Spicy Carrot Cake with Tart Raspberry Syrup and Citrus Cream Cheese Frosting

and thoughts by the lake

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The view from one of my favorite fishing spots.

A pickling smell of muck stings my nose, intermingled with the mountain-fresh air so clean it should be bottled. The long grass sticks improbably to the bank, leaning so far over the water, I’m afraid it’ll fall in. The wind is blowing, much too hard for my tastes, but if I time my casts just right, which by now I’ve caught the rhythm, the gusts unfurl my line for me in a graceful tendu across the sun-specked surface of the water.

Of all the things in the world that I’m bad at, sitting tops the list. I nestle into my couch for five minutes before I’m suddenly compressed on all sides by some pressing task — the car registration’s overdue (I intend to pay it and this written account is not admissible in court, Your Honor), I stripped the sheets but forgot to remake the bed, that’s not supposed to be sitting on the floor I gotta move it before I can rest.

I chose the elk hair caddis after I watched a deer fly land on my shoulder. The bug looked almost identical to the caddis. If I’m fooled, so are the fish.

I think there are many reasons why I struggle to sit, as evidenced by the organized list provided below:

1. I come from a family of chronic overachievers.

2. I have been unjustly ruined by frantic materialism and an obsessive focus on fulfillment through (whether meaningful or not) constant forward progression.

3. I think I might have ADHD.

I love lists. I always thought that if I was methodical enough about my intentions they would transform my actions. It has had a limited success. But it’s a productivity far superior to the lack thereof that languishes in the lack of lists.

The water slides up above its own surface — a glossy bump amid the sharp-sided chops on the lake. Just for a second, the fish head is above the water, mouth open wide, snagging the fly before ducking back below. I pull my line taught with my left hand and raise the rod tip up with my right. The tension slacks with a snap, the fly jumps back toward me and the line hangs limply. He let go.