It’s appalling. I admit it. I’ve become a ditsy old woman.
On the Jet Blue flight back from Los Angeles to Newark, I grumbled to the cashier about paying $3.60 for twenty ounces of Dasani water. I sat near gate 50 and waited to be called to board.
When I checked my boarding pass, I was surprised that I was in Group A. Maybe I paid extra for this seat, but I didn’t remember doing so.
Group A was called right after the first-class passengers. I had checked my suitcase, so all I had was a bag of expensive food and water, and my backpack. After finding my seat, 12 D, I unhooked the neck pillow from my pack and hung it around my neck. I had just settled the rest of my belongings when a young woman stopped beside me and said, “Um, sorry, I think you’re in my seat.”
“Oh, let me check,” I flapped around until I found my boarding pass that I’d stowed in the kangaroo pocket of my sweatshirt. It said 8 D, not 12 D. Maybe 12 D was my seat number on the way to L.A.?
“Sorry, sorry,” I intoned, retrieving my stuff.
My new seat was four rows to the front. I bumped and jostled all the passengers who were going in the right direction. “Excuse me, sorry, sorry, excuse me.”
The aisle seat 8 D was next to a youngish woman. I repeated the motions of depositing all my stuff and looked around for the neck pillow. Oh, no! I must have left it at 12 D. I stood up and searched the rows for my former spot. A flight attendant was there, assisting someone. I waved my arms to get her attention. Waved and waved. Jumped up and down for emphasis. Finally, I caught her eye. She held up a finger. I should wait.
I did, sitting down once again. There was the pillow, wrapped above my shoulders. Minutes later, the flight attendant, a slim African American woman, leaned over. “May I help you?”
“Uh, no thanks. I found it,” I muttered.
As we taxied for take-off, the same flight attendant was checking the storage compartments a few rows ahead. I stared wide-eyed at her shoes. Black patent leather with five-inch heels.
I nudged the woman next to me. “Look at those heels!” I said. “I’d break my legs if I wore those!” She stretched a smile and pointed to her ear buds.
By this time, I really had to pee. I’d been afraid to wander off to the toilet before boarding, so now I needed to go.
The plane finally took off. I unclipped my seatbelt and moved toward the toilet, a few rows ahead.
The same flight attendant stopped me. “Please go back to your seat,” she said. “We’re still climbing.” Did I hear impatience in her tone, or just weariness?
Meekly returning to my seat, I was a model passenger for the duration of the flight. I think.
Everybody has them—those special foods, meals, flavors that were so significant in childhood that they evoke emotions all the rest of our lives.
One of my strongest flavor memories is connected to my father. He did not buy ice cream for himself. For some reason, he preferred a cardboard brick of vanilla-flavored ice milk. This product was not smooth or creamy enough to interest my five-to-ten-year-old self. But–when he dropped a spoonful of ice milk into his coffee—I was right there to drink it along with him. This sharing of sweet, milky coffee surely accounts for my love of coffee ice cream. It is my go-to flavor. When, in an experimental mood, I diverge from it, I’m almost always wish I hadn’t.
On my birthday, dinner was my choice. In the early years, I chose roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green peas. It was important to mix the peas into the mashed potatoes. When I was older, I requested a meal at the Imperial Gardens, a Japanese restaurant on Sunset Boulevard (in Los Angeles). The appeal was more the aesthetics of Japanese décor and presentation even more than the food itself. I loved sitting on the floor in the tatami rooms. I loved the lacquered bowls of clear broth with tiny cubes of tofu and seaweed floating in them. By the time the entrees arrived, I would have filled up on jasmine tea and soup. My father bristled with annoyance at the waste, and then proceeded to eat my meal, too. I still love Japanese food. The bowls of miso or broth never fail to recall the tatami mats and the atmosphere of Imperial Gardens.
