Posts
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Theatre On Purpose - Homelessness
My latest Theatre on Purpose Directorial Project in the OC Register. http://tinyurl.com/yb9k3vj
Monday, January 18, 2010
Philosophy, Film, and Fifty
It has taken nearly three years, but the movie My Dinner with Andre finally made its way to the top of our netflix cue. One time, about four years ago, Gillian and I tried to rent it from a video store in Seattle and were told we'd have to leave a $300 deposit so we left the DVD on the counter and I was left trying to explain to my then twenty -one year old daughter what the movie was "about." I gave up, simply saying, it's two theatre artists, Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory talking about art and the meaning of life over dinner in a restaurant in New York with a craggy- faced French waiter occasionally ease dropping as he serves them.
Hmmm....a $300 deposit for that, huh?
This weekend, as Steve and I eased our way into our first full weekend on our own, we nestled down in our den with a fire burning in the fireplace and demitasse cups of espresso with a twist of lemon to watch the long sought film.
It did not disappoint.
I found myself grinning from ear to ear through most of it, listening to Gregory's self-absorbed account of his journey toward spiritual and artistic awakening as he explored avant garde theatrical exercises in Grotowski's Polish forest, revelations in Scotland's Findhorn Community and ate sand with a Buddhist monk in Antoine de Saint Exupery's Sahara. Wallace Shawn's flat, expressionless face and internal monologue bordering on vocal hysteria with his high pitched laugh and eventual confession to not knowing what Gregory was talking about had me laughing out loud.
Gregory's oh so serious search, his various epiphanies along the way and his artistic struggle as a director seemed to me, at fifty, to capture the earnest narcissum that consumes the theatre artist. The genius of My Dinner with Andre is how it weaves a monologue and conversational threads for nearly two hours eventually leading to a subtle collision of world views on the question of reality and meaning, coincidence and serendipity, privilege and survival. While the conversation does not lead to any great climactic turning point, the dynamic exchange leaves Wallace Shawn seeing and appreciating his life in his native New York through the window of a taxi cab and the viewer all the richer for having been a guest at the table.
Not to be outdone, the next night, we watched the When Nietsche Wept. It was an interesting juxtaposition to My Dinner with Andre. While this film derives its story from the relationship between the great philosopher and the father of the "talking cure", Freud's mentor Josef Breurer, the underlying theme was not so different from Andre Gregory's search for a meaningful life.
Two lines from the film struck me.
"Isolation lives only in isolation. Once shared, it disappears." I couldn't help but think how I have seen this very truth unfold as writers share the stories of their lives, unburdening themselves and bringing to light that which has been buried deep within their psyche. The unexpressed often holds us a prisoner in our own isolation.
The other line that hit me was, "If you don't take possession of your goals, you live your life as an accident." While there may be at the center of this belief the question of controlling one's destiny, the overriding truth in this statement is a strong argument for seizing one's life and setting a compass.
Finally this morning, I opened the LA Times to read that the venerable metaphysical bookstore, The Bodhi Tree, is up for sale. A sign that we have moved past the new-age hype of the 1980's into a different time. The bookstore's owners acknowledged that through the search they don't feel they have found the secret to anything other than the most important thing in life is family and relationships.
At fifty, I've had my share of spiritual epiphanies and have a bookcase full of self-help and metaphysical books, some of which came from The Bodhi Tree. I am grateful for having the perspective that whatever form the search takes - the journey often leads back to the simple truth that it's all about relationship. Andre Gregory realizes that his marriage to his wife is all that matters. Wallace Shawn goes home to his girlfriend, Debbie. Josef Breuer embraces his home and family after a hypnotic journey and confrontation with obsession. And Bodhi Tree owner, Phil Thompson says, "I have an ordinary life and feel good about it most of the time."
Me too. It was a good weekend at home. Just the two of us.
Hmmm....a $300 deposit for that, huh?
This weekend, as Steve and I eased our way into our first full weekend on our own, we nestled down in our den with a fire burning in the fireplace and demitasse cups of espresso with a twist of lemon to watch the long sought film.
