No banjo on my knee.
But, plenty of luncheon tidbits that I've gathered over the past few days.
This I've done, despite my two, probably broken toes that protrude out of my strappy, Merrell sandals. Poor purple, puffy appendages still throbbing from the 15 lb. metal weight that fell heavily onto my right foot a couple days before -- an infirmity that made traipsing about for provisions tricky.
I recently read that French women stay thin because they don't eat between meals.
In my house, it's the other way around.
We put out meals to punctuate and give order to sequential eating.
But since the airlines have declined to feed me in Coach,
I must tote my own pumpkin seeds, and so forth. I've packed
jumbo-sized wraps for the husband and me, fresh fruit, dried fruit,
cashews and almonds, and chocolate yogurt from Trader Joe's. My theory being, since we will be passing through a scraggle of different time zones, we need courses for each.
Now these four containers of yogurt are my special obsession. I usually have no less than eight in the refrigerator at a time. I'm thrilled to have found something I like that I can pretend is health food. Cool, chocolatey. Rich but light. Just the comfort I yearn for since the 15 lb. weight that was propping up a large fan in our hot-as-hades apartment fell on my right foot a few days before, probably breaking, as my doctor says, two toes.
What never occurred to me is that yogurt is a gel. And as all of us
must know since the shoe bomber, gels as well as liquids are on the bad, bad list.
I've handed over water. I've left home the ivory-handled fruit knife, and other must-have accoutrements of elegant eating. But, my yogurt?
Nevertheless, we're off for 10 days in Northern California. This
all came about when I clicked on a Living Social coupon
for two nights at an inn in Carmel. I've always wanted to hang out
in Carmel. This charming town is 45 minutes or so from where
we'll be staying, while the relatives who normally live there, visit
back East.
I like California. There's something about it that's not New York, that appeals to me. In fact, it's one of the few things that's not New York
that I really like. For example, I know that Toledo is not New York --
and that doesn't pull me at all. I am one of those people who prefers coast to inland. And I like the rhythm that is Northern California. It's a different dance step. A Big Sur Martha Graham with a dip. A dip made up of chunky, avocado, a touch of jalapeno and smooth Meyer lemons, with a side of crunchy pistachios.
We settle into our seats. I practice forgiving the security agent who confiscated the yogurts and is probably eating them now. Four of them! I also work on appreciating Jed for the ingenious, but ultimately toe-destroying cooling system throughout our apartment he strung together to fight the 90+ degree heat.
You see, that 15 lb. weight propped up a large fan, and this, along with another dozen fans my husband spread about our rooms -- created "flow" -- as he often said proudly. Unfortunately, I couldn't walk more than a few steps, open a closet, or get in or out the front door, without knocking one over. And now, as I contain myself from reminding him, I can barely walk at all. Also, there is no chocolate yogurt.
It is the kind of lament that would sound particularly heart-breaking on a banjo.
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