martes, 18 abril

today is my sister’s birthday. happy birthday liz!

the great san francisco earthquake occurred one hundred years ago today (my father, I believe has just recently delivered a talk, taking that event as its topic – I wish I’d been there). 231 years ago tonight, paul revere made his famous ride. my sister had nothing to do with either of these two events… as far as I know.

the weather is overcast and the town is quiet, having been abandoned by most of the holiday revelers and tourists. I’ll take it for now - it’s a pleasant relief, although departure is in the air, and as soon as I figure out the best way to do so I’ll get back on my way. this has been a pleasant way to spend a few weeks, the time has flown by slowly, like honey spilling from a jar… well no, not really like that at all, but you know what I mean, slow to experience but quick when recalled… like life itself, and with none of that sticky mess on the floor that you get with the spilt honey.

went out for a nice pasta dinner last night at a new place that I hadn’t been to before. it was very nice. lots of veggies on the pasta__ snow peas and portabella mushrooms that I wouldn’t’ve guessed could be found around here.

this morning of course, I had my breakfast at shanti shanti, overlooking the lake. the ingredients of the fruit salad are unpredictable from day to day, but always include some combination of watermelon, cantaloupe, pineapple, and banana. today it was cantaloupe and banana, which to my taste is the best of the combinations. eating breakfast is (always, I guess, but especially so at shanti shanti) an everchanging, everdifferent experience__ unique like a sunset or the view through a kaleidoscope. but it’s a creative act (even if consumption is at its heart), like painting a picture, or how I would imagine it would be to compose a piece of music… or maybe it’s more like the collaboration of two chess players. the game begins with the same series of moves that begins every game, but quickly, and almost magically, it deviates from previous paths through the exponentially expanding potential options.

the plate arrives along with the bread basket and coffee. the waitress, who is busy with work and obligations, is seldom as consistent with the early stages of this game, as I am, but her innocence and beauty make it forgivable in her. she sometimes sets the coffee down to my left and the plate to my right. sometimes it’s the reverse. usually the bread is opposite the coffee, but sometimes they are adjacent. regardless of her placement however, I invariably wait politely until she departs (not wanting her to, in anyway, think I’m disapproving) and then reposition each element in my preferred manner – which I believe dates back to the way she happened to place them my first morning here. this is as simple for me as positioning the pawns on the second row, the rooks on the corners and the queen on her own color. so, once the coffee is to the right and the bread to the left, and the plate between them and rotated so that the eggs are at seven o’clock, the play can begin.

a covered dish with sugar is on the table, in the middle next to a small vase with one purplish flower. I remove the lid and uncover the sugar. I feel a sense of urgency, knowing that this necessary first step must be performed quickly. I am aware of my responsibility, my obligation, my debt to future breakfast eaters. I must get a half teaspoonful of sugar into my coffee before any flies land in the sugar bowl. this is sort of a sacred duty and one I take seriously and can proudly state, one that I have never failed to perform successfully… it only just now occurs to me that it’s possible that others haven’t always obliged themselves in this same manner, and that possibly the sugar has been tainted through the complicity of their negligence and the flies’ diligence… but no! that cannot be, look at the purity of the sweet stuff – surely nothing has touched it but the clean stainless steel of the spoon.

this sugar is not like the sugar we have back home. not like the seemingly unnaturally white stuff that comes in the paper packets with the historical facts or homey greetings printed on it, not even like the brownish golden stuff that comes in the natural looking packets made out of 100% post-consumer paper product, or is at least colored to make me think it is – both the paper and the sugar looking very natural, like they come from santa barbara or one of those places up north (from an LA perspective you know), although I’ve been told that neither really is any more natural than the other stuff, and that the startlingly white stuff is closer to the truth___ the important thing of course being to steer clear of anything in a pink or blue wrapper. no this sugar is sort of off white, like the faded fabric of your grandmothers wedding dress, it’s a whiteness you can trust, not so ostentatiously white that you think it must be fake (even if it isn’t) and not so tainted that you wonder if perhaps the flies have gotten to it afterall, this is a white that announces itself as being beyond suspicion, unsullied by industrialization, bleaching agents, deceptive marketing strategies and prepackaging… and as such, it is the kings pawn to k4, of my breakfast ritual.

