The Art of Eating
(with apologies to M.F.K. Fisher)
We were enjoying our staff holiday lunch at a South End restaurant when we realized that this was the first time since we’ve known each other that we have shared a meal. We’ve never had the time or the opportunity. I usually gulp my sandwich while prepping class, Constance runs from our school to another in Cambridge, Annie teaches an additional, late class and Lalitta is always finishing some task or other.
The idea of a holiday lunch came to me in a blinding blaze of light when I was about to keel over in yet another store while trying to find a gift for everyone. I knew that soon I would begin screaming and not be able to stop. I also knew that my teachers needed yet another tchachkeh like a hole in the head. I decided to treat us all to a leisurely lunch instead.
And so that’s what brought us to this lovely white tablecloth-covered table pretending to be in a Paris Bistro. We’re a congenial group. We like and respect each other and work like crazy for our students. But that afternoon we became something slightly different—we became comrades. That’s what sharing a meal does to people—it brings them together, creates an intimacy that might never have occurred if not for the bread that was broken between them. If you eat with someone you trust them. You let down your guard and let them see you in a different light.
We enjoyed the fact that for one day we could pretend to be in Europe and eat our main meal in the afternoon and not cook that night. But Constance, who for years had lived in France, told us that even Europe was changing. People are becoming Americanized. They are having a rushed sandwich at work and eating their main meal at home at night.
Our lazy conversation started drifting onto our students but I insisted that we concentrate on ourselves for one afternoon. That’s when I found out that Annie was born in San Francisco but grew up in New Orleans. That Constance actually had yet another part time job as an editor and loved crème brulee. But it was from Lalitta, who I thought I knew best, that the funniest bit of personal information surfaced—she’s been a middle-of-the-night snacker all her life.
She couldn’t finish her hamburger so she was taking it home. We told her that she wouldn’t have to cook that night since there was plenty left for dinner but she said, no she would probably have the burger as an afternoon snack and then prepare a meal to leave by her bedside to eat at about 3:00 in the morning. We all stared at her.
“Say that again?!” I demanded amazed.
“Are you sleep-eating, or do you know what you’re doing?” added Constance.
It turns out that she’s always awake and knows exactly what she’s eating. She’s been doing this since she was a little girl. She eats constantly throughout the day and night because she never feels like she’s eaten enough. (How she keeps her gorgeous figure is beyond me!)
Both Constance and I immediately remembered the years when we nursed our daughters. Constance’s daughter had problems breast feeding and so Constance believes that to this day her 27 year old daughter eats continuously because she feels like she’s always hungry.
For over a year I couldn’t figure out why Lisa was getting up at 3:00 in the morning to nurse. How could she be hungry when she was eating all day long? When I complained to my doctor she told me to try an experiment.
“Set your alarm clock for 2:00 in the morning, get up and have a snack. Do that for a week. After a few days you won’t need the alarm, your body will automatically get you up, hungry for that snack. You’ve gotten your daughter used to eating day and night.”
Twenty-seven years later Lisa is still snacking all day long, in fact it’s a family joke. We’ll all be sitting at the dinner table, stuffed. Lisa will tell us that she is so full that she won’t eat another bite for the rest of the day. We all laugh hysterically and begin to bet exactly how long it will be before she snacks. Sure enough, on cue, fifteen minutes later Lisa will be opening the refrigerator door.
I think about Lalitta’s midnight snacking and I know that if I did that my body would rebel. Steve and I both now have geezer eating habits. Any day now I expect us to be eating at 4:00 in the afternoon. If we go out with friends and eat at the fashionable hour of 8:00 pm, we come home afterwards and lie on the bed like two beached whales. “Never again,” we both moan knowing full well we’ll repeat the same process next week.
