Letter to my Heart

If I were to rise every morning, with you, and with the sun, maybe then my butterfly wings could shake off their dust. Maybe then, with your breath hot on my cheek, a little antenna could pop out of my cocoon. There is dust on these translucent wings, and on the sun too. I have been living long without you and the moon makes less of an impact on my day.

Rise, with me, and the sun. Ask to see the wings and ask for liquid. The darkness has been long cast and the shadows have grown. The dust has laid thick upon the floor and is too heavy for flight. Oily hands brushed it aside, only to create muddier pools.

Stay here.

I cannot have one without the other, so please lay your flame down. The fire will dance in light, create darkness, yes, but above all, my wings can shine in this. This too will burn off the layers, burn off the thick skin, and burst my calloused wings into gossamer hope once again.

Bookstore Whisperings

Somedays I walk through bookstores, just for the smell of it. To hear what they quietly whisper to each other, bumping up against spines, running a tired finger along their backs.

Somedays I wonder about the magic contained in words, about the magic that seems to sparkle and crack in the dust of bookstores. Someone's breathing, beating heart, laid down and quieted in typed print, only to explode and live again in someone else's mind.

Perhaps the only way to beat the bittersweet impermanence of this world is to write. To write and to hope that someone reads. And even if no one reads it, even if no one sees it, to continue to write. To continue to breathe and lay your beating heart down into something that will outlast our crumbling bodies and our aching hands. To outlast the twists of fate and the he said-she said moments. To outlast the lack of sleep and the pitter patter of your child's feet. To out last the break of your heart, and the mending of your shoes.

To live amongst the moon and the sun so that someone, somewhere, will know that you lived. Will know that you too, broke, and you too loved, and you too, once had a beating heart.

Perhaps words are the only chance we have of being remembered. Words and the way they make you feel.

I would like to be remembered for words, but also for my hands and their disappearing creations. Cookies and watercolors, cakes and lost notebooks, dreamcatchers and wiped tears, holding hands and holding you, and all the things in between that make up the span of a day.

I think we would all like to be remembered, even if only for the simply perfect way that your eyes curve and crook and squint at the sun. Remember as much as you can. And then give it all back.

Whirlwind

Whirlwind life! Whirlwind days! 
Whirlwind hearts growing and breaking and opening and closing, and in the midst of it all, still trying to look the world in the eyes. Does your heart break open too? 
At the simple beauty of babies feet and the heartbreak of hunger waiting on every street corner? 
Mine splits open and open everyday, just enough to let a little more light in, just enough for the jewels to spill out into my eyes, and create a little more beauty than sadness. So here are words for the day: for a day that is the perfect amount of time. 

"Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
      And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
      And how else can it be?
      The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
      Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
      And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?"
--Kahlil Gibran

Breaking Open
Everyday 
            my feet surprise themselves
                       by getting out of bed

Meanwhile my heart breaks

          babies laugh
Children starve
          we fall in love
lovers die
          men rape
women break
          chickadees sing
my neighbor goes homeless
           my friend is jobless
rivers flow
          roses blossom

Meanwhile I breathe
      the world turns
           the sun still rises
                                      and sets
Babies are being born
                                to good homes and bad houses

Everyday my heart surprises me
                  by mending just enough to sleep
and break open again tomorrow

Playing House

We like to play house. We hang sparkly lights and a dreamcatcher above our crashpad nest and we set up the tent in our living room when we miss camping.

We eat eggs, bacon, and fresh peaches and we laugh about getting older. We drink out of jam jars because we forgot to buy glasses and we eat on the floor because we haven't bought chairs. 

We drift to mountains and streams and play in the water like little kids. We throw rocks and yell and make faces. We tease and fuss and fight. Mostly though, we love each other, and mostly that is what we spend our time doing. 

Crab Nights

Some nights are slow. There is crab strewn across the table, mouths licking buttered fingers, and slow conversation dripping down our lips. In between long dregs off of cold beer we share simple stories and simple conversation.

Some nights aren’t special but they still linger on my tongue.

Banana Blueberry Muffins

These are my mother’s muffins. They were her staple breakfast muffin and I knew it would be a good day when I woke up to the smell of them baking. These are one of the most nourishing comfort foods for me.

