Liam

I wake with a start at 4:45am to the shrill tones of my alarm. I tap my phone screen to silence it before it disturbs my boyfriend, Nick, sleeping beside me. Quietly I twist out from under the sheets and hobble down the hallway to the bathroom. I have gotten used to waking with an achy left foot and right knee; they will loosen up in a minute or two. In the bathroom my eyelids flutter shut while I shave and brush my teeth, snapping open when my backup alarm goes off at 5:00am.

The sun is not up so I traipse downstairs in the dark and flick on the dining room light. Its glow illuminates the living room and part of the kitchen, into which I enter. I remember it is trash and recycling day, so I gather bags from around the house and put them on the curb. It is chillier than I expected. I open the weather app to check the temperature: forty-one degrees. Pouring myself a glass of water, I rummage through the winter clothes bin stacked in the corner. Nick and I have not fully switched out our summer clothes given the midweek heat waves that still happen. Our compromise has been bringing the bins of sweaters and cable-knits up from the basement and stacking them in the kitchen. I fish out a running quarter-zip sweater and add this to my running tights and long-sleeve shirt, grab my workout gear (shoved in a Poor Things tote bag), letterman jacket, and head for the door, grabbing my running shoes on the way out.

I walk to the nearest bus stop and revel in the rare silence of the street. It is almost as peaceful as my hometown of South Bend, Indiana. I am the only person outside for blocks. When I arrive at the bus stop, a couple folks wait with me. We file onto the bus and fly up to center city. People finishing night shifts or going in for early starts trade seats as they get on and off. By 5:50, we are at the southern edge of Temple’s campus. I disembark and walk to the sports complex. A pair of runners jog in ahead of me to start their workout. The stadium lights flood the turf and reflect off the puddles of sprinkler water running across the track lanes.

I walk to the far corner of the track, my preferred starting line, and lose the coat and walking shoes. As I tie my running shoes on, I think about how my new pair arrives tomorrow in the mail. I strap on my watch and phone armband and start my music—mostly Beyoncé, Charli XCX, and Caroline Polachek. After a couple laps I stretch and eat a Gu, my breakfast for the day, and drink water to get over the unpleasant texture. Another pair of runners enter the track, joining the first. They chat about the Chicago Marathon, which someone just ran, and start doing laps. I feel alone as the odd man out.

I start my workout: half-mile repeats. I am training for the Philadelphia Marathon in a few weeks. My hope is to maintain around a 6:51-minute mile pace for this workout. My first repeat clocks in at 3:19—around a 6:38-minute pace. I subsequently record a 3:07, 3:08, 3:06, 3:02, 2:59, 2:47, and 2:39 for the next seven. While it is nice to be fast, I need to start slower for the marathon, so this workout leaves me anxious that I might crash out during the race. However, I am happy that these splits come with ease. I stretch and change into walking shoes as the horizon glows orange with the sunrise.

I leave the track and trek to Girard station for the Broad Street Line. Back in South Philly, I stop at Batter & Crumbs, a great vegan bakery on Reed, and grab coffee cake. The owner calls me “baby” whenever I come in, and while I am sure she does this to all the regulars it makes me feel special. By seven-twenty I am home again. I hear Nick’s sound machine upstairs, which means they are still asleep. I make a coffee and prepare açaí bowls for Nick and myself. I check my sourdough starter, which I fed last night. It is ready to be fed again. I add a cup of flour and a half cup of warm water and stir it together. It needs to double in size before I can make bread. I hope this will happen by one o’clock. I put Nick’s açaí bowl in the freezer so it stays cold. The sun is up now and I sit quietly as light begins to pour through the house.

Nick’s alarm goes off and I hear the sound machine stop. The floor creaks as they walk to the bathroom and run the shower. I wash dishes while I wait for them to come downstairs. After we exchange “good mornings” and chat, I shower and change into pants and a sweater. I plan to work at a coffee shop for the morning, so I pack my backpack with a few books, bookstand, my laptop, charger, and a few pens. I wait for Nick to get ready and we walk to the subway together around nine-forty. I peel off early to head to ReAnimator on Wharton Street.

