It is Sunday. You made yourself go to the Mountain View Farmers Market because the last time you went was who-knows-how-long-ago. Before you left the house, you did as hubby requested and called sole fruit of self’s loins (even though your last call was only yesterday, and calling two days in a row significantly lowers your “coolness” quotient, which you have been steadily stoking ever since son got to Spain, because you know about the Guernica and the black Goyas). So you called and son was in the Prado (Oh miracle of miracles, self has raised a child who goes to museums of his own accord!) and he was (as you suspected) none too pleased to hear from you again, and as soon as you had hung up you turned to hubby and asked, What time is it there? And hubby said, 6:30 p.m., and since self had distinctly heard a guide talking somewhere in the background, it was a matter of no small amazement to self that the museums were still open at that hour.
And then you were in Mountain View. And the thing you never expect to happen happened: that is, your mind went wending down all the highways and byways of memory, and you thought of son’s 11th birthday party, which we celebrated at Colonel Lee’s Mongolian Barbecue, and this you remembered as you wended among the booths in the (exceedingly crowded) Mountain View Farmers Market, and it seemed to you that the cookie lady had grown much grayer since you’d last seen her (only a few months ago!) And then you wended your way home bearing peaches and organic tomatoes and seven different cookies (pecan, chocolate chip, coconut macaroon, you name it) and a 12 oz. package of artichoke, gorgonzola and walnut ravioli (for dinner tonight, $8.25) and you were so pleased with yourself.
In the middle of the afternoon, hubby, who’d been declaring all summer that he was fat and wanted to take up bicycling again, announced that he was going to actually go biking. You waited but he did not move from his computer and was still there an hour later. So, finally, you suggested dropping by the Woodside Bakery for some coffee — a little change of routine. And after much dithering hubby finally decided that that was exactly what he had in mind to do. And after you had gotten your iced coffees (which was such a bargain, really, only $3.50 for two) you walked across to Emily Joubert, one of your favorite home and garden stores and, as luck would have it, there was a 50-75% off sale of selected items, and you got yourself a big throw pillow (originially $83) for $20, and a beautiful handmade ceramic bowl (called “Small Rain,” how lovely is that) for $13.75, perfect for holding the peaches you’d bought in the farmers market that morning.
And you can’t end this post without mentioning that today you finally got to talk to Ying, for the first time since her bone marrow transplant. And she sounded much the same as she always does (in fact if you closed your eyes you could very well imagine you were in Manila, both of you, sitting across from each other at the breakfast table). You asked her if you could send her audio books but she demurred. And you asked her if she was eating and it worried you exceedingly when her voice faltered because you knew she was going to tell a fib, you just knew it, and you told her that she mustn’t lose anymore weight, and you also told her this really stupid thing, “You will pull through,” which is something you swore you would never ever say to anyone who is sick, it is totally asinine, but Ying only laughs. And you hear the doubt in her voice (which makes you want to smack hubby, who is standing right next to you, smacking his lips because he’s just stuffed his mouth with a slice of prosciutto slathered with melted butter).
And after Ying tells you that she is being fed intravenously, you turn your attention to dinner. And the memory of Ying stays with you while you cook: lentils, rice, curry.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
Kanlaon 