Oranges, and ice cream, and snow skis, and time.

Usually, I don't post an entire poem if it's especially long, but this one (from our workshop last week) is too good. Besides, it's dead without all the moving pieces:

Oranges
By Gary Soto

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted–
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickel in my pocket.
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickel from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
in mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, for some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

We started with the prompt, "I remember..." pretty simple, but effective. We asked what this poem reminded them of. A group with memory/cognitive challenges means we frequently go completely off the tracks, but that's ok–

Carl remembered the prestige of having a nickel in your pocket -all the candy you could buy- and an old ice cream maker on a summer day (like I said, we get off track). For those of you who have no idea what such a thing looks like, please see photo above. Some of my fondest childhood memories are churning ice cream. Only ours was kind of wonky, so one of the younger children (read: me or my baby sister, Clare) had to sit on top of the churn while it was being cranked. We'd fold up a swim towel so our butt cheeks wouldn't freeze. This story made Carl laugh. He has a good laugh, like a story book.

Lee told us about a time he was skiing in Switzerland and got lost. He ended up crossing the border into Italy. I've spent a significant time living in places where I plainly do not belong, speak the language, or know how to count the currency. My first trip to Amsterdam, I wandered into the Red Light District where I was offered cocaine and a chance to prostitute myself. I think maybe snow skiing into the Italian Alps would have been nicer.

I'm listening to these stories and wondering if it's just me, or are some of the participants looking older? I swear Vic is suddenly aging, but still I hope it's just me. I want these people to be timeless, to go nowhere. Because they may not always stay on task, but what they remember is golden to me. Golden because it reminds me that sometimes life isn't about sticking to the path. It's about getting lost and figuring it out. And if we didn't get lost, would our paths ever cross?

It's about sharing the story. It's about ice cream churns. It's about all those lovely, simple things that tie us together. The memories that maybe have nothing to do with anything, or nothing to do with each other but –across generations– make us laugh nonetheless. It's about oranges, and ice cream, and snow skis, and time.

That is what it's about.

K-so.

Man, I tell you what: in the words of my friend Stacy May, "bloggin' -like pimpin'- ain't easy." My grad school classes are back in full swing and I suddenly remember what it's like to have a precariously limited social life. Fortunately, for the remainder of my degree I'll pretty much just be taking writing workshops, which I love love love. That also means anytime not spent at work is spent, well, writing. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

The biggest event of my last ten days of life has been meeting the boyfriend's dad and his girlfriend for the first time...visiting from good ol' foggy London town. OK, not foggy London town at all actually, but England nonetheless. I really wasn't nervous because:

• Parents looooove me
• Grandparents loooove me
• Hell, everyone loves me

We did all the usual Austin stuff: ate shredded rabbit leg and braised pork belly at The Odd Duck, saw the South Congress bats, went wine tasting in Fredericksburg, and had drinks at The Driskill. But most importantly, we introduced them to a culinary delight that they (tragically) have been missing for their seven decades of life on Earth: QUESO.

This was a moment of which I had only dreamed: the opportunity to bring the most greatest food ever to a sweet old English couple. It was like a mission from God. Suddenly, I understood the reason missionaries "go to the savages." This was truly a Genesis moment, like taking two people on a desolate, dark planet and saying, "Let there be Light!" My friends, queso is Gospel to me.

I could hardly contain my excitement as we ordered margaritas, a bowl of queso AND guacamole (I wanted to tell them that in Austin, we like to fold guac into our queso, but not wanting to overwhelm them with too much sheer awesomeness, kept them in separate bowls). I eagerly awaited the reaction to their first taste of heaven. And you know what?

They weren't really blown away.

Strike one for Texas. I'm not really sure how one's toes don't positively tingle at melty, spicy, cheese but I'll blame it on England. Clearly, their taste buds lack the necessary receptors needed to appreciate queso. Or maybe in true English form, they thought it best to downplay their wondrous amazement. Regardless, I basked in the glory of my (low key) conversion, my spreading the good word, and knew that deep down they appreciated -nay, admired!- my good taste and benevolence....

On Earth as it is in Queso. I mean, Heaven.

Amen.

Bananas.