I am my mothers daughter, and these are my go-to muffins for the morning after a disaster, or when someone needs some extra love. Always, the taste of memory adds an extra sweetness, but even without the history, these muffins are delicious.

Banana Blueberry Muffins

1 cup sugar

2/3 cup butter

¼ cup buttermilk

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

2 cups flour

¾ tsp baking soda

1/8 tsp salt

1 cup blueberries (or replace with chocolate chips)

3 large bananas (2 cups)

Preheat oven to 350

Combine sugar, butter, buttermilk, eggs and vanilla. Stir in flour, baking soda, and salt. Add bananas and blueberries. Bake for 20-25 min. 

Remembering Roots

Rhubarb pie for breakfast and the tones of home linger softly on my tongue. Each bite is infused with more than rhubarb and sugar, but rather the spice of memories filling in the spaces.

The weight of history presses on my tongue.

I have no idea what just rhubarb tastes like. To someone who has never had it, I cannot even imagine what it must be like. But I am the world’s best food critic if you want to know what rhubarb laced with memories tastes like. 

I can tell you about seeing my mom chop it up into bite-size pieces and the way it made me feel taken care of. My eyes are barely peering over the counter top, her soft beautiful belly just at head height: the perfect height where I can lean gently in and let her take all my weight. 

I can tell you what the garden tastes like. My small feet press an inch down into the freshly turned earth baked by the sun. Scooping up a handful of dirt only to let it drop between my fingertips. The feeling of a tiny weed squished between sausage toddler fingers. 

I have no idea what just rhubarb tastes like.

But rhubarb pie--I can’t tell how much sugar is added, or whether the dough was made correctly, or whether there is too much cinnamon. 

All I can taste is the sweetness of innocence, the pillow of my mothers belly, the brittle warmth of summertime, and dirt under tiny toes. All mixed together, joined together by unlikely forces, dancing together in a never-ending parade.

Home

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie!

Making a pie crust is much simpler and substantially less daunting than most people think. Don’t let making pie crust feel too hard to stop you from doing it; the results from a homemade pie are infinity better than a crust from the store. (unless it’s Mary-Ann Steele baking J

We often forget about our hands as tools and reach for the butter cutter or spatula. Let this recipe be a true hands-on experience. Get your hands in the dough, the strawberries and the rhubarb. You’ll be able to taste the love and marvel at the versatility of our hands. The best part is having less dishes to wash at the end of it!

It is simply really, just let your hands do the work and don’t over work the dough.

Pie crust—For top and bottom pie

2 ½ cup flour

1 tbl sugar

½ tsp salt

8 oz butter cut in ½ inch pieces

½ cup ice water

Make sure the butter and water are cold to start. I believe in using our hands as tools, but some people prefer a butter cutter.

Mix the flour, sugar and salt together. Add the butter and mix with your hands until the mixture resembles peas and crumbs. Peas and crumbs. Repeat it to yourself. Once the mixture resembles peas and crumbs add the ice water. Depending on the day, the season and how hot your hands are, you might need more or less water. Start with the ½ cup and fluff the water into the mixture. The key here is gentle coaxing and fluffing. You are not trying to force, knead, or muscle your way into this pie dough. It is a delicate creature and likes to be treated as such. Gently fluff the water into the dough until it just begins to come together. You should still be able to see little pieces of butter in the dough. Shape it into 2 balls. Again the trick here is being gentle. Coax and ease it into two balls, now is not the time for packing it into your hand like play-dough. Once you have it in two balls tuck it into saran wrap and refrigerate it while you make the filling.

**Note: you do not always have to refridgerate the dough before rolling it out, but I believe that it comes out better if it is given time to rest before baking.

Strawberry Rhubarb Filling

4 baskets of strawberries (2 boxes)

1 tbl sugar

1 tbl flour

1 tsp cinnamon

10 stalks rhubarb

1 cup sugar

1 ½ cup water

I recently found this new trick for rhubarb pies and I absolutely love it! My rhubarb pies are always either soupy but flavorful or the right consistency but dull from the cornstarch or flour. This trick came from the book “The Sweet Life” which a secret fairy gifted me this winter and has been a source of inspiration for sweet treats and new ideas.