Another special treat for me was lunch with my mother at the Brown Derby restaurant. This was a famous fixture of Hollywood in Los Angeles, where celebrities used to dine. The inside of the Brown Derby was hushed and dark. Tables were laid with heavy silverware and white cloth napkins. My two favorite meals there were a Monte Cristo sandwich or the vegetable plate (yes, I was the odd kid who loved vegetables).
A Monte Cristo sandwich is filled with a combination of sliced turkey, chicken, or ham, and cheese plus mustard or mayonnaise. Once assembled, the sandwich is dipped in an egg batter, browned on both sides, and finally topped with powdered sugar.
The vegetable plate was a stainless silver platter with different sections. Each section held a cooked vegetable: carrots, peas, string beans, corn, spinach. All were probably drenched in butter. Each portion was kid-sized.
My mother never bought Wonder Bread, which was probably a good thing. But my aunt did buy the nutrition-less bread, and I loved it. I’d peel off the soft crust and eat that part first. Then I’d smash the rest into a ball and suck on the doughy glob until it was gone.
What food memories from your childhood do you recall? Send me a comment.
A woman fell in love with a man who had been dead a number of years. Several hundred years, in fact. She saw his face through the glass. Even though his nose and cheekbones protruded like the features of an Egyptian mummy, even though he was shorter than she—his head having been replaced after he was killed and then canonized–, even though the clothes he wore were frayed and impossibly outdated. Despite all that, she fell in love with his beatific expression.
She came to the church every day of her husband’s conference. While he sat with other business people in the leather and smoke of the room at the hotel, she sat with her love. She sat as close as she could, in the first pew, unless there was a mass. She sat and told her rosary through her fingers and gazed at his sweet face.
His glass case was edged in gold. He wore a gold miter on his head. Even his fingers were encased in little gold caps. She stared at his face so long, with such yearning, that he seemed to breathe. She saw his eyelids ripple as if he were dreaming and would wake up at any moment. When he did awaken, she was sure he would be smiling, smiling at her, of course. And he would push open the lid, gather up his robes, and step out onto the stone floor.
He would hold out his hand to her, a hand miraculously restored to firm, warm flesh (minus the gold finger caps) and he would say her name, “Kathleen,” and then…
This was where it ended. Then what? He was a saint, a performer of miracles, a martyr, and she was the plump wife of the owner of a chain of dollar stores.
Could she throw herself at his booted feet? Could she plead, “Take me with you, wherever you go? Please, please, just let me be with you!”
One day when the church was empty of people, she knelt at the side of his glass case. She leaned her head against the cool glass, clutching her rosary of onyx beads in her hand.
That is where the priest found her. Her husband accompanied the body back to Atlanta. Several weeks passed before the priest noticed that there was a rosary of onyx beads wrapped around the saint’s wrist.
Years ago, my dear friend had a Bengal cat who stayed with us for a short while. He was a beautiful animal with a big personality. A couple of months ago, a friend mentioned she had a new litter of Bengal kittens. She showed them on Zoom. My friend had to have one.
When they were old enough, we went to visit the kittens. Two were gray with black markings. My friend chose a brown female. I was enraptured by the little gray male.
And so Zephyr came to live with us when he was twelve weeks old.
My breeder friend mentioned that the Bengal breed was only 60 years old. When I researched Bengals, I learned that they originated with one woman, Jean Mill, who had acquired a female Asian leopard cat in 1965.
At the time, it was not illegal to own such exotic pets. Mill decided that her leopard cat was lonely, so she got a domestic tom cat to keep the leopard cat company. And the rest is Bengal cat history.
Meanwhile, we are enjoying Zephyr. He’s smart and affectionate. He climbs everything he can. He likes to play with the faucet drips in the tub. And just looking at his beautiful coat gives me tremendous pleasure.
I’m 2/3 through the third book of the series, Long Black Curl. Bo-Kate, the evil challenger to the Tufa leadership, tells her companion that they are members of the Tuatha de Danaan. I’m excited to continue reading and see where Bledsoe takes the story.
P.S. Long Black Curl is not as mysterious and exciting as The Hum and the Shiver. And it’s a lot more violent.