It did not disappoint.
I found myself grinning from ear to ear through most of it, listening to Gregory's self-absorbed account of his journey toward spiritual and artistic awakening as he explored avant garde theatrical exercises in Grotowski's Polish forest, revelations in Scotland's Findhorn Community and ate sand with a Buddhist monk in Antoine de Saint Exupery's Sahara. Wallace Shawn's flat, expressionless face and internal monologue bordering on vocal hysteria with his high pitched laugh and eventual confession to not knowing what Gregory was talking about had me laughing out loud.
Gregory's oh so serious search, his various epiphanies along the way and his artistic struggle as a director seemed to me, at fifty, to capture the earnest narcissum that consumes the theatre artist. The genius of My Dinner with Andre is how it weaves a monologue and conversational threads for nearly two hours eventually leading to a subtle collision of world views on the question of reality and meaning, coincidence and serendipity, privilege and survival. While the conversation does not lead to any great climactic turning point, the dynamic exchange leaves Wallace Shawn seeing and appreciating his life in his native New York through the window of a taxi cab and the viewer all the richer for having been a guest at the table.
Not to be outdone, the next night, we watched the When Nietsche Wept. It was an interesting juxtaposition to My Dinner with Andre. While this film derives its story from the relationship between the great philosopher and the father of the "talking cure", Freud's mentor Josef Breurer, the underlying theme was not so different from Andre Gregory's search for a meaningful life.
Two lines from the film struck me.
"Isolation lives only in isolation. Once shared, it disappears." I couldn't help but think how I have seen this very truth unfold as writers share the stories of their lives, unburdening themselves and bringing to light that which has been buried deep within their psyche. The unexpressed often holds us a prisoner in our own isolation.
The other line that hit me was, "If you don't take possession of your goals, you live your life as an accident." While there may be at the center of this belief the question of controlling one's destiny, the overriding truth in this statement is a strong argument for seizing one's life and setting a compass.
Finally this morning, I opened the LA Times to read that the venerable metaphysical bookstore, The Bodhi Tree, is up for sale. A sign that we have moved past the new-age hype of the 1980's into a different time. The bookstore's owners acknowledged that through the search they don't feel they have found the secret to anything other than the most important thing in life is family and relationships.
At fifty, I've had my share of spiritual epiphanies and have a bookcase full of self-help and metaphysical books, some of which came from The Bodhi Tree. I am grateful for having the perspective that whatever form the search takes - the journey often leads back to the simple truth that it's all about relationship. Andre Gregory realizes that his marriage to his wife is all that matters. Wallace Shawn goes home to his girlfriend, Debbie. Josef Breuer embraces his home and family after a hypnotic journey and confrontation with obsession. And Bodhi Tree owner, Phil Thompson says, "I have an ordinary life and feel good about it most of the time."
Me too. It was a good weekend at home. Just the two of us.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen
The Coq au Vin was delicious. I served it for dinner after a kayak and trip to the grocery store, all of which I negotiated without incident - no exchanges with produce clerks. No uncontrolled bouts of emotion. Well, I'll admit to a pang at Trader Joe's when I picked out my pre-packaged lunch salads as I realized I would no longer have to jockey for shelf space in the refrigerator - but minor, really, by comparison to my earlier trips.
Progress.
Now the dish towels are another story. We have difference of opinion. I tend toward the aesthetic. I like color coordinated, themed towels - you know, red and green for Christmas, hearts for Valentine's day, Shamrocks for St. Patrick's day. I have a penchant for buying t-towels when I travel. They fit easily into a suitcase and bring back happy memories when I pull them out of the drawer. On any given day, it is an artistic decision which will hang from my oven door.
GIllian on the other hand is all about function and absorption. I'm a dishwasher kind of gal. She, a hand -wash and stack on the sink on top of a white flour sack towel to air -dry type.