For the rhubarb: Chop the rhubarb into ½ inch pieces, and combine in a saucepan with 1 cup sugar and 1 ½ cup water. Bring the sauce to a boil and let boil for 3 minutes without stirring. Then take off heat and allow to cool for 10 minutes. In “The Sweet Life” she strains the mixture with cheesecloth and a strainer over a bowl. If you’re like me, then you probably don’t have cheesecloth lying around. I work in a professional kitchen and I couldn’t even find cheesecloth today. So I just used a strainer and it seemed to work just fine. Put the strainer over a bowl and let the mixture strain until all the juice has come out.

Keep the rhubarb juice. You can use it to spice up your water, thicken for an ice cream sauce, or make fruit soup.

Use the rhubarb compote for the filling to this pie!

Now, for the strawberries, slice them into thin slices and combine in a bowl with the flour, sugar, cinnamon and rhubarb compote. Roll out your pie dough and gently place into a pie pan. Spoon the filling into the pie (be sure to use your hands for this, and then lick them afterwards!). Roll out the second piece of dough and place on top. Fold the edges over, crimp them, smash them with your fingers: your pick. Then design a steam hole (I usually do a heart, sun or baby face) and use a paring knife to cut the steam hole into the pie.

Crack an egg and a splash of cream into a bowl and brush it on top of the pie and sprinkle with sugar for a beautiful finish.

Bake at 400 for about an hour, but check it regularly. It is done when the top is golden brown and everyone in your house is begging you to take it out and eat. 

Beautiful! Make two pies and give one away to your neighbor. 

Happy pie eating! Fill your homemade crusts with local fruit and berries. Let yourself feel proud of your homemade crust and remember to eat it slowly and softly, allowing your tongue to take in the sweet, the sour and the love of it all. 

Out Breath and Sweet Potato Muffins

It has been so long since I have written!

My apologies. My life has been filled with twists and turns, cooking and baking, loving and fighting, and lots of driving.

We are settling into our house in Oakland and I am finishing my year at LEAPNOW. I am learning and loving and trying to be human in all of it.

Regular posts will follow as my life takes a quick out-breath, before another 8-day retreat as students return from all over the world.

It is a time for harvest as I look back to September, but for today I simply write with a poem and recipe. The muffins don't have any sugar in them and break open with steam fresh out of the oven. I hope they warm your heart and soul.

Do you also Run

Do you also run

Hands heaping

overflowing with gasping muffins

To your neighbors door.

Begging for a sigh,

one simple steaming bite

Do you also plead with the Universe

For a slap-your-face sign

Dripping wet

Asking Why

Do you also yell

I will never be good enough

At anything.

The only hope I have

For this dance of no hope

Is that I might be good enough at being human

I might be good enough at being human

Summer's Sweet Potato Muffins

Adapted from “Good to the Grain”

1 medium sweet potato--baked and peeled

1 cup whole wheat flour

1 cup unbleached flour

1 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

1 tbl cinnamon

1/2 tsp nutmeg

1/2 tsp allspice

1 cup oats

2 oz butter

2 eggs

1 cup buttermilk

1/2 cup yogurt

8 dates--pitted and diced 

Preheat oven to 350. Combine dry ingredients in a bowl. Mix together butter, eggs, buttermilk, and yogurt, and add half the sweet potato. Combine with dry ingredients, then mix in the rest of the sweet potato and dates. Mix until just combined, and then spoon into muffin tins.

Bake at 350 for 20 min. 

I want you to Look

I want you to look down

Do you see mud?

If not

Move.

I want you to look up

Do you see birds?

Do you see sky?

Do you see the woman you love?

If not

Move. 

           

I want you to look in

Do you see your heart?

Do you like its color?

Do you believe in its strength?

Can you see it beating?

If not,

Change.

I want you to look in the mirror

Do you see yourself?

Do you like who you see?

I hope you do.

Beautiful Heartbreaking Human

It grew on crooked lumber and broken glass

It grew in potholes and highway divides

It grew in sidewalk splits and rusted drains

It will grow. Trust this. It will grow. Whatever we plant will grow, so make it worthwhile.

