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2005-12-26, 12:03 p.m.:
I have eaten I have eaten gamecock at a 16th century manor house in Normandy. I have eaten alligator stewed in garlic at a zydeco festival in some central-coast California town. I have eaten quail for breakfast at Aunt Trude's old clapboard house (rented for about 50 years) in Mobile, Alabama. Invited to Soren and Veruca's apartment in some park-laced suburb of D-dorf, on the shortest day of the year, I have eaten a Swedish midsummer night's feast of many pickled fish dishes and sweet cakes and white wine and light European beer. I have eaten an "authentic British construction worker's breakfast" at some dive in London and, in all truth, it was no more and no less than an American greasy spoon's egg-sausage-toast plate. But the Germans were impressed. I have eaten turtle soup while riding on a train through Kenya. I have eaten the Best Mussels Ever, served in a lidded pot at table, boiled in garlic and minced onion and wine, accompanied by very fresh, very crisp, very white French fries and a stemmed glass of Chimay beer, at a restaurant you might not glance twice at in the heart of Montmartre. I have run a 10K then feasted on a continental European brunch - hard rolls, slivers of lox, cream cheese, unsalted butter, croissants, thick jam, hard-boiled eggs, pots of hot, strong coffee and fogged glasses of sparkling water - sitting outside in the sun and smelling the Monterey Bay off Pacific Grove. I have drunk tea (in the English style? High tea? Or was it coffee and cakes? Or, in my case, milk and cake?) in a palace with the Emperor of Ethiopia and his great-great granddaughter, Menin, who was my age and gave me a pink-dressed blonde doll for Christmas, signing her name on the card in all block letters. I have eaten my mother's fudge - heavenly. Enough said. I have eaten the best meal of my life in Belgium. In Brussels. And I can't tell you exactly what I had. Or at all what I had. But I would order it again in an instant. 0 comments
2005-12-25, 11:32 p.m.:
What I didn't get for Christmas: Cyndi Lauper's new album.
Madonna's new album.
The Star Wars comic book book.
Shoes.
Omelette pans.
An Angel at My Table.
Anything by System of a Down. Or Weezer, for that matter.
Anything crocheted. (Mom knitted me a scarf, in my favorite color, red.)
Any books of poetry, or translated Russians.
Star Wars Trivial Pursuit. I DID get The Royal Tenenbaums, which I want to watch every single day practically and plan to watch a little of before sleeping tonight. And Dwight Yoakum and no fewer than TWO Elvis Costello DVDs and The Star Wars Poster Book and two, count 'em, TWO Italian cookbooks, including the so-called bible, Silver Spoon, which is nearing on 1500 pages and weighs as much as an Organic Chemistry textbook. And I got an Astor Piazolla CD and some nice earrings (I do not wear earrings) and a pretty pretty red enamel colander. And also Joan Didion's new book and also a Neil Gaimon book, Stardust, which my brother argues should really be entitled Fallen Star. And the wrapping, oh the wrapping. The wrapping is so hard on one's knees. And the cooking (between yesterday and today: cookies with frosted tops, veggie stuffing, 2 dozen deviled eggs, marmelade-infused apple pie). And we have already sorted out and put away about 1/4 of the toys our big boy got, for donation and/or saving for later, and he will not even notice. Too many toys. So much stuff. I feel sheepish about the stuff, and I don't need stuff. I need poetry. I need a different way of looking at things. I need more time and a better way of organizing everything and also a way to let go and just be happily, gracefully out of control. I am grateful for the stuff, and for the thought behind everything. For Att, who said, simply, "WOW" when he was let into the living room this morning and saw his Jedi Adventure tent and his Star Wars playmates and his little wooden workbench and, most most foremost of all, his purple-bladed Mace Windu light saber. And now it's the one-year anniversary of the tsunami and I am steeling myself for the stories, all the stories revisited, that surely lie ahead (have not yet looked at today's paper). Christmas. Crazy. My sister and I gave each other Vikram Seth's Two Lives (hers autographed - score! - because he's one of her very favorite authors) and then had a picture taken of ourselves to commemorate, each holding the book up like a baby. We look exceedingly silly and exceedingly pleased with ourselves.
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