Because nauseous as we are, beached whales that we have become, we wouldn’t give up dinners with our friends for anything. Movies, bowling, dancing are all fun but it’s the eating together, sharing drinks, good food, and laughs about our week and our lives that binds us. Eating is never merely eating—but loving and caring and shared lives. A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and good friends—it’s all you really need.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Farewell Holly
Farewell Holly
I’ve been reading about Marisol, a dog who’s been lost in the Middlesex Fells Reservation in Medford since the beginning of November. The poor thing had been happily playing with her buddy, Toby when…..
a pit bull charged out of the woods and lunged for Marisol. Toby, a normally timid golden retriever mix, stepped in for his little friend and took a beating, holding the pit bull off until its owner finally appeared. During the melee Marisol fled into the woods. That was November 2. Toby is slowly recovering. Marisol — a 3-year-old, 20-pound copper-colored mutt — is still out there and the search for her has become one of the most elaborate and high-tech ever mounted for a missing dog. (Boston Globe 12/5/10)
Marisol is a “Sato”, a Puerto Rican street dog. Andrew and Anindita Sempere adopted her when they were volunteering at a dog shelter there three years ago. As a Sato Marisol possesses natural dog instincts for survival plus street smarts that she learned when she was a stray for the first seven months of her life.
So though Marisol has lived the soft life as a beloved American pet for the past three years she is no stranger to living rough. And that is part of the reason that the Semperes are having such a difficult time finding her. After the attack Marisol had become a street dog again, avoiding people and living on the run. The Semperes had to call on pet detective, Karin Tarquin to try and bring her home.
Tarquin told them that, after a day, maybe less, Marisol had stopped thinking like a pet. And as hard as it was for the Semperes to believe Marisol was not looking for them to rescue her. They’ve come to understand that they cannot go to her. They need to get her to come to them. And to do that they will have to hunt her like a feral animal. Marisol’s primary instinct had become her own security and that meant avoiding people, even her owners.
It’s hard for anyone who doesn’t have a pet to understand how much you can love a furry creature. How they crawl into your heart and make a home there no matter how you try to fend them off. Once you’re theirs they don’t let go. They become your routine, your day, your evening, your bane and your solace. And when something happens to them, especially something you can’t control, you’re lost.
Even in a sea of dog lovers the Semperes are unusual. Not only have they expended the usual efforts, but once they discovered that they had to use different methods to find their dog they embraced those as well. They are using motion activated cameras in places where they think Marisol visited. They have tried to map her route so they can set up stations with food and water to lure her to a place where they can capture her. They have used all their social networking abilities to spread the word. But despite all the technology, all the GPS tracking devices, cameras, and internet blogs, Marisol remains stubbornly lost.
Andrew is a rational thinker, a scientist. But this is emotional and he’s having a hard time accepting that there is no technology that he can use, no program he can write to bring Marisol home.
We all fall into helpless emotion when our pets are hurting especially when we’ve run out of technology and its options. That is where our neighborhood found itself when Cheryl and Roberta’s dog, Holly died last week.
Snoopy met Holly before we did. He’s fickle when it comes to most dogs but he’s always adored his neighbor, Holly. She was a sweet, gentle, Australian collie who loved everyone, but especially her buddy Snoopy. When I went back to work full time and Cheryl started taking Snoopy for walks, she jokingly referred to them as husband and wife.
Last winter Cheryl bought them matching coats—Holly’s was pink and Snoopy’s, gray. The neighborhood got a kick out of them as they walked together, defended each other against other dogs, acting like an old married couple. Snoopy would spend hours at Cheryl’s, just “chillin” as Cheryl would say. They were a love match.
Last year, despite vaccinations, Holly caught Lyme disease. She recovered but then a few week’s ago she suddenly started limping and then refused to eat. She was sick again. Cheryl was at her wit’s end. For a while Holly would eat only when Snoopy was around but then even Snoopy’s presence couldn’t get her to eat.
One evening as I drove into the driveway I saw Cheryl walking Snoopy home alone. “Where’s Holly?” I asked her. She tearfully told me that Holly was in the hospital and wasn’t expected to last the night. The next few days we had a reprieve when Holly rallied and came home, but then a few days later she was gone. I couldn’t believe that I was sobbing hysterically. After all she was only a dog and not even my dog. But it didn’t matter. She was a little bit of life that was part of mine—a presence that made me smile—a puppy who brought love to her family and ours—a part of God’s creation. And for all that she was to all of us here in our neighborhood, she will be truly missed.