Many nights, she would shoo me out of the kitchen to prevent me from loading the knives and pans into the dish washer. This conflict has haunted me for years - going back to the days when my mother would take over my kitchen on Pine Street to whip it into shape. She didn't like how I loaded a dishwasher either. I'll admit to laziness when it comes to washing up the pots and pans. If you are going to hand wash everything, why have a dishwasher? The dullness of the blades is apparently the issue. I do, however, insist on hand washing my china and crystal, something my mother poo poo'd. Hence, the cloudy haze on her Murano Italian cut crystal. I do put the silver into the basket of the dishwasher and am careful not to place it near the stainless. We all have our priorities.
I thought about this as I pulled out my gold colored dish towel - a souvenir from Tuscany. I draped it over the handle of the oven. It looks pretty.
Dividing up the kitchen utensils was something like a friendly divorce. The dispute arose over the tongs. As she pulled them from the red pitcher that serves as a utensil holder on the counter, I gasped. "Wait a minute. What are you doing with those?" She reminded me that she had bought them at Prep with her own money and she just knew this was going to be an issue when the time came. She tossed them into her box as she packed up the Cuisinart. I didn't care about that. I frankly don't like food processors. Too hard to clean. I prefer my little hand held mixer.
Speaking of mixers, the one I got for our first Christmas twenty-seven years ago drove her nuts as she whipped up her berry cobbler batter.
I thought of this as I began to reclaim my kitchen - putting things back where I wanted them regardless of the logic or function. I moved the egg beater inserts from the drawer under the stove where they didn't fit to the lower drawer under the oven where I'd put them when we originally moved in.
She left the white rubber spatula with the wooden handle. I put it into the pitcher and moved the long handled zester from the pitcher into the drawer. I was sure I'd paid for that and she hadn't disputed it. The zester is a necessity these days. I use it surprisingly frequently. But I had never had one prior to GIllian moving back home.
How is it that my daughter taught me to cook? My mother didn't. And I didn't teach Gillian. I thought of the movies, Like Water for Chocolate and Babette's Feast and Chocolat and some of those other soulful stories of the passing on of the culinary traditions and family recipes from mother to daughter and thought how funny it was that our story was generationally backwards.
During my cooking apprenticeship at Chez Savona under the tutelage of my daughter, I'd learned to cook with kosher salt, sea salt, shallots, fennel, leeks, and ginger. My library now contains three of Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa cookbooks and atop my butter dish rests only unsalted butter.
Tonight, I'll use my stock pot, another item I only acquired in the last two years.
I do miss those tongs, though.
Progress.
Now the dish towels are another story. We have difference of opinion. I tend toward the aesthetic. I like color coordinated, themed towels - you know, red and green for Christmas, hearts for Valentine's day, Shamrocks for St. Patrick's day. I have a penchant for buying t-towels when I travel. They fit easily into a suitcase and bring back happy memories when I pull them out of the drawer. On any given day, it is an artistic decision which will hang from my oven door.
GIllian on the other hand is all about function and absorption. I'm a dishwasher kind of gal. She, a hand -wash and stack on the sink on top of a white flour sack towel to air -dry type.
Many nights, she would shoo me out of the kitchen to prevent me from loading the knives and pans into the dish washer. This conflict has haunted me for years - going back to the days when my mother would take over my kitchen on Pine Street to whip it into shape. She didn't like how I loaded a dishwasher either. I'll admit to laziness when it comes to washing up the pots and pans. If you are going to hand wash everything, why have a dishwasher? The dullness of the blades is apparently the issue. I do, however, insist on hand washing my china and crystal, something my mother poo poo'd. Hence, the cloudy haze on her Murano Italian cut crystal. I do put the silver into the basket of the dishwasher and am careful not to place it near the stainless. We all have our priorities.
I thought about this as I pulled out my gold colored dish towel - a souvenir from Tuscany. I draped it over the handle of the oven. It looks pretty.