Our love and California poppies line the sides of the road and fill the spaces between hope and grief.

We must carry grief, gratitude, and grace. And we must do it humbly and nobly.

There is no greater gift and pain than the opportunity to be human.

There is no task more important.

Give your heart to itself and to the world. Learn the dance of space between and fill it. Keep your bones in your skin and keep your skin a part of humanity.

Believe in magic. It is the only thing that will carry you through. Bend your knees and say thank you, and then rise to your feet and give it all back.

The world is in the palm of your hand. It was placed there gently the moment you took your first breath.

We must carry grief, gratitude, and grace. And we must do it humbly and nobly.

There is no greater gift and pain than the opportunity to be human.

There is no task more important.

Eggs

We are beginning to create our home. As we nest into our space we slowly add pieces of furniture, hang bells and tapestries, light candles and put flowers in vases.
We also fill our refrigerator and pantry with food. I do not truly feel home until I have chocolate, butter and eggs. These are the three ingredients I need most for anything nourishing and until they have found their way into my cupboard, I am restless.

I find solace in eggs. They are extraordinarily adaptable, mixing their way into anything sweet or savory. They can be dropped in soup, mixed in cookies, they can be fried, scrambled or poached, they can be beaten and whipped and still hold their own. With eggs in your fridge, the world begs a creation.
So last night we experimented with eggs. We bought quail eggs for the first time!

Aren't they just beautiful?!

I had never quite understood why anyone would eat a quail egg, but they were relatively cheap at the magnificent Berkeley Bowl and so we decided to experiment. We boiled them for 4 min which seemed to be the perfect amount of time for a "barely hard" boiled egg. They are so cute and make the sweetest little boiled eggs, but I could hardly notice a difference in taste between this and a chicken egg. 

I concluded that they are beautiful and quaint, and appropriate for garnishing a salad or toasted rye bread with gruyere cheese on top. 

We had also heard that if you take an egg and encase it in a long sleeve shirt, and spin quickly, the egg will scramble within itself. Then after boiling, you can crack the egg and have a pre-scrambled egg. 

Although obviously a fun and exciting trick, our efforts were proved mute and our scrambled boiled egg turned out to be simply a "harder than usual to peel" regular egg. Perhaps we did not spin the egg fast enough, but either way our efforts turned out to be in vain. 

Eggs are entire worlds encapsulated in a fragile shell, but are also strong and hearty and hold their strength. I love eggs. I think they are incredible and an endless source of experimentation and nourishment. 

If left untouched, eggs would eventually hatch and fly. Let us then too hatch and fly and remember that we too can be coaxed into incredible things. Let the soft world of an egg in our hand remind our own hands to be gentle with themselves. Hatching is not always easy, and half the time we are thrown into a boiling pan of water. So too will our hearts be thrown into hot pans, but let us hold up against the heat. We too are meant to fly. So lets eat our eggs, fill our bellies, and throw our shells to the ground!  

Move

We moved to Oakland! 

That is the big news for this week and also the reason for the lack in consistent posts. Our time was packed with looking, driving, calling, and moving our small world of "things" into a new home! 

 We walked dogs. Big toad and little toad.

 We ate clams and oysters for the first time.

We played in the water

Gypsy played in the sand

All in all it was a whirlwind and I am still catching up to having a new home, my partner and dog nearby, and remembering that wherever my feet are planted the earth will always hold me. Here, there, and everywhere in between. 

Happy first week of April! I hope the showers and flowers find you warm and full. The earth is so full of incredible secrets and good fortune. Remember that there is always a flower or a feather, or perhaps you walked into a kiss, or a rainstorm, or even the sweet reminder that the world is always there to catch you. 

To falling, to finding, to loving, to diving, to laughing, to fighting, to prayers and to change. I light my candle to all of this. 

Even Gods speak of this

Look! Look hard! 

Isn’t this heart, this world, the pain and the joy of it all, the most incredible thing you can dream of? To me it is. To me the world is an offering and I can only walk with humility to be given this gift. Present. It seems perfect to me that the present moment is called present. Can you think of any sweeter gift?