At ReAnimator, I order a maple spice latte with oat milk. I prefer this to their pumpkin spice, which I find a little muddled in flavor. I snag the last open table and open my laptop. I review the fellowship application on which I am working. My current fellowship at Temple ends in August of next year, which means I will no longer get a salary to conduct research and write my dissertation. This means I have to find a research job elsewhere to finish my PhD. The challenge is finding enough options that do not require totally upending of my life: they have to be geographically near Philly so I can stay near my partner, they have to be interested in the research I am conducting, they have to pay a certain amount in order to make the application worthwhile, etc. In the words of Sabrina Carpenter, it is slim pickings. This is the third fellowship to which I am applying this fall. It is not an ideal situation, but it could be worse. The stakes feel high, but both my advisor and I are cautiously optimistic that I will find something.

I begin by cross-referencing the parameters for the many written components this fellowship application requests. It takes me a couple hours to proofread everything. That is relatively quick, though, compared to my other applications. It gets faster the more you do it. I set aside my drafts for a minute so I can reread them later with fresher eyes. I check the status of my early voting ballot: it has been accepted by the election office. I text Nick, “My ballot was received. Another vote for TRUMP!” and they respond, “I’m glad you’re doing what’s RIGHT for the USA.” We share a laugh knowing we both voted for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz, as well as Democratic candidates endorsed by Reclaim Philadelphia. I am torn on this given the disappointing slide to the right I have seen from the Harris-Walz campaign in the last few months, as well as the general reality that both political parties are intent on upholding the white supremacist philosophies on which the United States are built, but I feel a controlled dive into fascism is probably better than a belly-flop, so I would much rather take a Harris-Walz administration than a Trump-Vance one.

This election season spiral puts me on edge, so I listen to a playlist of songs from the Notre Dame Folk Choir to calm myself down. This is the ensemble with which I performed during my undergraduate years. It is because of them I became a professional musician. I review my fellowship application materials again. Pleased with the finished product, I send it to professors who have agreed to write recommendation letters on my behalf.

By now it is noon, so I leave ReAnimator and walk to the Acme down the street. I feel bad that I have not touched readings for my dissertation yet. Nick and I need groceries for dinner and I plan on baking this afternoon. For dinner, I decide I will make a simple red sauce with angel hair since we have some of the ingredients already at home. I purchase San Marzano tomatoes (a good homemade sauce starts with these), pasta noodles, and baking supplies, then walk home under the warm afternoon sun. When I get back, I strip off my sweaty shirt and let the drafts of the house cool me down. Our recycling bin sits empty on the curb so I return it to our backyard. I put away groceries and make lunch, leftover sofritas from the night before, and check my sourdough. It still needs to grow an inch.

Feeling the afternoon slump, I lie down on the couch for an hour or so and close my eyes. I wake up and check my emails around two-thirty. A few messages have drifted in from parishioners at the church where I direct music. A parishioner has died and they need me to direct music for the funeral. I respond in my head and plan to write back later. The hiring representative at Drexel University has also emailed me. I will be teaching an undergraduate course in contemporary art and a graduate seminar for the art history department in the winter term. I am excited as these are courses I likely will teach when I end up in a tenure track job. Apparently, something was wrong with a form I sent in. I resubmit the form.

Returning to the kitchen, I put on my shirt and pull out a recipe card for chocolate chip cookies. Nick is organizing a viewing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the law school and needs vegan desserts, so I volunteered to contribute. I enjoy baking; it reminds me of when I worked at a bakery in my hometown during COVID to save money for graduate school. I learned baking techniques and hacks that serve me well today.  I especially feel proud of transitioning to fully vegan baking with success. The cookies I am making today have been a favorite of vegans and non-vegans alike. I always joke that I have succeeded if non-vegans cannot tell that what I made is vegan.

I barely have to look at the recipe at this point. Oil, sugar, brown sugar in a stand mixer. Sift the dry ingredients separately. Combine. Fold in chocolate chips. Listen to the preheated oven chime when it reaches the set temperature. Put sheets of cookies in the oven. Between batches I scroll through text messages—most of them political action spam—and wait for each tray. I pull them out of the oven when they get the perfect crackle. Three dozen cookies, just like that.