I’ve been reading about Marisol, a dog who’s been lost in the Middlesex Fells Reservation in Medford since the beginning of November. The poor thing had been happily playing with her buddy, Toby when…..
a pit bull charged out of the woods and lunged for Marisol. Toby, a normally timid golden retriever mix, stepped in for his little friend and took a beating, holding the pit bull off until its owner finally appeared. During the melee Marisol fled into the woods. That was November 2. Toby is slowly recovering. Marisol — a 3-year-old, 20-pound copper-colored mutt — is still out there and the search for her has become one of the most elaborate and high-tech ever mounted for a missing dog. (Boston Globe 12/5/10)
Marisol is a “Sato”, a Puerto Rican street dog. Andrew and Anindita Sempere adopted her when they were volunteering at a dog shelter there three years ago. As a Sato Marisol possesses natural dog instincts for survival plus street smarts that she learned when she was a stray for the first seven months of her life.
So though Marisol has lived the soft life as a beloved American pet for the past three years she is no stranger to living rough. And that is part of the reason that the Semperes are having such a difficult time finding her. After the attack Marisol had become a street dog again, avoiding people and living on the run. The Semperes had to call on pet detective, Karin Tarquin to try and bring her home.
Tarquin told them that, after a day, maybe less, Marisol had stopped thinking like a pet. And as hard as it was for the Semperes to believe Marisol was not looking for them to rescue her. They’ve come to understand that they cannot go to her. They need to get her to come to them. And to do that they will have to hunt her like a feral animal. Marisol’s primary instinct had become her own security and that meant avoiding people, even her owners.
It’s hard for anyone who doesn’t have a pet to understand how much you can love a furry creature. How they crawl into your heart and make a home there no matter how you try to fend them off. Once you’re theirs they don’t let go. They become your routine, your day, your evening, your bane and your solace. And when something happens to them, especially something you can’t control, you’re lost.
Even in a sea of dog lovers the Semperes are unusual. Not only have they expended the usual efforts, but once they discovered that they had to use different methods to find their dog they embraced those as well. They are using motion activated cameras in places where they think Marisol visited. They have tried to map her route so they can set up stations with food and water to lure her to a place where they can capture her. They have used all their social networking abilities to spread the word. But despite all the technology, all the GPS tracking devices, cameras, and internet blogs, Marisol remains stubbornly lost.
Andrew is a rational thinker, a scientist. But this is emotional and he’s having a hard time accepting that there is no technology that he can use, no program he can write to bring Marisol home.
We all fall into helpless emotion when our pets are hurting especially when we’ve run out of technology and its options. That is where our neighborhood found itself when Cheryl and Roberta’s dog, Holly died last week.
Snoopy met Holly before we did. He’s fickle when it comes to most dogs but he’s always adored his neighbor, Holly. She was a sweet, gentle, Australian collie who loved everyone, but especially her buddy Snoopy. When I went back to work full time and Cheryl started taking Snoopy for walks, she jokingly referred to them as husband and wife.
Last winter Cheryl bought them matching coats—Holly’s was pink and Snoopy’s, gray. The neighborhood got a kick out of them as they walked together, defended each other against other dogs, acting like an old married couple. Snoopy would spend hours at Cheryl’s, just “chillin” as Cheryl would say. They were a love match.
Last year, despite vaccinations, Holly caught Lyme disease. She recovered but then a few week’s ago she suddenly started limping and then refused to eat. She was sick again. Cheryl was at her wit’s end. For a while Holly would eat only when Snoopy was around but then even Snoopy’s presence couldn’t get her to eat.
One evening as I drove into the driveway I saw Cheryl walking Snoopy home alone. “Where’s Holly?” I asked her. She tearfully told me that Holly was in the hospital and wasn’t expected to last the night. The next few days we had a reprieve when Holly rallied and came home, but then a few days later she was gone. I couldn’t believe that I was sobbing hysterically. After all she was only a dog and not even my dog. But it didn’t matter. She was a little bit of life that was part of mine—a presence that made me smile—a puppy who brought love to her family and ours—a part of God’s creation. And for all that she was to all of us here in our neighborhood, she will be truly missed.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Late Again
Late Again
Being late while stuck in Monday morning traffic is aggravation to the hundredth power. And it’s especially rotten when you can’t blame anyone else because it’s your own fault since you’re suffering from an attack of driver-hubris. That’s when you’re so sure you’ll arrive on time because it’s not rush hour and the moon is in the seventh house. That was me that morning, oh so cocky because after all the conference didn’t start until 10:00.