The world dropped this heart into my palm and I have been carrying it around haphazardly.

I dropped it in the dirt and brushed it off. I shoved it in my pocket, and I stuffed it in my glove compartment. I lay it underneath my pillow, I lit a candle for it, and I baked it a cake. I found the key, unturned the lock and hastily shut the door again.

I ask for imagination and I ask for creativity. I ask for life to be breathed into my lungs so that my heart can continue beating. I ask for my heart to continue to beat, and yours too.

I ask for apple pie and warm chocolate chip cookies. I ask for milk and honey and coffee in the morning. I ask for your heart too and maybe we can put them in a hammock, swaddle them in flannel, and let them rest for awhile.

My heart is a muscle and it aches. It is sore from pumping and beating and continuing on day after day. But luckily, we are so much stronger than we believe we are. Keep breathing and place your heart tenderly in your chest. Open your arms wide and trust that the pain will only carve greater canyons for flash floods of joy.

Remember cracked black peppercorn, Orion’s belt, dark chocolate, wolves, and magic. Remember to swirl, swerve, and dive into it all! Then come up for air when you need to.

 

 Remember beauty and I will do my best to remember it all too. 

This is one of my favorite poems and the beauty of the words ask my heart to rise.

Self Portrait

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.

I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

  -- David Whyte

Extraordinary Mexican Hot Chocolate

This was my first recipe. Saved from an unfortunate truffle mishap, it melted into a rich, sexy hot chocolate that is to be savored in demitasse. It was the first time I felt like I could call a recipe “my own” although it has been so poked and prodded by teaching hands that it is just as much mine as it is the world’s.

This is one of my favorite desserts, along with a variation of chocolate chile cream pots. It warms me from the inside and feels equally nourishing to give away as to drink it myself. I am fairly certain that it is this dessert that has kept my partner Aaron and I together throughout the years.

This is for heart aches and bone breaks.

This is for late night candle light.

This is for falling in love, over and over again.

This is the dessert I ask for when the world is right and when the world is upside down.

This is the dessert for extraordinary moments.

Mexican Hot Chocolate

10 oz dark chocolate

3 tbl butter

3 cups cream

¼ tsp cayenne pepper

½ tsp cinnamon

2 cups (or more) milk

Melt the chocolate, cream and butter together. As soon as it is melted turn the heat down as low as possible. Scoop out a small amount of the chocolate, cream and butter into a cup. Add cayenne pepper and cinnamon to this cup and mix thoroughly, then pour the mixture back into the pot. This is so the cayenne and cinnamon mix evenly throughout the melted chocolate instead of clumping in one spot. Add the 2 cups of milk, or until you reach the consistency you like. Serve warm with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

Mental Nourishment:

The world offers itself up to your imagination. Our job is to offer ours back.

I cannot imagine a more incredible world. We do not always combine the raw materials with grace, and more often than not, our combinations bring more grief than beauty. But each oak leaf, each eucalyptus branch, each plum blossom, and each fallen woodpecker feather is individually so incredibly perfect, that I cannot imagine a more incredible world to create with. 

I want to fill this week with creation. This blog, this moment, these words have never happened before, and perhaps I do not know. But my hands know and my heart knows, and today I want to focus on listening and acting with both. 

My hope is to hold each other with strength and tenderness, to remember how strong and capable we are, alongside how tender and gentle our hearts are. 

With gratitude and grief flowing through me, this poem created space for a shift in my heart. A friend shared it with me, and I love it!

The Dakini Speaks

My friends, let's grow up.

Let's stop pretending we don't know the deal here.

Or if we truly haven't noticed, let's wake up and notice.

Look: everything that can be lost, will be lost.

It's simple--how could we have missed it for so long?

Let's grieve our losses fully, like ripe human beings,

But please, let's not be so shocked by them.

Let's not act so betrayed,

As though life had broken her secret promise to us.

Impermanence is life's only promise to us,

And she keeps it with ruthless impeccability.

To a child she seems cruel, but she is only wild,

And her compassion is exquisitely precise:

Brilliantly penetrating, luminous with truth,

She strips away the unreal to show us the real.