While the cookies cool, I move to the piano—Nick’s childhood upright Wurlitzer, gifted to us by their parents—and practice a few pieces: Brahms’ “Intermezzo in A Major, Op. 118” and Debussy’s “La fille aux cheveux de lin.” I am playing these at a memorial service on Saturday. They are far from perfect, but they are passable for now. I am distracted by how out-of-tune our piano is. I need to call a tuner, but I also do not want to drop a couple hundred dollars on this right now. I know it is more and more pressing with each passing day, though, so I commit to scheduling one by the end of the week.

I store the room temperature cookies in a large Tupperware container. It is almost four o’clock. By now my sourdough is ready to be made into bread. As one of those people who started sourdough in COVID, I have this recipe memorized. I combine the ingredients for the dough and get it on my bread hook. I clean my sourdough jar and set aside the discard: perhaps I will make a pumpkin loaf with it tomorrow. Once the dough is soft and slightly sticky, I form it into a ball, place it in an oiled bowl, and cover it.

I check my email again. The funeral is becoming a minor logistical ordeal. Anticipating too many cooks in the kitchen, I send a message to the planners and encourage them to funnel information through me. I am already singing and playing piano at three services this weekend, so the prospect of a fourth confirms I will not get much research done this weekend. I am worried about this as I am presenting on my dissertation a week from Monday. It will all get done.

By now Nick has completed work at the legal clinic where they volunteer. I anticipate they will be home soon. I pull out the ingredients for red sauce. This recipe is adapted from the one Nanny (my grandmother) taught me, which she learned from her mother, my Nonna. It is also one my mother would make on nights when we were short on time. In true Italian peasant form, a single recipe makes about fifteen servings. Add meatballs and it goes up to twenty.

I blend the San Marzano tomatoes and start them simmering in my Dutch oven. While they heat, I chop a white onion and garlic, then make a spice mix. When the tomatoes boil, I add a can of tomato sauce and wait for it to boil again. I fry the onion in tomato paste then drop it in the sauce with my spice mix. I waft the sauce to check the flavor profile. Memories of family dinners play across my mind and I smile as I feel my family draw closer in spirit. I hope they are proud. After a quick stir, I turn down the heat and let it simmer. The sauce will be ready in a couple hours.

Nick walks in as the aroma of garlic and tomatoes fills the house. I am dividing my proved sourdough into two loaves and setting it out for a final rise. I greet them and we share how our days went. Our exchange is brief because Nick has to get their run in—they are doing the Philly half marathon in a few weeks. They leave as the sun starts to set. I flick on the stoop light and remember to water our many plants.

I occasionally stir the sauce and browse Twitter and Instagram. I preheat the oven so I can bake my bread loaves. While it heats up, I clear the dining room table and toss the pile of books I left there into our office. I check Nick’s location—they are almost at the halfway point of their run. They must have paused for a minute because I know their pace is faster than that. I return to the kitchen and check my sourdough loaves. They are puffy but not as large as usual. The colder nights have impacted my sourdough; our drafty kitchen is not as humid and warm anymore, which means less-than-ideal sourdough growth conditions. I make amends with the fact I will have to experiment with a different counter placement whenever I need to grow sourdough (I make two loaves of bread every week so we do not have to buy it: a money saver for us).

I check the sauce again and see it is thickening nicely. It is almost two hours now since it started simmering. I pull out a scant pound of angel hair noodles and set them aside. I start a pot of water boiling—always seasoned with olive oil and salt—as Nick returns from their run. I am mixing a vinaigrette for the arugula salad we will pair with our pasta when they walk in the door. I score my loaves as they brief me on their run. My hypothesis was correct: they passed a friend while out and stopped to chat, which delayed them by a few minutes. I put the bread in the oven and set a timer. My water is boiling, so I drop in the noodles. Instinctually, I go to break them in half like my mother always did, but then I remember we are not children anymore and can twist full noodles. I keep them intact and stir them so they separate.

I stage a colander in the sink and clean the dishes that are in the way. I put vegan parmesan cheese on the table and pour glasses of water. I check the noodles, they are very al dente, which I like, but I leave them in for another minute to get them closer to the consistency Nick prefers. I turn off the heat under the sauce and give it a stir before setting the askew lid tightly over the pot. I crouch down to check my bread, which to my surprise is filling out nicely in the oven. My sourdough definitely misses the warmer weather.