That morning I convinced myself that I had plenty of time and didn’t have to rush. It’s such a familiar scenario. You plan to leave at 9:00, then you get involved in a newspaper article, or your stocking rips, or you look in the mirror and you can’t imagine why you ever thought that sweater would match those pants, and before you know it you’re late before you’re even out the door.
But I was still optimistic since that morning I’d be traveling on back roads, not traffic clogged highways. And that’s how it begins—you’re certain you’ll make it and then about halfway into the trip you realize that you were only fooling yourself. Back roads notwithstanding, there is traffic, in fact there are so many I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world meandering drivers that you’re ready to shoot someone’s tires off. And because you’re on back roads there are no passing lanes, but there are plenty of traffic lights, 20 mile speed limits and even a cats that saunter across the road.
So your situation goes from, “No problem I’m going to be on time” to “Problem, I am going to be late” to “Just how late am I going to be, ten-minutes-not-too- terribly late or twenty-minutes-you’re-so-pathetic-can’t-you-get-your-life-together late?!” That’s where I was that Monday morning wondering how I was going to sneak in quietly. I tried to dredge up a plausible excuse, after all I’d heard some doozies in my life as a school director, but all I could come up with were some not-to-be-used-unless-desperate gems. Such as:
Student: “I can’t get up on time.”
Me: “Have you tried an alarm clock?”
Student: “A what?”
Me: “A clock that rings or sings at whatever time you set it so that you can get up on time in the morning.”
Student: “Oh you mean like the thing on my phone?”
Me: “Yes, yes,” I answer really excited that he has caught on, actually knows what I’m talking about, and has the technology to wake himself up.
Student: “Oh yeah, well I can’t use it because I have to turn off my phone to recharge it at night, man.”
At that point I usually put my head down on my desk and sigh. I’ve heard about
traffic, late buses, sick kids, rain, snow, sun, ice, cold, heat, probation officers, social workers, and doctor visits--reputable excuses all but tiring after a while. I was longing for some originality and yesterday I got it in spades. When Tameka walked in 45 minutes late I looked at her quizzically expecting the usual excuses but she managed to surprise me,
“I’m so sorry I’m late but I was up all night because my dog was in labor and had 12 puppies.”
The entire class applauded. “But it’s true!” she sputtered! It’s not that we didn’t believe her, especially after the graphic description that she gave us afterwards. We were simply acknowledging her originality. It’s not often that you get such art.
Sometimes the “Why are you late?” conversations turn into teachable moments. One student kept showing up an hour late everyday despite all the warnings we gave her. Finally I spoke with her to try and remedy the situation. I started slowly:
“Kayla, what time is class in the morning?”
She looked at me as if it was a trick question.
“Uh, nine o’clock?”
“Correct! How long does it take you to get to school?” I asked next.
“About forty-five minutes.”
“Okay we’re doing great here. So what time do you leave the house every morning?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Okay, I can see the problem now. Do you travel to school each morning by teleporter? Are you beamed down from a space ship?”
She looked at me as if I had grown another head but I persevered.
“Well if you’re traveling the usual way, like by bus, doesn’t it take you some time to actually travel on the bus to get here? Let’s look at this as if it were a math problem.” And God bless her she set the problem up perfectly, subtracting 45 minutes from 9:00, which brought her to 8:15.
“So what you’re saying is that I should leave my house at 8:15 to get here on time?” she asked.
I concurred and then suggested that she actually leave at 8:00 thereby giving her a cushion in case the bus was late. She’s been fine ever since.
So as I sat there, stuck behind an SUV filled with kids and puppies, I wondered if I could use the, my-dog-was-in-labor excuse. But then that I realized that I might make it on time. And eureka, the traffic gods were indeed smiling on me that day, and there was even a parking spot right at the front door so I was two minutes early. It was a relief professionally, but part of me was sorry that I didn’t get to try out the dog in labor excuse. The applause would have been great.
