Why No One in Seattle Ever Actually Gets Together

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

HI Jenny! What fun to run into you at Whole Foods!  We should get together.

Text from Jenny to Sarah

Hi Sarah!  Yes, so great to see you.  I’d love to get together. I miss you!

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

I miss you too.  It’s been way too long.  How about  Saturday, June 24^th?  Come over for dinner?

Text from Jenny to Sarah

Thanks for the invite!  Cannot do Saturday, June 24^th, we have tickets to a show that night.  Maybe sometime in July?

Text from Sarah to Jenny:          

Ok- July, it is.  When is good for you?  Wednesday the 13^th or 20^th are wide open for us.

Text from Jenny to Sarah

Wednesdays are Lizzie’s volleyball nites.  Are there any Sundays or Tuesdays that work for you?

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

Sure!  Sunday the 17^th is a good night for me.

Text from Jenny to Sarah

Sorry, I meant Sunday Brunch.

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

Ok, Sunday Brunch on the 17^th should work.

Text from Jenny to Sarah

I just remembered, we are out of town that wknd. 

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

OK, how about Sunday the 24^th instead?

Text from Jenny to Sarah

Actually can we do Saturday?

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

Saturday, I’m on call at work.  Is there a Sunday that might work better?  Maybe the 31^st?

Text from Jenny to Sarah

The 31^st.  Hmmmm….I just hate to plan that far out. I guess the 24^th is ok.  I was just hoping to clean out the basement that day.  It’s such a mess and I can never seem to find the time to get to it.  But I REALLY want to see you, so let’s try to make it work.

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

Maybe I can try to switch my on call shift with a co-worker so we could do Saturday the 23^rd.  How about 11am?

Text from Jenny to Sarah

I have yoga until 11:30am

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

12pm?

Text from Jenny to Sarah

Perfect!  See you then!

Two Weeks Later

Text from Sarah to Jenny:

Just confirming our brunch at 12pm tomorrow.

Text from Jenny to Sarah

Omigosh!  I totally spaced writing that down.  I’m so sorry. Turns out, Alex is doing a half marathon I forgot about.   Can we reschedule? I’m dying to see you!

Why I Love the Heck out of Grocery Shopping - Day #5 of 31 Day Writing Challenge

 (Yes, it took me two months to get to day #5 of the 31 day writing challenge I started in January. But here it is in all its lackluster glory!)

I adore grocery shopping.  One of my ideal Saturday night plans is lingering amidst the lemons, ambling around the apples, perusing the pickles and zoning out by the zucchini. Shopping for food is more like a hobby than a chore.  It’s like a little trip to a food museum, and on a Saturday night, I don’t have to rush.  I don’t have to get back to anything except for…the rest of Saturday night.

Normally on a quick weeknight shop, I have to stay on the route, focused and predictable, purchasing the necessities: kale, lemons, garlic, cilantro, quinoa, carrots, sweet potatoes, apples, oranges, almonds and sunflower seeds, cans of chick peas and black beans, tortillas, and don’t forget the salsa, yells my husband, Keith (or the  coconut milk!).  I have the list down pat in my head. I know what we need for a typical week of meals feeling we’ve got enough balance, bounty and color, fiber, sweet, sour, plain and fancy….but…. Saturday night at the Pacific Central Food Coop, the world is mine. I can spend time reading labels and comparing ingredients, (wow, this brand has guar gum while this one uses carrageenan), discover  new products, (There are 37 different brands of green tea and 19 sorts of  grainy crackers!), sneak a taste of something in the bulk bin, (what exactly is in those gritty little chunks of marbled nuttiness?) look at product in the freezer that I’ve never seen (frozen chicken gizzards?  Eek!)

31 Day Writing Challenge Day #5: My Vitamix: A Non-Human, Non-Gendered Specific Member of My Family.

Food Writing Prompt : Write about a kitchen gadget you or someone you love bought late at night online or via TV or as a whim at the store. Did the gadget work well or disappointingly?

It might be true that life changed when I bought a Vitamix in the year 2000.  It seemed like an enormous investment (and also ridiculous that a contraption made of metal and plastic should cost as much as a room in an apartment in New York City where I lived at the time) , but I was working a short term consulting job where I made $400/day and I figured that the Vitamix  (at $399) was my reward for one day’s work. 