Dividing up the kitchen utensils was something like a friendly divorce. The dispute arose over the tongs. As she pulled them from the red pitcher that serves as a utensil holder on the counter, I gasped. "Wait a minute. What are you doing with those?" She reminded me that she had bought them at Prep with her own money and she just knew this was going to be an issue when the time came. She tossed them into her box as she packed up the Cuisinart. I didn't care about that. I frankly don't like food processors. Too hard to clean. I prefer my little hand held mixer.
Speaking of mixers, the one I got for our first Christmas twenty-seven years ago drove her nuts as she whipped up her berry cobbler batter.
I thought of this as I began to reclaim my kitchen - putting things back where I wanted them regardless of the logic or function. I moved the egg beater inserts from the drawer under the stove where they didn't fit to the lower drawer under the oven where I'd put them when we originally moved in.
She left the white rubber spatula with the wooden handle. I put it into the pitcher and moved the long handled zester from the pitcher into the drawer. I was sure I'd paid for that and she hadn't disputed it. The zester is a necessity these days. I use it surprisingly frequently. But I had never had one prior to GIllian moving back home.
How is it that my daughter taught me to cook? My mother didn't. And I didn't teach Gillian. I thought of the movies, Like Water for Chocolate and Babette's Feast and Chocolat and some of those other soulful stories of the passing on of the culinary traditions and family recipes from mother to daughter and thought how funny it was that our story was generationally backwards.
During my cooking apprenticeship at Chez Savona under the tutelage of my daughter, I'd learned to cook with kosher salt, sea salt, shallots, fennel, leeks, and ginger. My library now contains three of Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa cookbooks and atop my butter dish rests only unsalted butter.
Tonight, I'll use my stock pot, another item I only acquired in the last two years.
I do miss those tongs, though.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Come Saturday Morning
This morning I awake around 8:00 a.m. Fix the coffee. Let the cat in. Pick up the three newspapers from our patio that we still have delivered to our house in a defiant and stubborn effort to keep print media alive. Take the papers out of their plastic bags. Gingerly toss the plastic bags into the trash. Wash my hands. Pour the coffee. Crawl back into my side of the bed. Sip my coffee. Begin reading the front page of the LA Times. I always read the papers in the same order. Front page of the LA Times. Local section of the OC Register. Personal Journal section of the Wall Street Journal. Then, depending on what USC is doing, I pick up the Sports section. I move to Business. I always save the Calendar section and Show for last. For inspiration.
Steve snores next to me as Hobie nuzzles into the side of my left leg. Steve will sleep at least an hour later than me and then awake to a pile of newsprint, now in some sort of hybrid order on my side of the bed.
Ah blissful routine.
There is a hint of Saturday in the air. The sound of a rake and blower down the street. The clock striking 10:00 . The house is still. The sky is clear.
I walk back downstairs to pour a second cup of coffee. I stand in the kitchen and survey our empty nest. I scan the den. I look at the shutters and notice the louvers are closed facing down. I adjust them. I consider the kitchen counter top and question the decision to rid it of the big sunflower cookie jar that used to sit in the center. Gillian's idea. It was chipped she said. And blocked the view of the TV from the kitchen. I think I will go retrieve it from the pile of rummage in the garage. This is, after all, my house. Besides, the cookie jar served as a good spot under which to tuck notes or the cash for my housekeeper. This week the bills sat loose and naked in the middle of the counter. Indiscrete without the cookie jar.
I think about the day ahead. I will tackle the grocery store again in the hope of slaying the dragon. There are two packages of chicken thighs and legs in the fridge that I bought to make Coq au Vin in the crock pot this past week. I didn't. Since it is Saturday, I will cook it on the top of the stove in my dutch oven.
Maybe we will kayak, I think. A walk for sure.
I hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. "Where did everybody go?" Steve calls.
"Right here," I respond.
The loneliness is lifting.
Steve snores next to me as Hobie nuzzles into the side of my left leg. Steve will sleep at least an hour later than me and then awake to a pile of newsprint, now in some sort of hybrid order on my side of the bed.
Ah blissful routine.