Being late while stuck in Monday morning traffic is aggravation to the hundredth power. And it’s especially rotten when you can’t blame anyone else because it’s your own fault since you’re suffering from an attack of driver-hubris. That’s when you’re so sure you’ll arrive on time because it’s not rush hour and the moon is in the seventh house. That was me that morning, oh so cocky because after all the conference didn’t start until 10:00.
That morning I convinced myself that I had plenty of time and didn’t have to rush. It’s such a familiar scenario. You plan to leave at 9:00, then you get involved in a newspaper article, or your stocking rips, or you look in the mirror and you can’t imagine why you ever thought that sweater would match those pants, and before you know it you’re late before you’re even out the door.
But I was still optimistic since that morning I’d be traveling on back roads, not traffic clogged highways. And that’s how it begins—you’re certain you’ll make it and then about halfway into the trip you realize that you were only fooling yourself. Back roads notwithstanding, there is traffic, in fact there are so many I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world meandering drivers that you’re ready to shoot someone’s tires off. And because you’re on back roads there are no passing lanes, but there are plenty of traffic lights, 20 mile speed limits and even a cats that saunter across the road.
So your situation goes from, “No problem I’m going to be on time” to “Problem, I am going to be late” to “Just how late am I going to be, ten-minutes-not-too- terribly late or twenty-minutes-you’re-so-pathetic-can’t-you-get-your-life-together late?!” That’s where I was that Monday morning wondering how I was going to sneak in quietly. I tried to dredge up a plausible excuse, after all I’d heard some doozies in my life as a school director, but all I could come up with were some not-to-be-used-unless-desperate gems. Such as:
Student: “I can’t get up on time.”
Me: “Have you tried an alarm clock?”
Student: “A what?”
Me: “A clock that rings or sings at whatever time you set it so that you can get up on time in the morning.”
Student: “Oh you mean like the thing on my phone?”
Me: “Yes, yes,” I answer really excited that he has caught on, actually knows what I’m talking about, and has the technology to wake himself up.
Student: “Oh yeah, well I can’t use it because I have to turn off my phone to recharge it at night, man.”
At that point I usually put my head down on my desk and sigh. I’ve heard about
traffic, late buses, sick kids, rain, snow, sun, ice, cold, heat, probation officers, social workers, and doctor visits--reputable excuses all but tiring after a while. I was longing for some originality and yesterday I got it in spades. When Tameka walked in 45 minutes late I looked at her quizzically expecting the usual excuses but she managed to surprise me,
“I’m so sorry I’m late but I was up all night because my dog was in labor and had 12 puppies.”
The entire class applauded. “But it’s true!” she sputtered! It’s not that we didn’t believe her, especially after the graphic description that she gave us afterwards. We were simply acknowledging her originality. It’s not often that you get such art.
Sometimes the “Why are you late?” conversations turn into teachable moments. One student kept showing up an hour late everyday despite all the warnings we gave her. Finally I spoke with her to try and remedy the situation. I started slowly:
“Kayla, what time is class in the morning?”
She looked at me as if it was a trick question.
“Uh, nine o’clock?”
“Correct! How long does it take you to get to school?” I asked next.
“About forty-five minutes.”
“Okay we’re doing great here. So what time do you leave the house every morning?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Okay, I can see the problem now. Do you travel to school each morning by teleporter? Are you beamed down from a space ship?”
She looked at me as if I had grown another head but I persevered.
“Well if you’re traveling the usual way, like by bus, doesn’t it take you some time to actually travel on the bus to get here? Let’s look at this as if it were a math problem.” And God bless her she set the problem up perfectly, subtracting 45 minutes from 9:00, which brought her to 8:15.
“So what you’re saying is that I should leave my house at 8:15 to get here on time?” she asked.
I concurred and then suggested that she actually leave at 8:00 thereby giving her a cushion in case the bus was late. She’s been fine ever since.
So as I sat there, stuck behind an SUV filled with kids and puppies, I wondered if I could use the, my-dog-was-in-labor excuse. But then that I realized that I might make it on time. And eureka, the traffic gods were indeed smiling on me that day, and there was even a parking spot right at the front door so I was two minutes early. It was a relief professionally, but part of me was sorry that I didn’t get to try out the dog in labor excuse. The applause would have been great.
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