Juicy Fruit of the Vine

I’m reckless. I eat fruit without washing it. I ate spinach right through the FDA recall. I will not stop eating tomatoes, either. I can't. I crave them like candy. Luckily, it’s the cherry and grape tomatoes I’m most nuts about – they usually taste much better than those mealy hot-house or flavorless roma varieties that are currently implicated in the salmonella outbreak.

I spent three summers in Utah trying to grow my own so I could save on my grocery bill. I spend $5 a week - $20 a month - $240 a year – on tomatoes. It would be so much better if I just grew my own, right? And safer too, what with salmonella and all. But the vines never took off under my black thumb and the desert sun. Maybe it’s time to try again in a new climate. Either way, this tomato scare needs to end quickly because I will not eat out again until it does. There's not a salad or entree worth eating when it's missing tomatoes.

To a Dear Friend on Her Birthday

Today is the birthday of a good friend. I didn't know it was her birthday until she mentioned it casually in an email. I'm not a good friend. And if you're another of my friends reading this post, chances are very good I will forget your birthday too. Perhaps I already have. I'm not proud of this.

But this friend who celebrates today, she is quite remarkable. She's an artist and a thinker and a really tender heart.

We met through work and remained friends after both of us moved on to new jobs and (for me) new cities. That’s the best kind of friendship. The kind where you can pick up where you left off, no matter how long it’s been since you last spoke or were in the same room. I miss the movies we would regularly see together, sharing a bag of candy. She taught me how to mix Swedish fish, gummi bears and sour patch kids into the best party-in-your-mouth-stuck-in-your-teeth treat you'll ever taste. When I miss her, I mix up a batch. I wish I had been thoughtful enough to put some in the mail for her today. I trust her birthday will be fine without me there to forget about it in person.

Next year. I promise. Happy birthday.

Starting Them Early

Since I believe it's never too early to start a child on the path to addiction, I introduced the 8-year-old church girls to Nutella last night. Also brie cheese and baguettes. I did not, however, feed them beef tongue in aspic (aka a slice of chewy pink meat suspended in cold, slimy gelatin). Just didn't feel like cleaning up after the girls puked. Besides it's near-impossible to find beef tongue in aspic here in America. Never did understand how the French could have something so clearly disgusting in their repertoire.

A Hand for Haston!

They say you can tell a lot about a person from the shape of his head. If so, I predict my nephew Haston's very large head will mean a smart and happy life.

A year ago this week my sister spent so much time walking around in the desert heat trying to coax Haston out of the womb, she landed herself in the hospital being hydrated by IV. Far as I can tell, that was Haston's most difficult episode. And he's been a happy-go-lucky charmer every since. (This from the aunt in North Carolina who never once had to wake up for a 3 a.m. feeding.)

When I last saw Haston, he was only six months old. I gave him a laminated picture of the two of us, hoping he might remember me next we met. Two weeks from now we'll see if my plan worked! My sister says he's taken to chewing on the photo, so perhaps if he doesn't recognize me I'll offer a finger for him to gnaw on and see if it jogs his memory. Hooray for Haston!

Read My Lips

I’m not one for old wives’ tales . . . I don’t believe you can “catch your death” just by exposing your neck in the winter. I believe you catch a cold from shaking the hand of one too many sick people. I believe airborne germs spread the flu. But I can’t come up with a logical, scientific reason for this cold that has settled into my chest and taken away my voice.

I haven’t been anywhere near a sick person. Who gets a cold in June anyway? The only thing I can think to blame it on is the rapid onset of serious humid heat, coupled with an overactive air conditioner at the office and the constant whir of fans at home. Is it possible that jumping between a cold office and a sweltering parking lot and a humid but-not-too-hot house can give a person a head cold? Sounds an awful lot like a wives’ tale to me.

Maybe there were dormant germs from the last cold I had – or shudder – germs from a previous tenant in my apartment lurking in the A/C vents and they jumped into my head while I slept . . . ?

However I caught this thing, it’s my second cold in five months and I never get sick so I’m terribly irritated. And to top it off, every time I get one of these things, it ends up in my chest, taking my voice with it - not helpful when you talk for a living. Grrrr.

Sunday in the Park

Here's the view from my spot on the blanket at tonight's summer symphony pops concert in the park. It was delightful - even with the 94 degree weather and humidity.

The french horn player from the symphony is also an amazing tenor and he finished the night with Nessun Dorma in honor of the great Pavarotti.

My friend Becky from church came along for the night.

The Provo Symphony used to play in the park on Sunday nights, too. They mostly did marches and the conductor would come down from the stand during the Sousa March to lead all the kids (there were oodles, since it was Provo in the 80s) in a marching conga line around the park. I have a hard time sitting through a symphony performance in a concert hall. But bring the music outside, and I'm entranced.

Can't wait for next Sunday!

Don't Mind Me

I woke up in a different pair of pajamas from the one I put on before bed.

I remember getting up once for a drink and thinking it was hot in the house. I remember getting up another time to use the bathroom. I do not remember going to the dryer, digging around for a different pair of pajamas, changing clothes, throwing the old pjs in the dryer and returning to bed.

But there's no doubt I did it. And I've been out-of-sorts all day because of it.

I like to be in control all of the time. When I'm not, it makes me anxious. So, I suppose it's poetically just that I'm a regular sleeptalker and frequent sleepwalker. Usually I wake up mid-escapade and head back to bed. Until today, I actually thought I always woke up when I sleepwalked. Now I wonder what else I'm up to at night. It seems to be worse when I'm sleeping fitfully - as has been the case all week, due to the heat and various mental stress.

Luckily, I've never found the door gaping open, the car on or dirt in my bed to suggest that I've been traipsing around outside - or worse.

The idea that for 8 hours of every day I might be doing things over which I have absolutely no control - and often no memory - is terribly unsettling.

And that's exactly why I've never once been tempted to get drunk and do crazy stuff I won't remember the next day. If I want to be out of my mind, I just have to close my eyes.