There is a hint of Saturday in the air. The sound of a rake and blower down the street. The clock striking 10:00 . The house is still. The sky is clear.
I walk back downstairs to pour a second cup of coffee. I stand in the kitchen and survey our empty nest. I scan the den. I look at the shutters and notice the louvers are closed facing down. I adjust them. I consider the kitchen counter top and question the decision to rid it of the big sunflower cookie jar that used to sit in the center. Gillian's idea. It was chipped she said. And blocked the view of the TV from the kitchen. I think I will go retrieve it from the pile of rummage in the garage. This is, after all, my house. Besides, the cookie jar served as a good spot under which to tuck notes or the cash for my housekeeper. This week the bills sat loose and naked in the middle of the counter. Indiscrete without the cookie jar.
I think about the day ahead. I will tackle the grocery store again in the hope of slaying the dragon. There are two packages of chicken thighs and legs in the fridge that I bought to make Coq au Vin in the crock pot this past week. I didn't. Since it is Saturday, I will cook it on the top of the stove in my dutch oven.
Maybe we will kayak, I think. A walk for sure.
I hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. "Where did everybody go?" Steve calls.
"Right here," I respond.
The loneliness is lifting.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The Wait of it All
Isn't it interesting how "waiting" for someone can bring meaning to life? I realized the other night how much the pre-dinner hour has always been about "waiting". When I was a kid it was "waiting" for Daddy to come home. When I grew up and got married, it was "waiting" for my husband to come home. Then, when I began teaching, my kids and my husband "waited" for me to come home. And when Gillian moved home after college, I was back to "waiting" for her to come home. Now I'm "waiting" for my husband to come home again.
I have been thinking a lot about my mother over this past week. For some reason that I've not quite figured out yet, she is all mixed up in my emotions over this transition I'm going through with Gillian. I'm sorting it out. But a few things have occurred to me.
After my father died and I got married, my mother no longer had anyone to "wait" for. That is, until my children were school age and she took up the task of "waiting" to drive them home after school. Her "waiting" gave her meaning for all of those years and I'm sure in some way really extended her life. I made it easy for my mother - and in truth, she made it easier for me. We never didn't have each other to wait for. Even when she grew old and frail. Even when her memory was fading. She waited for me to come visit her. And I knew she was waiting. So I came. We "waited" together that morning she took her last breath.
One thing my mother didn't have to do was go through a transition with me like I am going through right now with Gillian. Except for the nine months after we were first married when we lived in Los Angeles, I never left my mother. In fact, I moved back to Anaheim to be as close to her as I could be - two blocks away. I never left my mother. Maybe that's why this transition is so disorienting for me right now. I have never been without either my mother or my daughter in my entire life.
I wouldn't want Gillian to do what I did. I don't need her to do what I did. I did what I did for good reasons. It's just that I have to figure out what I'm supposed to do now that I don't have either of them to "wait" for anymore.
Maybe that means it's time to get on with my life. I know, I know. What am I waiting for?
I have been thinking a lot about my mother over this past week. For some reason that I've not quite figured out yet, she is all mixed up in my emotions over this transition I'm going through with Gillian. I'm sorting it out. But a few things have occurred to me.
After my father died and I got married, my mother no longer had anyone to "wait" for. That is, until my children were school age and she took up the task of "waiting" to drive them home after school. Her "waiting" gave her meaning for all of those years and I'm sure in some way really extended her life. I made it easy for my mother - and in truth, she made it easier for me. We never didn't have each other to wait for. Even when she grew old and frail. Even when her memory was fading. She waited for me to come visit her. And I knew she was waiting. So I came. We "waited" together that morning she took her last breath.
One thing my mother didn't have to do was go through a transition with me like I am going through right now with Gillian. Except for the nine months after we were first married when we lived in Los Angeles, I never left my mother. In fact, I moved back to Anaheim to be as close to her as I could be - two blocks away. I never left my mother. Maybe that's why this transition is so disorienting for me right now. I have never been without either my mother or my daughter in my entire life.
