There is a basic tenet in Buddhism that the only reality is what is happening now. The past exists only in our heads, muddled by our own unavoidable perspectives and biases, and the future may or may not come to pass. If a piano falls on you in three seconds, it’s best not to have spent that time separated from the sights, sounds and emotions of the moment.
I find this a helpful construct for many reasons; I tend to be a ruminator and a worrier, frequently leaving the moist, fragrant air of a summer second to regret the actions of a remote January morning, or to fret over what might happen as the air grows crisp and the leaves turn from green to red. I wonder, though, if it is wrong to remember places I loved, that are forever lost to me, and that live on only in my memory and the collective memories of those who actually experienced them. It’s a moot point, really, because I can’t seem to stop myself, and it doesn’t seem to do me any significant harm to remember. This happens, particularly, when I think about my grandmothers’ houses, places that still exist, but which are empty of the people, the atmosphere and any other context that gave them meaning for me.
Last night my cookbook club got together. We meet once a month, taking turns hosting at our homes. Our host chooses a theme and each member finds a recipe from a cookbook, usually a recipe they haven't yet tried. We show up for the gathering with a dish to share, a copy of the recipe for each member and the cookbook it came from. Thus, the name Cookbook Club.
Of course I’m as broke as the next girl, but as I was waiting for my car to get serviced, I decided to treat myself for having to suffer two hours in Santa Monica. I called a friend and she suggested Huckleberry. I had only been there one other time and the breakfast was completely fabulous, so I was excited to try it again. But on this last visit, the service was verging just on the brink of truly awful (like surprised that the people in line "actually want to order something" awful) and the ready-made salads (which are even more expensive than they are at Joan's on Third) looked as if they had been sitting out way too long and that they might not have been that great in the first place.
There are so many things wrong with Meg Whitman’s story that it’s difficult to know where to start. Meg Whitman was paying Nicky Diaz Santillan, her housekeeper, $23.00 an hour for 15 hours a week. Who
pays their housekeeper $23.00 an hour. Answer (and I’ve researched
this): Nobody. But wait, Nicky was, also her nanny. Assuming it was
Monday to Friday, who has a nanny three hours a day?!! Answer: Nobody.
Add into that, in addition to being a housekeeper/nanny, (i.e. domestic
hyphenate), it was, also, part of Nicky’s job to sort the mail which
clearly implies, she showed up, at least, five days a week.
Dandelions do not lie. Hold one of those wild flowers under my chin and you will see. A sunshiny reflection of that yellow dandelion will show up on the skin just under my chin. As a child, my friends and I would play that game as we braided dandelions to make necklaces and bracelets. Always, the test results would show I loved butter. And, always, a couple of my jewelry-making friends would fail the test. No yellow reflection would show up under their chin. They did not love butter.