It came in a big cardboard box emblazoned with a photo of itself filled with whole fruits and vegetables, surrounded by happy and healthy customers.  The contraption was covered in  mounds of plastic and peanuts, a clear polycarbonate blender jar and what felt like a 46 pound base with knobs and wheels and an electric cord that wrapped around its innards. 

I plugged it in and essentially threw in the contents of my fridge’s Crisper drawers, just like the commercials indicate and next thing I knew there was a glowing emerald green purple  smoothie concoction in my blender jar which quickly made its way into a glass and then down my gullet. 

31 Day Writing Daily Challenge Blog Post #4 - Zucchini is Gross

Food Writing Prompt: Gross!

 Write about a gross food that you had to hold your breath to try to choke down your throat. Detail the setting and add as many of the five senses as possible in your description

There were nights in my childhood when the oh, so slimy zucchini, upon orders from my mother, had to make its way off my plate and down my throat before I could leave the table. I would stare at it on the plate:  glistening with Mazola, the yellowy-white mush peeking out of faded green skin.  I usually waited until the very last minute of the meal, and then, breath and nose held, shoved it into my mouth, swept up my glass of milk to provide extra accompaniment on the journey to my stomach,  took 3 bites and swallowed.  Clean plate. Permission to exit from the dining room granted.

People claim it doesn’t have much taste. Oh,I  beg to differ!  (Why beg?  I don’t need to do that, I can simply differ.) It has a pungent tastelessness that is easily recognizable to my palate.  And its texture, when cooked to an extreme is like the stuff that you swallow after sniffing the contents of your sinuses back to your throat.  Truly awful.  I adore vegetables, but I cannot stand to eat cooked zucchini.  I may tolerate it in a flavorful soup when joined by enough veggie friends that it gets lost in the crowd, but I’ll be honest:  I cringe when I see it.  

When a waiter proudly presents the seasonal side order of vegetables: a "zucchini medley".  God help me.   Who on earth wants a zucchini medley?  Why would I want a medley of zucchini? I don’t even want a slice of zucchini!  It’s a pity since  zucchini’s are healthy, yes,healthy!  And moreover they are the rabbits of the vegetable world.  You can rely on zucchini to multiply a plenty.  No concern that there won’t be enough of a zucchini harvest. People are getting rid of the stuff – leaving it on peoples’ doorsteps and then running away.  (I wonder if some feel like I do, but the need to celebrate the prolific nature of this summer squash.) What? Another one just popped out of the garden?  And it’s the size of foot ball player’s calf?  Yup, that’s zucchini for you. Impressive in size and its growing stamina.

I have walked by farmer market stand which has proudly displayed a small bookshelf -sized zucchini for $1.50 and been tempted to buy it just for the sheer price to portion ratio. You almost MAKE money by eating a large zucchini.  I thought I could handle grilled zucchini thinking the magic of the grill must impart flavor that masks the tepid zucchini-ness but no. Even zucchini on one of those sheek shish ke·babs sticks doesn’t make my disgust wane.  And throw on a yellow squash there, my heart sinks even further.  Oh, the feeble yellow squash.  This is essentially a yellow zucchini.  These two live in the same family of ickiness. I have no issue shit talking them, but they are the only ones  I swear.  I don’t want to hurt the feelings of other loved ones in the vegetable world – they are my friends and I am grateful for them but please, take my zucchini, enjoy my medley, remove that beast of a veggie from my garden so I don’t have to use it as a mallet in croquet.  

31 Day Writing Daily Challenge Blog Post #3: That After-School Snack

Food Writing Prompt : The After-School Snack

 What was your go-to after-school snack back in the day? Was it delicious or did you want something else that was forbidden before dinner? 

The moments, minutes, seconds, really, after coming home from school with the knowledge that a treat awaited,  oozed with anticipation.  I knew there was almost always going to be some Breyer’s strawberry ice cream in the freezer and I could grab the cold cardboard carton, and sit watching Brady Brunch Re-runs while I gingerly spooned the cold gob of glee into my mouth, felt it melt, tasted the silkiness of the cream, and the subtle sour sharpness of the strawberry slices.  Total and utter joy. 