I wouldn't want Gillian to do what I did. I don't need her to do what I did. I did what I did for good reasons. It's just that I have to figure out what I'm supposed to do now that I don't have either of them to "wait" for anymore.
Maybe that means it's time to get on with my life. I know, I know. What am I waiting for?
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Grocery Store and Me
It hit at the grocery store. There I was, in the produce aisle, buying food for the week for the first time for just the two of us. I think it was the leeks that got me. And those damned green beans. Then it was thinking about making the lemon chicken. I don't pound it. She does. I don't. I remembered the scolding when I bought the wrong lemon pepper.
I walked along the aisle and the fennel almost undid me. The kind produce clerk asked how I was doing today. They are always so cheerful, aren't they? Have you ever noticed that? They seem to like their job stacking apples and potatoes. He was placing the lettuce in neat rows when he asked me this simple, casual, friendly question that begged a not so simple answer. I pretended my eyes were watering.
"Ooh," I faked a laugh. "Don't know why my eyes keep watering. I'm great, how are you?" I dabbed at my eyes. For God's sake, Amy, get a hold of yourself, I thought. Why is it that the "kindness of strangers" keeps stirring my emotions? First the magazine salesman and now the produce clerk?
It was then I spotted the garlic. It all flooded over me - trips to the open air market. Planning our menus. Post-it notes in the cookbooks. Lists of exotic spices and special flour for baking.
I then remembered I had asparagus in the fridge. She had grown tired of the roasted asparagus recipe with tarragon and lemon sprinkled over it. I thought, oh good. I'll fix that.
A walk down the meat aisle took me to the pork. We rarely ate pork the entire time she lived at home. She had a thing about it. I put a center cut loin roast in my basket. Cook stuff she didn't like, I thought. That will help.
I walked along the dairy case. Her yogurt is still in the fridge, I remembered. I ate some this morning with her raspberry jam mixed in. I scooped it into the little round tupper she took to work. I thought, well, I might as well finish it off. I threw a bag of granola into the basket to mix with the yogurt. Then that darned granola guy at the farmer's market came to mind and I saw her buying it and putting it into her reusable grocery bags. She'd converted me to using them long ago, although today, I'd forgotten them. I felt guilty.
I made it through the canned foods without incident and went to the check out.
Now I had to go home.
Steve had set the timers for the lights so the house was lit up, welcoming me. It helped.
There were Hobie and Lido. I think Lido is depressed.
Through the door I went. Tears just streaming down my face. It was 5:30 and she usually came home about then. And I would hear all about her day.
I emptied the car and a loneliness like I've rarely felt in my life consumed me.
No sound of the garage door opening.
No dirty tupper thrown into the sink.
No foul mood, exasperated sigh or stomping up the stairs in her clunky heels.
It was just quiet.
I put the groceries away.
I spotted that half a bagel still in the cuboard. I tossed it.
And the smooth peanut butter.
I washed the asparagus.
Marinated the two chicken breasts without pounding them.
Fixed the rice.
And set the table.
For two.
I will adjust. I know that.
But in a million years, I wouldn't have believed that I could miss her this much.
Dinner time is going to take some getting used to.
I walked along the aisle and the fennel almost undid me. The kind produce clerk asked how I was doing today. They are always so cheerful, aren't they? Have you ever noticed that? They seem to like their job stacking apples and potatoes. He was placing the lettuce in neat rows when he asked me this simple, casual, friendly question that begged a not so simple answer. I pretended my eyes were watering.
"Ooh," I faked a laugh. "Don't know why my eyes keep watering. I'm great, how are you?" I dabbed at my eyes. For God's sake, Amy, get a hold of yourself, I thought. Why is it that the "kindness of strangers" keeps stirring my emotions? First the magazine salesman and now the produce clerk?
It was then I spotted the garlic. It all flooded over me - trips to the open air market. Planning our menus. Post-it notes in the cookbooks. Lists of exotic spices and special flour for baking.
