It's all in the perspective

We've developed a pattern (ritual? rite?) of a late breakfast of an early Sunday afternoon at one of the several Lattéland locations in Kansas City. The one we frequent is in the Country Club Plaza.

Coffee, breakfast fare (scones, muffins, and/or bread - banana, pumpkin this time of year, other sorts.)

We sat in the sunshine, an oasis of quiet amid the bustle of espresso drinks being ordered and prepared.

Him: Chocolate chip scone?

Me: Mmm-hmm (mouth full of chocolate chips.)

Him: And that? What is it? (pointing at the other food item on my plate)

Me: Bread.

Him: ...

Him: I know it's bread. What kind?

Me: ...considering the bread on my plate... Bread, with some kind of green bits in it.

Him: Nuts? Those look like small pieces of nut.

Me: Those yes. But I'm looking at the green bits in my bread.

Him: There's nuts, but I'm not sure what those others are.

Me: I'm sort of focused on the fact that I'm eating bread that has green bits in it.

Him: You make eating a difficult prospect for yourself sometimes.

A Collection of 'Lasts'

Back at the start of this year — or the very end of last year — I noticed I was collecting 'lasts'.

As the time for our move from California approached, and in particular my drive from California to Missouri, I discovered I was making note of 'the last time I'll do this'.

The day I left on the start of a 2,007-mile journey I took a number of last photographs of the lake in Foster City — like the one here. It serves to remind me of the beauty that was there, and remind me to search for the beauty that is here.

In the days before, the weeks before, we had a last dinner at Heidi's Pies, a family restaurant in San Mateo. A place straight out of Americana, a place where you'll be called 'sweetie', no matter how unsweet you might be feeling at the time. Another last, a pizza (well, one each — they're small, honest) at Amici's East Cost Pizza, also in San Mateo. Very thin crust. Freshly made. Good service. A third last, Boudin. Now there's a taste of San Francisco. You won't find sourdough bread quite like that anywhere.

I notice that the 'lasts' I'm recalling are food related. Well, bread broken and shared is a deep-rooted part of human community. 

We'd already had the last celebration with the Emmaus Community. Again bread broken and shared, both in the sacramental meal of the liturgical celebration and afterwards in the shared potluck as we bid farewell to friends we'd come to know over decades.

There are many other 'lasts' I collected: a last visit to the Highlands Resort operated by a husband and wife team we've come to know well, a last visit to an art gallery in Duncan's Mills operated by a husband and wife team of artists, a last visit to San Rafael for me to visit with my good friend.

It was good to take the time to stop, notice, remember. It's a part of conscious living, something with which I have a checkered history.

Now I'm collecting 'firsts'.

Friends, Cello Music, and Poetry

We had dinner this evening with a great friend of ours, Va. Good food, good company. What's not to like - as the saying goes. At the end of the meal, we stepped outside for some moon-watching, on this eve when the moon appears larger than usual.

Va reads my blog and noted my fondness for the cello. This evening she brought with her a CD of improvisations on the cello as inspired by the Tao Te Ching. We listened to it when we arrived back home - you would swear, were you one to swear, there was a cello, cellist included, in the living room. The CD is wonderful.

The 14th track had/has a repeated phrase that caught my ear - and, clearly, started wheels turning.

When they'd finished, the following presented itself:


A voice cries...

What is this place?
Where is this place?
I strike the doors
     the walls
Nothing yields,
I've never seen this place.
Why am I here?

Someone tell me!
Won't someone tell me?

Another voice cries...

I've always been here.
Never able to leave.
I strike the doors
      the walls
Nothing yields.
I've never been elsewhere.
Why cannot I leave?

Someone tell me!
Won't someone tell me?

Both voices - mine.

Will write for my supper...

Saturday evening was very pleasant indeed. Good (very) food around a table with our friend, Va.

She is an excellent cook, and an even better storyteller - and they're all real-life stories of her friends, relatives, life. Much fun, laughter, the warmth you get from deep friendship (not to mention well-prepared edibles and chocolate cake).

Garage sales are among the many things Va enjoys and she has a fine eye for beauty. The "old lady's" watch - platinum and diamond encrusted - a very fine buy.

Knowing my fondness (fetish?) for fountain pens, she presented me with two. With the aid of a magnifying glass (the eyes aren't what they used to be) I was able to determine that the black one was an Esterbrook, the green (with a translucent barrel) a Recife.

The Esterbrook dates from the late 1940's and the ink bladder is still supple and holds ink.