Mint Chocolate Chip also by Breyer’s, was another favorite,- not St. Patty’s Day green like The Baskin Robbins’ version, but pure white giving it a somewhat healthier veneer, with specks of chocolate peeking out of the velvelty mound. The crunch of those chips between the teeth followed by the quick melt on the tongue led to eyebrows and lip corners raised in sugary pleasure.   It was always sad, gathering those last few spoonfuls in the bowl - liquid leftovers, afternoon treat officially over as the Brady Bunch credits rolled.  I knew I could have more, unwrap the carton from its plastic and dive in again, but only at the risk of a tummy ache, and a heavy nausea from sweet creamy overload, not to mention a potential finger wagging from Mom, supper being "spoiled!".

Other snacks that I discovered later in my high school years were Combos – but these were usually purchased at the food truck outside school and were munched on during the bus ride home. “Total junk” my mom might have said.  Did I even like them?  It was more the novelty of  having access to a pile of food bits in a transportable bag.  They were brittle to the bite, with an unidentifiable taste of briny cheese-like goop inside.  The throw pillow shape of the snack itself, appealing visually, was predictable, contained, easy to maneuver and pop right into your mouth.  It really “cheeses your hunger away” was the claim, a sentence that made absolutely no sense.  What does it mean to “cheese hunger away”? 

”Bite sized pieces”  all those snack food pronounced.  But bites seem bigger now.  Bites can now fill an entire oral cavity.  Bites are larger than  a thumb ½ worth of hardened cracker mass with inert cheese substance stuffed inside.  

31 Day Writing Daily Challenge Blog Post #2: Spoons are Super

Food Writing Prompt: A Spoon Quote Prompt

“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons” – T.S. Eliot. Write a spoon memory. It might be at a diner, around your kitchen table, at a friend’s house, or at a cafeteria.

There is a set of spoons that make their way into our dishwasher and which, after selective plucking by my husband show up on my desk in my home office.  Why, you ask, would he be putting spoons on my desk?  An attempt to make the day sweeter with a spoonful of sugar?  Perhaps a gesture to help me recollect a childhood  game of "Spoons"!  where one spoon fewer than people was laid out in the middle of the card table, and upon completion of a  certain combination of Jacks, Kings, Queens (who remembers?)  you would grab one of the spoons until one person was left spoonless?  Nope. Not it.  Could be he is encouraging eating my morning green smoothie with this helpful utensil? Negatory.   It's because I am a spoon thief.  Unintentional of course,(for the most part) but true. It's out of laziness, or forgetfulness, or disregard for the onerous task of putting something back in its proper spot. 

And its spot? The big reveal: The kitchen at my work place.  Yes, it is me!  Spoon Thief of the Office. I'm sorry you ate your African Peanut soup with a fork and knife today because of me. What happens is, I grab said scooper and take it back to my desk or lounge to eat my quinoa salad or chia seed pudding, it gets popped into my food sack, it's rightful home ignored with a promise to "put it back later", since I still have  few bites left of that chia seed pudding! And the utensil drawer becomes more and more bare until people start complaining and send out emails  with subject line: "Where are all the spoons?"  

These are not exceptional spoons (which, ironically, is why my husband spots them easily in the dishwasher). They have been procured from Goodwill, or the basement of someone who worked formerly at a cheap kitchen supply store -  (we are nothing if not scrappy at our office.) They have no weight, no flowery hieroglyphic design, perhaps just a line down their flat middles. Some appear flat like they spent a bit of time under the heavy wheels of a car missing the curvy orb which brings calmness to the mouth. 

There is something soothing about a spoon in general:no prongs on which to potentially JAB oneself when taking an extra vigorous bite.  The spoon slides gently in, allowing the lips to cup it and lip-nibble the morsels off.   Large spoons are more challenging - difficult to wrap one's mouth around, particularly a smallish mouth like my own. I'm not trying to sound dainty, the truth is, I had 4 teeth extracted to make room for them all in my mouth.  - yes four ADULT teeth.  Trauma, really to be pumped full of fall-asleep medicine at 10 years old, and then wake up to a mouth of gauze and blood and the feeling that you've simply disappeared from time, hearing nurses saying kind things about your freckles and barrettes. Then home to eat slippery liquid and soft things, probably with a comforting spoon. No wonder I keep them near me at all times. 