I then remembered I had asparagus in the fridge. She had grown tired of the roasted asparagus recipe with tarragon and lemon sprinkled over it. I thought, oh good. I'll fix that.
A walk down the meat aisle took me to the pork. We rarely ate pork the entire time she lived at home. She had a thing about it. I put a center cut loin roast in my basket. Cook stuff she didn't like, I thought. That will help.
I walked along the dairy case. Her yogurt is still in the fridge, I remembered. I ate some this morning with her raspberry jam mixed in. I scooped it into the little round tupper she took to work. I thought, well, I might as well finish it off. I threw a bag of granola into the basket to mix with the yogurt. Then that darned granola guy at the farmer's market came to mind and I saw her buying it and putting it into her reusable grocery bags. She'd converted me to using them long ago, although today, I'd forgotten them. I felt guilty.
I made it through the canned foods without incident and went to the check out.
Now I had to go home.
Steve had set the timers for the lights so the house was lit up, welcoming me. It helped.
There were Hobie and Lido. I think Lido is depressed.
Through the door I went. Tears just streaming down my face. It was 5:30 and she usually came home about then. And I would hear all about her day.
I emptied the car and a loneliness like I've rarely felt in my life consumed me.
No sound of the garage door opening.
No dirty tupper thrown into the sink.
No foul mood, exasperated sigh or stomping up the stairs in her clunky heels.
It was just quiet.
I put the groceries away.
I spotted that half a bagel still in the cuboard. I tossed it.
And the smooth peanut butter.
I washed the asparagus.
Marinated the two chicken breasts without pounding them.
Fixed the rice.
And set the table.
For two.
I will adjust. I know that.
But in a million years, I wouldn't have believed that I could miss her this much.
Dinner time is going to take some getting used to.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face
I emerge from the bathtub. Soaking in the lavender salts she gave me for Christmas.
"Quality over quantity," she said as she distributed customized stockings to each of us.
The lavender salts came from L'Occtaine.
From the essential oil aroma therapy, I know they are quality bath salts.
The phone rings. I answer it.
"Is Gillian in?"
"No," I say. "She is not."
"This is Cook's Illustrated calling."
The tears brim again as they have all day off and on.
"Oh," I say.
The sales pitch.
I interrupt. This poor magazine subscription renewal salesman
does not need to hear my sob story.
I simply say,
"Gillian doesn't live here any more. She is starting graduate school so
this is probably not the time for Cook's Illustrated in her life.
But thank you."
Cook's Illustrated? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?
Gillian and I spent more time together in our little kitchen
than anywhere else over these last two and a half years.
We learned more about each other in our little kitchen over these two and a half years
than in her entire life.
She loves to cook. She taught me to love to cook.
A "Foodie", she temped at Bon Appetite. She mourned Gourmet Magazine's demise.
The name of her blog while living at home was Dine and Travel.
And now, she's off to New York for a graduate program in publishing at NYU...
and on my first night without her in the kitchen,
Cook's Illustrated calls?
Maybe it's that the adrenaline has gone out of me.
There has, after all, been a long emotional build to this day.
It began when she moved home.
New York has always been the goal.
There was the GRE class.
The test.
The test again.
The essay (when, after I read it, knew without a doubt that she had publishing in her DNA)
The letters.
The application.
The acceptance in five days.
Along the way there was horseback riding on
George.
Cupcakes.
Brannigan's.
Yen Sushi.
Blue Windows - her favorite shop on 2nd Street.
Trader Joe's.
Getting our toes done.
There was Hobie.
And Lido.
Cooking classes at Prep.
The writing workshop at Stanford.
Editing.
Critiquing.
Twitter.
Facebook.
Apple computers.
DPL
Mary Hunt
Every Day Cheapskate
SEO
Tags
Friends
And Katy.
There was Obama.
Hillary.
The debates.
The election.
The inauguration.
Dinner together nearly every night.
Heated conversations.
Wine.
Cheese.
Berry Cobbler.
Pumpkin Muffins.
Lemon Chicken.
