Last night, we had perhaps one of the best meals I've ever eaten. I've become friends with a man who works in our India office and is in the states for two months. He was lucky enough to bring his wife. He and I have been talking -- about food, our respective cultures, family, and so on. A few weeks ago, he shyly asked if I would like to come for lunch. That turned into an invitation to dinner and it included Robert.
So last night was the night. They were so sweet -- very eager for us to feel at home, curious about us, as we are about them. She's an architect, and readers of this blog know that I have a huge soft spot for architects. She's also intelligent and lovely.
And the food was transporting. She served an appetizer, a "salad" (though not what we think of), a cabbage dish, a sweet smokey eggplant dish, homemade Indian bread, a buttermilk drink, a sprouted bean dish, and delicious lemon rice. Then for dessert, we had butter pecan ice cream.
Funny moment with the bread -- apparently they eat the first half of the meal with bread, mostly without using utensils. Then they have rice with a little bit of additional food. When she gave me my first piece of bread, she started to explain it -- that it was like roti, but different. Funny, I said, it looks a lot like chappati. They started laughing hard. Turns out it *was* chappati but they didn't think we'd know it.
Somehow this morning, I managed to sleep in. Good thing too, with a late bedtime and several interruptions from half-crazed animals. Slept right through the garage door going up and down, and it's loud.
I eventually got out for a swim, but after the day campers had arrived. The good news is that I managed to miss them in the locker room both going into the pool and coming out -- blessed quiet. But I did run into a friend after my swim and caught up a bit.
Then lots of errands, culminating with a trip to the farm to do Tuesday's picking. (I'd hoped it would be a little drier today. Yes, but I'm glad I wore my muck boots.) There's something so lovely about being at the farm. For one thing, it's beautiful there. If you're quiet, you can hear the birds sing. I found myself smiling for no reason at all.
They have a great crop of blueberries this year. I enjoyed looking at them in their various colors, from pale green, to paler lavender, all the way up to deepest purple. The delicate smells, the sun peeking through clouds, being in a giant net enclosure with dragonflies, all so peaceful, and a great way to finish up the afternoon.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Driving while white
A while back, Robert' car failed its annual inspection, mostly because of a few broken lightbulbs. Instead of a number on his sticker, he got a big fat red R (for rejected, I think, probably not for Robert).
Robert assured me that he had 60 days to address the issue. A week ago, his car went into the shop to have the work done.
On Sunday, we were driving through a local wealthy suburb on the way home from delivering my mother to the airport. It was a quiet day, not too much traffic, but we were in a short line of cars. We went past a side street out of which shot a police car, lights blazing. Everyone pulled over and then one by one drove off. The cop was after us.
Robert rolled down the window and handed over his license and registration. Turns out it was a slow day, indeed. The cop had noticed the big fat red R. He wanted to know why the car had failed. He told us that we were supposed to fix those problems immediately. (I later read the fine print on the sticker, and yes, you have sixty days to fix emissions issues but you're supposed to get everything else fixed right away.)
Eventually, we were given a warning (because it was Sunday and the cop realized that we couldn't have gotten an inspection right then).
I remember thinking at the time that it was a good thing we're white and older and boring looking.
And then on Monday, news broke that a world-famous Harvard professor had committed the ultimate crime of breathing while black. Actually, he'd come home from a trip, realized his front door was stuck, come in through the back, then applied a little English to the front door. Cops were alerted to a possible breakin. They arrived, looked at his ID, lured him onto his porch, and promptly arrested him, basically for being rude. Charges were dropped recently, but not before this became a national, if not international, incident.
Ah, justice.
Robert assured me that he had 60 days to address the issue. A week ago, his car went into the shop to have the work done.
On Sunday, we were driving through a local wealthy suburb on the way home from delivering my mother to the airport. It was a quiet day, not too much traffic, but we were in a short line of cars. We went past a side street out of which shot a police car, lights blazing. Everyone pulled over and then one by one drove off. The cop was after us.
Robert rolled down the window and handed over his license and registration. Turns out it was a slow day, indeed. The cop had noticed the big fat red R. He wanted to know why the car had failed. He told us that we were supposed to fix those problems immediately. (I later read the fine print on the sticker, and yes, you have sixty days to fix emissions issues but you're supposed to get everything else fixed right away.)
Eventually, we were given a warning (because it was Sunday and the cop realized that we couldn't have gotten an inspection right then).
I remember thinking at the time that it was a good thing we're white and older and boring looking.