The angel hair noodles are done so I turn off the heat and drain the pasta in the sink. I return the empty pot to the stovetop and ladle sauce along the bottom. I drop the noodles back in and ladle more sauce on top, then mix it. My Nonna always told us that angel hair requires twice as much sauce as any other noodle, so I am generous with my portioning. I go to the refrigerator and grab the arugula, which I put into a bowl and mix with the vinaigrette from earlier. I toss the salad and take it to the dining room table. Nick has showered and is on the couch working, so I tell them dinner is ready.

We start our nightly ritual with dinner, today served around seven-thirty. I give Nick a plate of pasta and make one for myself. We sit and serve each other salad. I take a bite before the oven timer beeps and I take the bread loaves out of the oven. They are light in color but baked through. Our conversation is light and peaceful. We are both tired, but happy. We discuss the Rocky Horror screening tomorrow and review logistics. Nick is performing as Frank N. Furter and I as Magenta, so we need to arrive early for makeup and costuming. We each get a second plate, finishing off the salad and noodles. I set the sauce aside to cool so I can portion it out later.

We retire to the living room around eight o’clock and cuddle under a blanket. Both of us have work to do. I finally get to crack open a book: an art catalogue about José Leonilson, one of the artists I am writing about in my dissertation. I am ambivalent about this book, which I have read before, as I find it less informative than I would like. After half an hour, we decide to watch television before bed. In the transition, I go to the kitchen and divide the leftover red sauce into Tupperware containers. One goes in the freezer for long-term storage, the other in the refrigerator for later this week.

I make the mistake of checking my email and see more messages regarding the weekend funeral. I respond and assure the senders that all is handled. Nick and I sit down and watch the music video for Lady Gaga’s “Disease.” We revel in the return of “weird” Gaga, the homage to early 2000s aesthetics, and the complexity of her non-traditional choreography. Nick is a stan, so I enjoy listening to them break down this video in context.

After this, we turn on Superstore, our current television obsession, which came at the suggestion of my sister. I love anything America Ferrera so it was an easy sell. I make us tea while Nick queues up the next episode. We watch a few episodes and check the time: nine forty-five. Both of us are beginning to feel the weight of the day. Knowing tomorrow brings another rat race, we decide to retire early for the night.

I take our mugs to the kitchen while Nick locks the front door. We turn off the lights and walk upstairs to perform our rituals: skincare, brush teeth, floss, mouthwash, moisturize. I wash my snore guard (Nick has misophonia, and we discovered early on that my occasional snoring aggravates that) and fill the room humidifier. We pull back the sheets and crawl into bed. I finish my Duolingo Portuguese lesson to keep my streak going and we browse Twitter a bit before turning off the lights and turning on the sound machines. Nick and I say goodnight to each other and I enunciate through my mouth guard so it is as clear as I can make it, I love you.

I try and still my body as I reflect on the day. It was aggressively normal, which feels nice. The last month has been filled with more change than I would like. It feels like ages since my parents called me to say my mother has cancer and that it has spread, even though I know it was just a month ago. I remember hanging up the phone and crumpling on the floor of Moynihan train hall, ugly crying as I waited for my night train back to Philadelphia.

As the only member of my family who does not live in my hometown, I sometimes feel helpless and anxious that I am not doing enough, despite my sisters’ assurances. Part of the reason I am going back to teaching is to have extra cash for unexpected travel and family expenses. Nick has been so good to me in this adjustment period. They talk me down from my anxiety flashes and support me as we navigate changing plans for our holiday travels. We were supposed to be in Philadelphia for Christmas but given my mother’s diagnosis we are now planning a Christmas Day road trip back to South Bend. I squeeze their hand a bit and hope they know how much I love them.

Today has continued an upward trend. Last Friday, my mother was told her brain lesions are disappearing thanks to gene therapy and that her scheduled radiation treatment is not necessary. This bodes well for her treatment plan. She still has some systemic chemotherapy to do, but any win is a big win for us right now. Getting respite from the worrying helps me drift off easier tonight.

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Liam is studying art history at Temple University. He also directs music at St. Vincent de Paul parish in Germantown. His hope is to become a professor one day. He misses playing chamber music on his violin, so if you play violin, viola, cello, or piano and want to jam, he kindly asks that you message him post-haste. You can find him on insta @themaher2.5 and twitter @liamemaher.