Garlic.
Ginger.
Green beans.
And tea.
And over those two and a half years...
something was happening.
My daughter and I
were becoming friends.
Maybe it's that my hormones are out of whack.
Crying when there is nothing logical to cry about.
Her every dream has come true. Our every dream has come true.
It's what she has worked for. It's what we have worked for.
It's why she came back to live with us after graduating from college.
Maybe it's because between Mother's passing and Gillian's return home
my life has been bookended by my mother and daughter.
Both Virgo's.
Maybe it's because I'm an Aquarian.
"We've launched her," Steve said.
Yes. We've launched her.
It was time.
She is not a child.
She is the age I was when she was born.
She is assured.
Accomplished.
Beautiful.
Ripe and Ready for the Big Apple.
The phone rings.
It's Gillian.
"Quality over quantity," she said as she distributed customized stockings to each of us.
The lavender salts came from L'Occtaine.
From the essential oil aroma therapy, I know they are quality bath salts.
The phone rings. I answer it.
"Is Gillian in?"
"No," I say. "She is not."
"This is Cook's Illustrated calling."
The tears brim again as they have all day off and on.
"Oh," I say.
The sales pitch.
I interrupt. This poor magazine subscription renewal salesman
does not need to hear my sob story.
I simply say,
"Gillian doesn't live here any more. She is starting graduate school so
this is probably not the time for Cook's Illustrated in her life.
But thank you."
Cook's Illustrated? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?
Gillian and I spent more time together in our little kitchen
than anywhere else over these last two and a half years.
We learned more about each other in our little kitchen over these two and a half years
than in her entire life.
She loves to cook. She taught me to love to cook.
A "Foodie", she temped at Bon Appetite. She mourned Gourmet Magazine's demise.
The name of her blog while living at home was Dine and Travel.
And now, she's off to New York for a graduate program in publishing at NYU...
and on my first night without her in the kitchen,
Cook's Illustrated calls?
I've grown accustomed to her face. She almost makes the day begin.
Maybe it's that the adrenaline has gone out of me.
There has, after all, been a long emotional build to this day.
It began when she moved home.
New York has always been the goal.
There was the GRE class.
The test.
The test again.
The essay (when, after I read it, knew without a doubt that she had publishing in her DNA)
The letters.
The application.
The acceptance in five days.
Along the way there was horseback riding on
George.
Cupcakes.
Brannigan's.
Yen Sushi.
Blue Windows - her favorite shop on 2nd Street.
Trader Joe's.
Getting our toes done.
There was Hobie.
And Lido.
Cooking classes at Prep.
The writing workshop at Stanford.
Editing.
Critiquing.
Twitter.
Facebook.
Apple computers.
DPL
Mary Hunt
Every Day Cheapskate
SEO
Tags
Friends
And Katy.
There was Obama.
Hillary.
The debates.
The election.
The inauguration.
Dinner together nearly every night.
Heated conversations.
Wine.
Cheese.
Berry Cobbler.
Pumpkin Muffins.
Lemon Chicken.
Garlic.
Ginger.
Green beans.
And tea.
And over those two and a half years...
something was happening.
My daughter and I
were becoming friends.
Her joys her woes
Her highs her lows
are second nature to me now.
Like breathing out and breathing in.
Maybe it's that my hormones are out of whack.
Crying when there is nothing logical to cry about.
Her every dream has come true. Our every dream has come true.
It's what she has worked for. It's what we have worked for.
It's why she came back to live with us after graduating from college.
Maybe it's because between Mother's passing and Gillian's return home
my life has been bookended by my mother and daughter.
Both Virgo's.
Maybe it's because I'm an Aquarian.
"We've launched her," Steve said.
Yes. We've launched her.
It was time.
She is not a child.
She is the age I was when she was born.
She is assured.
Accomplished.
Beautiful.
Ripe and Ready for the Big Apple.
And yet, I've grown accustomed to her voice
to something in the air.
Accustomed to her face.
The phone rings.
It's Gillian.
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