And then on Monday, news broke that a world-famous Harvard professor had committed the ultimate crime of breathing while black. Actually, he'd come home from a trip, realized his front door was stuck, come in through the back, then applied a little English to the front door. Cops were alerted to a possible breakin. They arrived, looked at his ID, lured him onto his porch, and promptly arrested him, basically for being rude. Charges were dropped recently, but not before this became a national, if not international, incident.
Ah, justice.
Falsettos
It was 1990. I'd met Mark in the spring. We volunteered together at the AIDS Action Committee, then met up at the AIDS Walk that year. He was sweet. He wanted to be friends. I cooked for him. We had adventures together. We were deeply romantic in that marvelously platonic kind of way.
One night, we went to dinner in the North End. At the end of our meal, a woman on the other side of the tiny but packed restaurant -- a woman who looked like she slept under bridges -- leaned back in her chair and sang O Sole Mio beautifully. We burst into applause, then paid our bill and strolled back along Beacon Hill in the fog, admiring the architecture.
Another time, I was going through a rough spot and Mark arranged a perfect evening with another friend -- appetizers at his house, dinner out, a stroll by the Public Garden afterwards, many laughs, just what the doctor ordered.
We had amazing evenings in Provincetown where his boyfriend, Michael, had a house. He told me stories of sailing off Santa Monica on elegant evenings. He reintroduced me to Bonnie Raitt.
By the time the autumn rolled around and his time in Boston was ending, I knew he'd come share Thanksgiving with my family in New York.
A friend had told me that I must see Falsettos by William Finn but didn't tell me what it was about. So we went. And I sat through my first Finn experience -- a cheerful nearly cartoony sung-through performance about a man who dies of AIDS.
We walked out of the theater into the Village unable to speak -- too much fear and horror hung between us. We just walked quietly for a little bit. Little did we know.
And then shouts, commotion, and a runaway horse went tearing by, clearly scared out of its mind. It was big. No one knew what to do until a man stepped out from the sidewalk and stood right in the horse's path. The horse stopped, that brave man took the reins, and held the horse until one very pissed off tiny policewoman came running through the crowd looking for her ride.
After that, the ice was broken. Such magic happened around that man.
One night, we went to dinner in the North End. At the end of our meal, a woman on the other side of the tiny but packed restaurant -- a woman who looked like she slept under bridges -- leaned back in her chair and sang O Sole Mio beautifully. We burst into applause, then paid our bill and strolled back along Beacon Hill in the fog, admiring the architecture.
Another time, I was going through a rough spot and Mark arranged a perfect evening with another friend -- appetizers at his house, dinner out, a stroll by the Public Garden afterwards, many laughs, just what the doctor ordered.
We had amazing evenings in Provincetown where his boyfriend, Michael, had a house. He told me stories of sailing off Santa Monica on elegant evenings. He reintroduced me to Bonnie Raitt.
By the time the autumn rolled around and his time in Boston was ending, I knew he'd come share Thanksgiving with my family in New York.
A friend had told me that I must see Falsettos by William Finn but didn't tell me what it was about. So we went. And I sat through my first Finn experience -- a cheerful nearly cartoony sung-through performance about a man who dies of AIDS.
We walked out of the theater into the Village unable to speak -- too much fear and horror hung between us. We just walked quietly for a little bit. Little did we know.
And then shouts, commotion, and a runaway horse went tearing by, clearly scared out of its mind. It was big. No one knew what to do until a man stepped out from the sidewalk and stood right in the horse's path. The horse stopped, that brave man took the reins, and held the horse until one very pissed off tiny policewoman came running through the crowd looking for her ride.
After that, the ice was broken. Such magic happened around that man.
May the force be with you.
for DW and KAH
Years ago, in the late fall or early winter, my sister was moving households. She was driving her fragile items in a van along a mountain road. The van slid on ice, she narrowly avoided going over the cliff, and the van fell over. The sound of breaking (and I'm sure, braking) was apparently quite stunning.
She was injured but conscious. The friend who was following in the car behind stopped and rushed up to see what happened. My sister later said that she envisioned her friend's horror and wanted him to know that at least she didn't die in the wreck. So she started yelling "I'm alive! I'm alive!"
I think about that moment when I come through challenges of my own. I think about being in near-shock but with life coursing through, cherishing that life force and yelling "I'm alive! I'm alive!". I think of my attachment -- to people, to cats, even to things -- and I suspect that my life force will be the last one I let go of.
For me, it exists inside like a small light burning near my solar plexus. It warms me and illuminates my path. I sometimes call it my little grace light. Robert, who briefly experienced Presbyterianiasm as in impressionable youth, was shocked to discover that I believe grace exists within me. It is not an outside command, but an inside motivation, pushing, inspiring, and at times helping me to go on.