31 Day Writing Daily Challenge Blog Post #1: Hail to Chia

TODAY BEGINS THE 31 Day, 500 words WRITING CHALLENGE!

Hail to Chia, thou mighty seed of grace and goodness.  Crackle thyself in my mouth as I tenderly place you between my teeth, roll you around with my tongue, tasting and feeling you with my mucilaginous flesh.  Thoughts of your salubrious nature churn in my brain as I remind myself the litany of benefits your small little wonder offers. Alone and solo as a seed, you are so puny, so inconsequential, but armed with 100’s of your fellow chia soldiers, you are a battalion of force! A yummy army not to be reckoned with.  I shall not try to stop you as you forge your way down my throat and into my belly (your battlefield of acid) and pass  into my intestinal safe haven where you digest slowly offering potent minerals to help build blood, muscle, skin and nails.  You offer up your fiber, your fat and your protein and I gladly accept.  I yield to your power and exalt your economical bang for the buck. 

Your namesake conjures up mocked commercials from the the decade of the 70's, but you and I both know, you are more complex than a jingle.  Your artistry  extends beyond simply growing out the head of ceramic tiger,  sprouts a waste as animal hair instead of nurturing the inside railway tract of the abdominal world. 

Yet,you remain unfamiliar to most despite your power and glory understood and acclaimed by those in the nutritional know.  We send tantalizing recipes of  plumped "chia seed pudding" replete with vanilla, cardamom and honey to tempt others to cross over to this seedy world, join the ranks of those who appreciate the power that you can yield. 

There is more to you than than your unimpressive grain-of -sand appearance and I can just feel you bubbling around in my mouth as you begin your descent to my belly. 

I Remember...

I remember Sesame Street and learning numbers and words and feeling like furry monsters were friendly and loving and being messy was OK.  I remember wanting a large plastic pony on which I could sit and pretend, and screamed when it appeared on Christmas morning, hidden under a Batik blanket.  I remember squeezing in between my sleepy parents and their tray of coffee and steamed milk on Saturday mornings and re-telling dreams I had had the night prior to which they patiently listened.  I remember my dad as my “fairy godmother” who drifted into my room  once a week , his head and body draped in a  white silky comforter, his feminized high pitched voice asking me what I wanted.  I remember chicken and soy sauced-peppers and onions over rice as my favorite meal, gobbling it down so I could have seconds. I remember dancing into the kitchen begging my mom to feed me spaghetti noodles from her hands like a bird feeding worms to its babies.   I remember putting paper outfits on paper dolls, watching them transform from girl with bloomers and camisole to princess, to tennis player, to Joan of Arc.  I remember coloring in figures from my Women in History Coloring Book and thinking that Amelia Earhart wasn’t as pretty as I wanted her to be.  I remember playing monopoly with my brother for hours on one Christmas eve, hoping that the Top Hat might speed the night along.  I remember treasure hunts with obscure clues on my birthday,  and discovering a vat of gifts in the laundry basket, the dryer, the bath tub, under the bed. -- Oh! The thrill of youth.  The wonder, the fun, the lack of responsibility, the simplicity of a dandelion.   

How I Feel About Sandwiches

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Simply saying the word “sandwich” conjures up all kinds of images that make me feel soothed and bored at the same time.   Sandwiches are home. Sandwiches are America.  Sandwiches are compact mini-meals that come in their own living to-go container.  They’re easy, look compelling, smell inviting and feel gnawingly familiar.   Two grainy blocks of baked flour lie missionary style embracing one another as tufts of turkey and tips of lettuce leaves peek out.  A touch of tomato dampens the doughy mound. That acrid but soothing smell of yeast and mustard causes the salivary amylase to flow and the lips to part in anticipation.

The GUM Ban in the Purdy Household (how my mom might have written it)

Dear Children,

This notice is to announce that gum has been officially banned in the household.  Why?  Well. First off, you look terrible when you chew it – like a cow, like a street worker, like someone who is de-classe and has no manners.  