I daintily (yes “daintily” do you have a problem with that?) dip my tiny spoon into the sugar. I sprinkle its contents into my coffee, as if I’m sewing seed in an early vangogh painting (or is that millet?), aiming for a uniform dispersal and hoping my seeds descend slowly, because I must set down the spoon and replace the lid (both actions being done with my left hand) before the flies realize the sweet treasure has been left unguarded. that accomplished, my left hand returns to the spoon, while my right hand reaches for the tiny pitcher of milf (leche, we call it) which holds just enough to raise the coffee level one centimeter and turn it the perfect shade of brown (like the skin of a certain girl I used to know) as I stir it in. I do this in the same order everyday, partly because I theorize that it is better to put the sugar into the hot coffee so that it dissolves more readily before the temperature is cooled by the milk. in truth, the coffee is seldom so hot and the milk never so cool as to make any difference, but often it is preferable (simply for the sake of pleasure and security) to hold to our traditions even in the face of their lack of firm foundation.

so up until this point in my breakfast, I have relied on previously determined decisions, I have followed the tried, the trusted, the true (one hopes) path. the preparation of the coffee is the equivalent of the kings pawn move already mentioned, followed by the opposing pawn meeting it, followed by my knight threatening the opposing pawn… but what comes next?… the canvas is stretched and primed (I’m switching metaphors, but stay with me) now I must paint the picture. I glance up, and take in the view… this in itself becomes the next move, the first brushstroke. breakfast is not simply about taking in food, it is about taking in sights, scents, inspirations. so I look out over the lake. I notice the color of the water and the patterns made by the natural ripple of waves are met by the contrasting angle of the wake (is that the right word) left by a boat arriving from (perhaps) panajachel. I notice the lovely blue of the water close to me and wonder about the brownishness of it further away, and then realize that it’s caused by the reflection of the bare hill rising above the opposite shore. it takes much less time to see all that than it does to type it all out or, I imagine, to read it all in (we know my typing skills are not worldclass, and I imagine you’re all savoring these words, or at least stumbling over the awkwardly constructed phrases and incessant parenthetical interruptions) and so only a second or two have passed. my gaze falls to the plate as my left hand, having returned the spoon to it’s place on the saucer next to the cup, reaches for the napkin-wrapped knife and fork which were delivered atop the basket of bread. I unroll them and, placing the napkin in my lap, set them to the side of my plate while I make my first choice. the options are suddenly myriad. I could butter a slice of toast and place it beneath the eggs. this will have to be done before I begin eating the eggs, but there is nothing that says that my first bite need be egg, so I can put it off, if I choose. I could take the fork and spear a chunk of melon, and if so, ought it to be cantaloupe or water? (this morning, as I mentioned above, there was none of the latter, so that decision would’ve been made for me) I could have a sip of coffee, I could, but rarely do this early in the meal, butter and jam (strawberry, the perfect amount in a small ceramic dish placed on the plate, but at some point usually relocated by me). I could take the jam dish and place it someplace else, freeing up workspace on the plate, and often uncovering a small bed of shredded carrot. I could have a bite of shredded carrot, or a cucumber slice.

once the early decisions are made, a pattern generally seems to become established… a rhythm develops and the meal flows. one flavor suggests another, the warm saltiness of a bite of egg suggests the complimentary possibilities of a cucumber disk or piece of melon. the necessity of chewing might lend itself to the taking a moment to contemplate the lake, the sound of laughter from below the ledge, where women are washing clothes might break my revery enough to remind me that I wanted a sip of coffee. towards the end, consideration often falls to the balancing and combining of the elements__ a tomato slice and onion sliver, carefully balanced on an ideally sized square of toast and egg. and finally the anticipation and necessary planning of the ultimate morsel__ toast with jam? or is that two sweet? maybe some melon, or how about cucumber today? but finish the eggs while you think about it and then go with your gut (if you see what I mean). so, one thing leads to another and the course of the meal takes on a character of its own, resulting in an experience with familiar and general similarities to previous meals, but unlike any that have come before in the details. that’s what makes breakfasts and sunsets and people and the days of our lives themselves such beautiful and fascinating things.

well, ok maybe I do have a bit too much time on my hands afterall, huh?!