy. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’m always up and doing something — it’s just that I like that something to be something I like doing. And that something has never — ever — included granite upkeep.
See, I’m not sure if you know this, but granite is a natural stone. Nothing in nature is constant over time, meaning its state can always change. Our particular slab of granite happens to be grainy. In fact, the fabricators had to come back several times to scrub it down with steel wool before it felt smooth — not grainy — to the touch. And still, every now and then, I need to go over it with the wool to get it back to that glassy, mirrored surface we all know and love.
Also, it’s porous. This means that unless it’s sealed really well — a process you should repeat over the course of your granite ownership — it will absorb anything that sits on its surface for too long. Especially oils. Oils are its drink of choice. I’ve learned that you can “suck” them out using a combination of flour and dish soap spread over the stain and covered by a piece of plastic wrap (yes, I’ve had to do this — several times), but it’s probably best to get used to the fact that your granite may not stay pristine forever.
2) One thing people love about granite is how hard and durable it is. Well, just remember that means it’s hard and durable. If you use it as a cutting board, it will turn your knives dull faster than Ben Stein can cause a roomful of students’ eyes to glaze over.
If, say… it decides to do battle with something you love, like a wine glass for example, the granite will win.
Every. Damn. Time.
And not necessarily just when a glass tips over onto the granite, but even if you set its fragile stem down just a little too zealously. Wine enthusiasm is not a wise move in granite covered kitchens, my friends.
The same applies to glass bottles, fragile dishware, and your face. Really. If you ever dance while you cook, trip over your own feet, and find yourself plummeting all-too-quickly towards that expensive slab of rock you so painstakingly picked out, you will know what it’s like to come close to death.
3) Sure, granite is heat-resistant. But because you’re so afraid of doing anything else that might damage it (like leaving an unnoticed puddle of olive oil sit overnight), it takes you a full 2 years to muster the courage to set down a hot pan. And, when you finally do, it’s not nearly as satisfying as you’d hoped.
I guess all I’m really sayin’ is, installing granite is like having a baby. You shouldn’t do it unless you’re willing to commit the time and energy it takes to make it the best granite it can possibly be. You have to accept the flaws you can not change, smooth over the flaws you can, and have the wisdom to know that in the end, you’ll end up spending a significant chunk of your savings on an ungrateful slab that absorbs all of your resources without ever giving back.
Well, folks, it’s official. At least by weather standards. Fall is here. And I can’t say I’m one of the people who’s totally thrilled about it.
As a self-professed naked-sympathizer, the season of fall and its subsequent winter complicates things for me. It makes things… cold. And while I certainly like the idea of crackling fires and mulled cider and staying warm and toasty while blistering winds blow past my house, the frightening reality is that I can’t hibernate just because it’s winter. Cozy fireplace cuddlefests can only last so long, and then real things — annoying things — things like bills, and jobs, and people, and bills start calling and wondering why I haven’t paid them any attention for days, and I can’t hardly tell them that I’m afraid of the cold and hadn’t really planned on leaving my house until May of 2012.
People would look at me funny.
Well, funnier than they already do.
Fuzzy phone photo of said fireplace I might never want to leave, come winter. The picture is from this post. My, how far I’ve come since then. I think. I hope. And I’m not just talking about my attitude — I’m talking about that green wall that has since turned… not green. I still need to show you that, don’t I?
Assuming I still have this real estate assistant job throughout the winter (a job whose potential expiration date I’m forced to face on an almost-daily basis, thanks to the oh-so-kind reminders from Alpha and the Underdog), I’m going to have to face the cold more often than your average cubicle-goer. After all, there are still photos to be taken. Signs to be put in yards. Lock boxes to be attached to door knobs.
Fun stuff, like that.
What? You thought I had that awesome Green Tours job from Apartment Therapy? Don’t worry — I still do. But I neglected to mention that it’s just a freelance, very part-time position, meaning it’s fantastic for making connections and building a portfolio, but it won’t exactly stand on its own against all of those bills that keep calling to pull me away from the fireplace.
Not that I’m complaining! Does it sound like I’m complaining? Because I’m not. I am beyond psyched.
But, wow. This is turning into a really long and boring Facebook status update, no? And that’s not the kind of quality content I want to bring you on this site. I don’t want to talk about the weather — I want to bring you stuff you can actually apply to life, like explaining how you can ensure that your sh*t don’t stink and how to open a beer bottle with a paint key.
Useful stuff.
But since I have to head out into the chill to pay the bills, the quality stuff, unfortunately, will have to wait.
Thanks for all of that positive feedback on my job post! You have no idea how much the fact that you actually take time out of your days to read my ramblings actually helps me get my act together.
And you know, it really is crazy how you can actually feel that rudder catch when your ship starts to turn.
Remember that ship?
If you feel like you’re heading for a crash and you don’t remember what I said about the ship, I think you should go back and read this post.
We all turn eventually. We just have to give it time.
Remember, not too long ago, when I ran my mouth about never hearing back from a certain website to which I’d applied for a writing/photography gig, so I just assumed I didn’t get said job?
Well.
You know what they say about assumptions.
And if you don’t, I’m not going to tell you. Because that would only make me look worse.
It’s probably not necessary to say at this point, but I got the gig!
I’m going to be providing virtual tours of “green” homes and I’m going to get paid for it.
Yep. They’re going to pay me to do 3 things I love: Look inside people’s houses, take photos, and write.
This is like, unbelievably cool. So Jaime, thankyouthankyouTHANKYOU for sending me the job posting and then forcing me to apply.
As those of you who’ve been reading this blog for a little while know, I’ve been having a not-so-mentally-stable time of things over the past year or so. And while I’m a true believer that life will always be full of fluid highs and lows and nothing ever just stays the same way forever, it’s amazing how people — sometimes even complete strangers — come into your life exactly when you need them.
Don’t believe me? Just wait. You’ll see.
The trick is recognizing help when it arrives, trying as many new things as possible, and, most important, paying it forward.
So, who needs help? Because I’m pretty sure I owe you.
On a completely unrelated note, we ate something amazing last night.
I gave a little preview on the Facebook page last night, but decided I needed to share it here as well.
Because it’s unbelievably delicious.
Fig, Prosciutto, and Goat Cheese Pizza (adapted from blue cheese pizza on Centsationalgirl.com)
1) Buy one (10 oz.) thin crust Boboli pizza crust. Sure, you could make your own, but that leaves less time for eating. Drizzle it with olive oil and bake for 9 minutes at 400-degrees F. (I’m not sure I would do this step next time — I might just bake the whole thing at once without the olive oil to get it a bit crispier.)
2) Grate 4-5 oz. of mozzarella cheese, and sprinkle most of it over the partially baked pizza crust. Then layer with 2 oz. of crumbled goat cheese (or blue cheese or whatever kind of cheese you dream about at night), 4-5 sliced figs, 1 oz. of sliced prosciutto, and a few diced green onions (green part only). Then sprinkle the rest of your mozzarella cheese over the top.
3) Bake the whole thing for another 9-10 minutes at 400-degrees F.
4) Pour yourself a glass of red, take a bite of this warm, gourmet pizza that took you all of 20 minutes to make, and allow yourself a moment to just enjoy it. Don’t think about the calories. Don’t think about the cheese. Just let the medley of flavors — salty prosciutto, rich cheeses, sweet figs — do amazing things — naughty things — on your tongue.
Then breathe.
Everything will be okay.
UPDATE 4/24/2013: I have since made this with fresh figs. It is PHENOMENAL.