Secondly, it gives off a terrible odor of artificial junk.  Double Mint Gum is the exception here, but we’ll address the problems with that momentarily.    Bubble Yum, Double Bubble and Bazooka are never even to be mentioned to me.  Their sickly sweet, fake scent is enough to make me tear my dissertation out of the typewriter and gather that steaming saliva ridden ball of crap out of your mouth and throw it all in the garbage.  You don’t want to do that do you?  Did you hear me?  I am writing my dissertation on a typewriter.  That means it isn’t saved and I’d have to write it all over again.  It’s 1978 and no one has computers, not even you, so the fact that I am lording my typewriting  angst over you may not really have an impact, because you will actually be writing several papers on this same typewriter in a few years with no clue that a computer is even possible or that "backspace" is a word, that has nothing to do with the Starship Enterprise commanding space to stay back.

Happy Anniversary, Honey!

Happy anniversary, Honey!  I can’t believe it was  6 years ago today that we first met at that housewarming party I gave.  Oh, what a lucky day that was and so funny that you just happened to show up on my doorstep with guacamole at the exact moment that we had run out! I’m so glad Teddy forwarded that invite, even if it was by mistake.

I guess I should also say happy 6 month and 24 day anniversary of our wedding!  That’s right!  I remembered. And yes, it’s the  two week and one day anniversary of being back from our Honeymoon! 

It’s also the  4 year, 11 month and 15 day anniversary of the first day we kissed!  And, if I’m remembering correctly, my feisty spouse,  it’s the  4 year, 11 month and 14 day anniversary of the day we slept together. 

There Will Be No....

My mom and I both save our lemon rinds in the fridge for weeks.  We both multi-task when we are on the phone, organizing sock drawers, ironing, putting address labels on envelopes.  We are both 5’8” and, for most of our adult lives have sat at 128 pounds until she hit her 70’s and got out of the habit of eating lunch.  We each had our left ovary removed, although she was 61 years old at the time and  I was 40.  We both have thimble sized bladders and hop up and down, running in place to stop the flow when we have held it too long .  We shiver easily even in 68 degree weather.  I have her thin wrists, her long legs, her high cheekbones and her tendency to want to keep moving.   We both make lists, organize clothing by color in our closets, write extensive notes in our cook books, care about women in prison and are often touched to tears by kindness, beauty and injustice.  

ΩΩΩΩΩ

A mama Polar bears puts on close to 400 pounds  during her pregnancy.  If she doesn’t put on at least 220 pounds during that time, the body will actually reabsorb the fetus.  She then goes into hibernation mode while sitting around in her snowy maternity den, waiting for baby bear to arrive and often sleeping through the birth.  Her cubs stay with her for 2 years while she tries to protect them and teach them how to survive and feast on seal pups.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

1980

Dear Mom,

Haaaaaaaaaaappy Mother’s Day!  You are the BEST mom in the whole wide world and I’m not just saying that.  Thank you for being patient with me even though I bang on the piano keys and don’t always empty the dishwasher when you tell me.  I’m sorry about that.  I love you so much and will try to be a better daughter.  I hope I can be as amazing a person as you are when I am a grown up. 

Love, Mary

ΩΩΩΩΩ

I remember the first time I used a diaphragm, squeezed out spermicide from a tube and tried to line the edges like the instructions said, getting it all over my fingers, washing, trying again, embarrassed and impatient, while he waited, the heat cooling beneath the sheets.  Another attempt, the rubbery orb slipping from my hands, toppling into the sink and into a clump, picked it up, determined to succeed, placed it where  the sun don’t shine, forcing it to find its spot, feeling like something was stuck, shifting my hips from side to side, shaking my torso. Is it in? Is this going to work? I cannot get pregnant.  Does he still have a hard on?  

ΩΩΩΩΩ

Hi, Mare.  Hi sweetie pie!  I’m calling  to tell you I love you.  We can’t wait to see you.   I wanted to see how you were feeling.  We’re so proud of you.  Have you gone to see the doctor yet?  I’m sending you an article that I thought you would like. We made that quinoa salad you told us about.  You can call us until 10 O’Clock our time tonight. We’re dying to hear about the new job. It’s ok to cry.  Bad things go away, only good things stay.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

I have never wanted to be a mom.  Never cooed over babies or longed to hold infants shrouded in velvety blue blankets close to my bosom.  No desire to be pregnant, give birth, breast feed. Never heard the tick tock of my biological clock.  Yet everything has been in place for me to conceive – all the reproductive parts a go, (minus one ovary)  the cycle in order, the drive intact, the partner there.  I leave homes of friends with young kids, watch meltdowns in supermarkets,  thinking “Thank God that’s not me.”    There will be no maternity den, no Mother’s Day cards, no calls just before 10 O’clock.   My genetic line will end without fanfare and hopefully I’ll be smiling.

