Sunday, September 18, 2011

Glorious Sunday

Glorious Sunday morning, the house full of sleeping teenage girls, one of which is in my bed because the air mattress deflated in the middle of the night. Strong PG Tips in my favorite thin-sided porcelain cup, the color of caramel.  Dogs, despite a brief escape through the neighbors' garden and up the hill to where the mountain lions live, and me in pajamas and pink clogs running down the road, whistling loudly and encouragingly, are happily chewing sticks on the deck. All is quiet but the sound of the birds and keyboard.  September reminds me of weddings back east, of wandering around a Massachusetts red brick college town and eating eggs benedict and strong coffee for brunch, of marriage ceremonies in stark white quaker-style churches, without pane glass or pomp or circumstance.

There is a dent in the third finger of my left hand and like one's tongue with a cavity, my thumb migrates towards it. It feels unfamiliar, naked.

And thus the new journey begins, quietly.

Monica has filled a large vase with red and acid green gladioli and put it on the round table in the hallway, next to the little silver bowls, the palm cross, the Norwegian books.  They're hopeful flowers. The English don't like gladioli. Like carnations, they are considered common, but I've never understood why.  Flowers have the right to be bright and happily vulgar.  What an odd thing, to divide flowers into snooty categories, alongside language and girls' names. I'm sorry, Nancy Mitford, but it seems a particularly bourgeois notion.  I shall fill the house with all kinds of flowers in clashing colors and I shall cook again, fiercely, especially pies. We shall see what the Studio City farmers market has in store this morning.

Heirloom LA makes little cornish pasties which they call hand pies. I rather like that term, don't you? Here's a recipe for strawberry hand pies and one for a raspberry tart, both from Heirloom LA of lasagne cupcake fame.

I hope you have a most excellent Sunday.


nancyblackett said...

I had an excellent Sunday. I am sorry that the ring has been removed but hope that this marks the beginning of some healing and a new beginning for you and your children. I think this was not of your making or choice but you can choose how you want the future to look. Your home sounds like soothing balm. I'll be over for some pie later!

LPC said...

My mother and stepfather, when I mentioned the selfsame dent, gave me a red gold ring chased with flowers and small diamonds. I've worn it on my right hand for the past several years and it has greatly soothed my remembering self.

kairu said...

A friend in her 70's still wears a diamond ring her father gave her, many years ago, after she'd left her first husband and her children (in those days, being Chinese, you didn't get to take your children with you when you left your husband, leaving scars that can take years to heal). She's since remarried, now many times longer than she had been the first time around, but that diamond still glints on one hand, a reminder that her choice was the right one, no matter how hard it was at the time.

I had been wondering about your cryptic silences over the summer; it took longer than it should have to piece together the hints of hurt that peeked through. I'm sorrier than I can say, but happy that you are surrounded by so much love and bright flowers.

Wally B said...

Please Please make me savory pies. I miss these more than sunshine in winter.
As for the missing ring, Buy something, or have something made that reminds you of other things. Things more wonderful and beautiful. Something from Norway perhaps. Plant a new place for your thumb to play.xx