This is the true ride -- let's give ourselves to it!

Let's stop making deals for a safe passage:

There isn't one anyway, and the cost is too high.

We are not children any more.

The true human adult gives everything for what cannot be lost.

Let's dance the wild dance of no hope!

--Jennifer Welwood 

Thank you for listening and reading, and I send wishes of love on the wind!

Soul Nourishment: Coo's Lemon Tart and Leprechaun Traps

A good friend and incredible mentor died suddenly Friday morning and my heart was ripped open with grief. Alongside the immense grief of losing someone so dearly loved, came a tsunami of gratitude. I was in a place where I was completely supported, and around people I loved. Although my heart ached to be near my partner, I am so grateful to be near family and friends. Nicolas Buti was an incredible man and I send so much love those left behind, particularly his fiance Sarita and my best friend Natalie who was there when he died. Taking extra time to be grateful for my own breath and beating heart, and being gentle and tender with those around me.

I drove down to Alameda to spend time with my nieces and as always, these little ones heal my heart and make the world a better place.

We spent the night cooking, baking and setting leprechaun traps. Could you ask for a more nourishing night?!

Look at these cuties! Fried rice and smoothie time

At Elleke's request, we made a lemon tart. We lacked some key tools for making lemon curd so we simplified it by making something similar to a lemon bar. With improvisation and the incredible meyer lemons picked right off the backyard tree, the dessert was delicious! 

The recipe is from my trusty "The Art and Soul of Baking" which is an incredible start and guide to baking nearly everything!

Coo's Lemon Tart

Vanilla Shortcrust Dough

1 1/4 cup flour

1/4 cup sugar

1/4/ tsp salt

1 stick (4 ounces) cold butter

2 large egg yolks

2 tsp vanilla extract

1 to 3 tsp water

Combine flour, sugar, and salt together. Add butter and crumble with your hands until the mixture looks like peas and crumbs. Add egg yolks, vanilla and water and mix until just combined. Press into a tart shell.

Lemon Filling

4 eggs

5 tbl flour

2 cups sugar

2/3 cup lemon juice

Whisk eggs and flour until combined and there are no sneaky clumps of flour. Add sugar and lemon juice and whisk together.

Bake tart shell at 350 for 35 min or until golden brown. Remove from oven and turn down oven to 325. Let cool for 20 min and then pour the lemon filling into the crust. Bake at 325 for 50-60 min or until the middle is set. Let cool completely before serving! This will allow the lemon filling to thicken. 

I love making tarts with kids because unlike a pie crust, which calls for some tlc, a tart shell is pretty simple to make and hard to mess up. This lemon filling was incredible with fresh meyer lemons which gave it a sweeter taste that had more depth than a usual lemon filling. 

We finished the night with a leprechaun "trap" that turned into a cozy resting spot for the leprechauns on their journey. We filled it with tiny potatoes, coins, a pool, lounge station, and of course a little lemon tart. The leprechauns seemed to come and enjoy it during the night, and I got to enjoy green milk with my coffee this morning

                              Little tiny baby potatoes!

Happy St. Patricks Day! I hope the leprechauns visited your home and I hope that you give your soul a little nourishment today. Squeeze your littles tight, tell each other you love one another, and be grateful for this breath, this day, this life. 

Beginnings

These are the stories, the recipes, and the images that nourish me. They are meant to be savored, sipped slowly, and chewed softly. 

These are lemon drops.

These are stories to keep you warm, to keep you company, to gather your hems about your ankles and wrap you in a delicious cloak.

These are to let you know that you are not alone.

These are tales to wrap you in red velvet and whisper in your ear. These are words of stardust to sprinkle on your hair, hands, and feet and to gather in your pocket.

These are the stories that gather in my bones and lay on top of my skin, keeping me warm for the night.

These will melt like lemon drops on your tongue.

These are recipes to use. They are meant to be given away, to be doubled and taken to your neighbor’s house. They are for comfort, for joy, and for pride. Above all, they are recipes for nourishment.

Start with what you love.

Ask your belly what she craves.

Gently coax that into what your tongue desires.

Begin,

End.

Then…Give it all away.