Oddly, I feel its power on some of the days that I swim, towards the latter part of a mile, when mind, body, and quiet all come together. I know that it's there when I dance -- I can remember it, but because of the busy-ness of dance, I notice it almost always in hindsight, rarely in that moment. (But, oh, when it all comes together in that moment, it is pure heaven.)
Today I honor two friends whom I notice striving toward the light as they move through the most challenging of times. My thoughts and hopes are with them.
Years ago, in the late fall or early winter, my sister was moving households. She was driving her fragile items in a van along a mountain road. The van slid on ice, she narrowly avoided going over the cliff, and the van fell over. The sound of breaking (and I'm sure, braking) was apparently quite stunning.
She was injured but conscious. The friend who was following in the car behind stopped and rushed up to see what happened. My sister later said that she envisioned her friend's horror and wanted him to know that at least she didn't die in the wreck. So she started yelling "I'm alive! I'm alive!"
I think about that moment when I come through challenges of my own. I think about being in near-shock but with life coursing through, cherishing that life force and yelling "I'm alive! I'm alive!". I think of my attachment -- to people, to cats, even to things -- and I suspect that my life force will be the last one I let go of.
For me, it exists inside like a small light burning near my solar plexus. It warms me and illuminates my path. I sometimes call it my little grace light. Robert, who briefly experienced Presbyterianiasm as in impressionable youth, was shocked to discover that I believe grace exists within me. It is not an outside command, but an inside motivation, pushing, inspiring, and at times helping me to go on.
Oddly, I feel its power on some of the days that I swim, towards the latter part of a mile, when mind, body, and quiet all come together. I know that it's there when I dance -- I can remember it, but because of the busy-ness of dance, I notice it almost always in hindsight, rarely in that moment. (But, oh, when it all comes together in that moment, it is pure heaven.)
Today I honor two friends whom I notice striving toward the light as they move through the most challenging of times. My thoughts and hopes are with them.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
quiet fourth
It's turning out to be a quiet weekend. We were invited to a party today a few doors down from where we live. I saw the host two days ago; he seemed pleased that we were attending. Then yesterday, a phone message said that suddenly, there was way too much work to do around their house. The party was canceled, but we were still welcome to "stop by." I am so confused by the invitation, non-invitation, and kinda-invitation, and Robert was so convinced that "stop by" meant "help us with our weeding" that we've decided to ignore the whole thing.
Instead, we're going out by ourselves for southeast Asian food -- melting-pot food, to match our melting-pot country, in one of the most melting-pot cities I know of.
This morning, we woke up early, walked to the farmer's market, bought shell peas and bread, and talked to a distant neighbor for a bit. Then we headed to our local cafe and hung out with friends for a while while sipping coffee drinks before walking home.
Yesterday, a day off for both of us, I went swimming while Robert slept in. We walked downtown for haircuts, stopped in at a newly hung art show for our own private viewing, and walked home. Later, we headed to Lexington for an hour-long walk on the rail trail. We bumped into a friend -- a colleague from several jobs back who caught us up on some company gossip. We broke away when we realized we were all getting eaten alive by bugs newly hatched after the rains.
We finished up just as the skies opened and headed off for dinner to a recent find -- a Mexican restaurant that I knew even Robert couldn't mock. He was indeed very happy, though he mentioned a Mexican restaurant in western MA that he likes slightly better. We'll have to go there later this summer when we're out that way.
For now, skies are blue, there's a light breeze, and our solar panels are finally getting a nice workout. Happy fourth.
Instead, we're going out by ourselves for southeast Asian food -- melting-pot food, to match our melting-pot country, in one of the most melting-pot cities I know of.
This morning, we woke up early, walked to the farmer's market, bought shell peas and bread, and talked to a distant neighbor for a bit. Then we headed to our local cafe and hung out with friends for a while while sipping coffee drinks before walking home.
Yesterday, a day off for both of us, I went swimming while Robert slept in. We walked downtown for haircuts, stopped in at a newly hung art show for our own private viewing, and walked home. Later, we headed to Lexington for an hour-long walk on the rail trail. We bumped into a friend -- a colleague from several jobs back who caught us up on some company gossip. We broke away when we realized we were all getting eaten alive by bugs newly hatched after the rains.
We finished up just as the skies opened and headed off for dinner to a recent find -- a Mexican restaurant that I knew even Robert couldn't mock. He was indeed very happy, though he mentioned a Mexican restaurant in western MA that he likes slightly better. We'll have to go there later this summer when we're out that way.
For now, skies are blue, there's a light breeze, and our solar panels are finally getting a nice workout. Happy fourth.
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