ΩΩΩΩΩ

I cannot imagine a life without her.

Extreme Peanut Butter - Like Nothing You've Ever Had Before.

Introducing…Extreme Peanut Butter.  Yes, folks, this is not your average peanut butter, this is EXTREME peanut butter.  It not only sticks to the roof of your mouth but it actually attaches your tongue to your cleft and keeps it there for at least 17 minutes.  That’s right, this peanut butter is so peanut buttery that it will cause a piece of you to stick to another piece of you.    This will slow down your eating process and allow you to keep the taste of peanut butter on your palate for a longer than usual peanut butter experience! That is extreme.

Our peanut butter is so smooth and creamy that  it will actually MELT the knife with which you are spreading it.  Make no mistake, the more you spread, the quicker your knife will dissolve.  If you like the chunky version, we have that too.  But be prepared. The chunks are more than just simple chunks.  They are actually petrified pieces of peanuts that have been around for over 160 years and they will satisfy that need for crunch and chunk that you long for on certain days.  That is extreme.   

And the way our peanut butter meshes with jam? Well, you may not even want to stick around.  This peanut butter essentially is the one and true soul mate of all jams, jellies and marmalades.  It will start to make love to any jam that you may put on a slice of bread, be it baguette or 12 grain.  You did not just mis-read that last sentence. The jam and the peanut butter will begin copulating on your Orowheat right in front of you without any inhibitions.  It might make you uncomfortable at first but it is an amazing site to see.  That is extreme!

Lastly, our peanut butter can read.  It’s true, folks!  Our peanut butter is able to read books and magazines.  This was not planned, but just simply came about during our manufacturing process.  One day in the processing plant, we found our peanut butter reading its label aloud and we knew we had something special.   Bring your peanut butter on short or long road trips with your children and have it read them stories in the back of the car so you and your partner can have a conversation.   When they tire of hearing it read to them, you can invite them to eat it, which will also keep them silent for at least another 17 minutes (see above).  That is not only extreme, it is miraculous.   

Avocado and Walnut Duke it Out.

I was at the sink doing dishes when I overheard Avocado and Walnut at it again.

“Everyone’s talking about me,” said Avocado.  “Haven’t you seen the ads?  The signs? I’m heart healthy. “

“Well, so am I”, preached Walnut. “I have a “board” that is working for me.  That’s right, The Walnut Board of California. They’ve got materials that they even mail out to people.”

“That’s not that big of a deal,” snapped Avocado. “We all have one of those. Ever hear of the California Avocado Commission? They are all about ME.  I’m also being represented by the Haas Avocado Board.”

“Well, have you seen the articles featuring me?”  asked Walnut.  “I’ve been mentioned in numerous science journals  claiming that not only am I the richest nut source of Omega 3’s which help high blood pressure, but that eating me regularly helps with weight loss because of my healthy fats.”

“That’s great, fatty!  Avocado said. “You can pretty much say the same thing about me, you know.  I believe I have a few more monounsaturated fats that you do.  Plus you can easily add me to a sandwich or use me in place of mayonnaise.”

“So what,” said Walnut. “Can you get sprinkled on top of oatmeal in the morning or baked into a cookie?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Avocado, “Some folks just started replacing the butter in cookies with me. Um, have you ever heard of vegans?  So, yes, I make it into cookies periodically too.  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen YOU in a taco.

“Depends on who is making the taco, buddy,”  snipped Walnut.  “Have you heard of raw foodists?  Sometimes, they replace the meaty meat in the tacos with yours truly and I get to enjoy the ride in a soft tortilla surrounded by that fabulous Pico de Gallo.”

“Oh, Pico and I hang out like every day,” bragged Avocado. “We’re practically living together!  And, you know who talks about eating me a lot? Julia Roberts.  Someone pinned one of her breakfasts and it included moi.”