You can see, in the photograph, the lever used to load ink. It is a very long time since I made use of such a pen.

I was able to find out from this site:
Esterbrook.net, that the pen is (may be?) a J-series pen, which date from around 1948.

I checked the pen, testing it with water before ink, and it works very well. The pen is slimmer than many of the others I own, but fits well in the hand.

The nib is in excellent condition. This pen was well looked after.

I need to further investigate the Recife. It looks like a "demonstrator" pen, given the translucence of the barrel. But it has no converter, nor reservoir within, so I am not certain what to do regarding inking it. It is possible it can take a Waterman cartridge.

Below is an example of how the Esterbrook writes. It is a pleasure to use.

Many thanks, Va.

The things you hear...

As the train rolled towards San Jose on Thursday, it rolled to a stop. I and others were already standing by the door ready to disembark. It was too early (I wake up slow) to wonder why we were no longer moving. I was prepared to wait till we finally reached the platform, till someone said what was going (or not going) on, till all would be revealed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," came the announcement, "we are holding here at a signal while trains cross in front of us. Federal law prohibits us from running through a red signal and crashing into another train." Hooray for Federal Law, not to mention common sense.

Sure enough a second train pulls level with us two tracks over and a third, heading north, slips neatly between us. Would that all of life ran so well on rails.

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Two weekends ago we were at a wedding in Kansas City. The bride's mother, Jane, is a very great friend (as is her husband, the bride's father). Jane introduced me to her two sisters. "He tweets in haiku," she said.

I smiled and made my usual excuse that I don't live so exciting a life that I could tweet with any regularity, so I had given myself the challenge of tweeting only (by and large) in haiku.

"And you feel the need to tweet, do you?" asked one of the sisters. There really isn't a good answer to that.

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This evening we were at our "occasion" restaurant for dinner. Excellent food, our usual table by the fire, friendly and knowledgable servers. At the table just over the divider from ours sat a character for my NaNoWriMo novel this year. This woman could talk. She had a dinner companion who served as a sounding board, an occasional monologue spur (she might have regarded it as conversation), a jumping-off point.

"Oh, your calamari didn't come with tartare sauce. Please? We need some tartare sauce here." And then, "Did you want tartare sauce?"

"I know you don't like to do gifts and such but, I just had to get her this from you. It's just like that little Coach purse I have. You know it, don't you?"

And, for me the most perfect...

"How can I not know that name? Is this a trick question?"

I am sure I shouldn't have been listening, but it was all too good to pass up.

Finally - Happy Birthday Dick.

Bon Appétit

A "fresh buttery taste spread". Faint praise indeed. The legal department of the food division must be proud. Though, on reflection, I'm using "food" in it's "food-like" sense. You really shouldn't eat on planes.

Saturday was a contrasting day for food. It began well enough with a very acceptable muffin - at a somewhat less acceptable hour - in San Francisco airport.

Chicago provided plenty of time and plenty of variety to get something decent to eat before the advent of "fresh buttery" tastes.

A salad, I thought, vanity and sanity in rare congruence. The "freshly tossed" sign on a salad bar drew my attention - as did the idea of barbecue chicken and southwestern-ish style ingredients.

South Western in Chicago - what could go wrong?

We humans run on rails, often with many of our actions rendered automatic by repetition.

The construction began with romaine lettuce but it wasn't until the croutons that I suspected there was something amiss. At that exact moment the preparer looked at the contents of her mixing bowl.

We laughed, she apologized and made to throw the salad away and begin anew. Given they were all the same price, I opted for the current contents.

She asked if I wanted anything else in my salad. "Tortilla chips," I said and she tossed generous handfuls of red and black chips into my Classic Chicken Casear.

Crunch!

Made with real portobello mushrooms...

So it said on the packaging. "Real" ...as opposed to?

Or the other one I find so — entertaining. "Next week, an all-new episode of 'House'." "All-new", instead of some combination of bits of older episodes with some new content thrown in hoping the viewers won't notice? Come to think of it, I've watched shows like that. But not recently.

Now, I understand that language changes, develops, evolves. I am a firm believer that it must change, whether I like said changes or not, else it will die. I remember the pleasure my father took in the vigor of American usage and how he regarded the importance of a dynamic approach to language.

He recalled how, in the seventies, at the height of the US Space Program, business meetings were understood to reach "ignition point" and achieve "lift-off". Language usage as a reflection of the age and the milieu.

So, what does the "all-new" usage say about the age and milieu in which it is used?

And what about those food products that do not contain "real" portobello mushrooms...? Dare I ask?