“Big deal!” shouted Walnut. ”I have a theatre company named after me.  The Walnut Street Theatre.”

“That’s because there is a street name Walnut Street where the theatre is located!” screeched Avocado.

“Well, I don’t see any Avocado Streets or Avenues,”  harrumphed Walnut.

“For your information, there’s one in California. Get around much?” said Avocado.

“Ha ha,” smirked Walnut.  “I get around a LOT. I’ve got a Street in Philly, and an Avenue in Seattle!”

“It’s just a matter of time before I’m seen on more street names,” Avocado scoffed. “Pretty soon they’ll start realizing that food and specifically fruit has more power than dead white presidents and mayors.”

“I don’t want to lord this over you too much,” yipped Walnut, “But there are more than just streets and avenues named in my honor. There are places; Walnut Creek, Walnut Grove, Walnut City.”

“Um, I have a “heights” named after me, ok?” said Avocado. “Avocado Heights.”

“Well,” said Walnut. “According to Google maps it’s only 2.84 miles. Walnut Creek is 19.77.”

Avocado paused, fuming. “Ok, let’s switch from outside to inside.  I hear you’re associated with a lot of allergies.”

“So what!” said Walnut.  “I’m a tree nut, it’s going to happen.”

“Well,” said Avocado. “I’d say a pretty small percentage of the population is allergic or ‘sensitive” to me.”  

“I bet they will be once they start genetically modifying you!” Walnut jeered.

“They wouldn’t dare!” cried Avocado.

I had had just about enough of this bickering. 

“Stop it, you two!” I yelled.  “You’re both fantastic!” 

“But…” They each protested.

“Enough!” I roared. “It’s time you two started getting along.”

They each fell silent. I pulled out a cookbook and turned to page 242 and recited the recipe title aloud: “Avocado Cheesecake with  Walnut Crust.”

Avocado and Walnut both gasped.

“You two are going to work as a team,” I said.  “None of this ‘I’m better than you are’ and ‘There’s a town named after me’ stuff.”

Lime and Coconut Oil, who had been listening in said, “Uh, we’d like to help.  Is there a place for us in this recipe?”

I smiled. “Of course, there is. You two are going to help bring it all together.” 

I grabbed the cutting board and a bowl and the union began.

The Taming of the Hair

She has stopped caring.  The perfect “do” in the magazines never seems to fit her unmanageable mop of hair no matter what product she buys, brush she uses, styling crème she applies.  So her hair gets tied up neatly and pressed periodically with a strong application of coconut oil- anything to keep it from frizzing up and parading itself atop her head.  Mostly she looks in the mirror and harrumphs with the sense of defeat. Well, it looked good for about 47 minutes, but now it’s back to its old tricks.  

She smiles faintly at herself in the mirror knowing it doesn’t matter that much in the big scheme of things, but still, it’s annoying.  She has asked every hair stylist about what to do, how to manage it.  How to brush it, crimp it, style it, cut it, press it, flat iron it, wash it so that it stays the fuck down and doesn’t become the butt of jokes from passersby knowingly commiserating “Oh, my hair used to do that before I bought “insert the most perfect product here.”  

And she has tried everything. Morrocan oil and marshmallow gel, almond oil and special smoothing treatments,  or cutting it all off which works for a month until the front starts acting like a petulant teen who just wants to be heard and won’t back down.    Oh, the money spent at Bartell’s Drug Store, and Aveda and various salons mentioned on Groupon! Each time she brings a product home she has a sliver of hope. “This will be it!” She thinks, “This will be the goop that’s going to propel my hair to the perpetual “good hair day” hall of fame.”  And she applies it and it smells good, the grease still sticking to her palms, which she can smell for the next couple hours until several hand washings make it disappear.  And along with the disappearing smell is the loss of any function the product served.  Hair is back to its frizzy unmanageable state.  

Oh, to have that perfect straight hair, or those glorious tight curls that certain products work miracles on.  Yes it takes work, but it actually works!  She doesn’t care if it’s $45 as long as she doesn’t have to think about it.  Just let it work its $45 magic  so she can go about her day and not worry about stray straws making her appear less professional.    But it’s nighttime and no one is there to peek at her tresses now.  So they go up into a simple bun, gray hairs spiking out like latecomers to the party. They stand around and don’t know how to blend.