Day ten of my freedom and now concluding my first full day in San Joquin de Flores. Still adapting to the spanish keyboard, so please excuse any random characters that pop-up. Per the usual, I am amazed at how much the world has to show me. In that spirit, here`s a short list of lessonsl learned in the past 36 hours:

• Do not forget about the uneaten banana in your bag. Costa Rican immigration will confiscate it and will publicly scold you something fierce. Rogue fruit is not a joking matter. Also, authorities do not appreciate you laughing while being frisked. I mean really, it was an innocent piece of fruit...you´d think I was trying to smuggle in a Colt .45. Sheesh.
• On that note: packing fruit = security breach. However, carrying on a razor, tweezers, nail clippers, liquids not sealed in individual baggies and just about everything else on the forbidden items list?? A-OK!
• Always pack lightly: this makes you seem like a very cool, very adept exotic traveler. My classmates were positively astonished to learn I had only packed one small(ish) carry-on bag for my two week stay. Little do they know I will resemble Encino Man by the end of this week.
• Airlines have managed to do the impossible: make flying more expensive, yet less enjoyable! Por ejemplo: my ticket cost a mere $300...but with a cool $400 in fees/taxes tacked on. Also, no more television/movies (bring books) but good news: you can now pay $6 to watch DirecTV! Fortunately, airline food is still reliably heinous (hey, I take comfort in the familiar). Although my airline no longer offers a vegetarian option. So. There´s that.
• On your first night of a homestay, it´s good to tell your host family one clean, and one dirty joke. My captive audience of three actually laughed...probably at my poor spanish, but still.
• The name ¨Phyllis`` is nearly impossible for anyone, in an country, to properly pronounce or spell. You can now call me `Philips`` because that´s what I´ll be for the next 13 days.
• Similarly, it is also universally entertaining that I am one-half of a Philip - Phyllis couple. This never gets old to anyone.
• The coffee here will make you a believer. Or at the very least, a cranky addict. Seriously though, it´s like drinking straight from the chalice of Heaven. Costa Rican coffee is truly the stuff religions are built on.
• Always, always save your blog draft. Otherwise, you will lose the entire damn thing and be forced to start over after you unsucesfully try to insert a picture of a stupid freakin´banana.

Scalding.

Here's the weird thing: I'm one of those people that likes my hot food items to be really hot. Like, really, really hot. I am also a painfully slow eater/drinker (with the exception of pizza and vodka/beer/wine/did I mention vodka?) so I can literally re-heat the same cup of coffee a dozen times, just to keep it at optimal hotness.

No doubt this has something to do with the fact that I often tend toward excessiveness in my life. I'm the "whole nine yards" kinda gal...get your minds out of the gutter!...Like that time when I was in the first grade and learned how to make little people of egg shells and construction paper (thanks Hilights magazine!)...most kids would have made a happy family of say, four. Mommy, Daddy, baby boy egg, baby girl egg. Nay! Not me! I wasn't satisfied until I created an entire village of egg people characters, successfuly wasting a carton of 18 eggs. My mother was not amused.

Anyway. This morning I steamed some vanilla soy milk, threw in a bag of Bombay Chai tea, and finished it off with honey to make basically the greatest beverage ever. Unfortunately, I steamed the milk something outrageous...after minutes of staring at the cup just sitting on my desk, I couldn't take it anymore. The billowy clouds of heat puffing up weren't enough to deter me. Of course, I had a brief moment where I considered the consequence of sipping too soon and saw in my mind's eye my facial expression as I burned every taste bud off my tongue. For some reason, this didn't stop me....

Yes, it was scalding.

No, I will not be tasting anything for the next three days.

...worth it!

Cheese?

If you know me, you know I love cheese. Plain and simple. I almost congratulated myself this morning for having gone four days without cheese, until I realized I made baked feta for dinner last night. Meh.

So this being Texas, what more popular cheese dish than queso? On Friday, had some gal pals (yes, I channeled my mother just then) over for dinner at the house. With our sweet potato enchiladas and guacamole, we just had to have queso. Which means Velveeta entered my house. Shameful, I know...but it melts so well!

Here's the scary thing: ever try to find Velveeta in your neighborhood grocery store? Yeah, good luck with that. I spent no less than 18 minutes prowling the aisles in search of that yellow box. Because really, where do you look for the stuff? It's not really cheese, so it's not in the dairy aisle. Canned vegetables? Pasta? Condiments? Just what the hell IS it?

Think about it: anything that says "Pastuerized Cheese Food Product" on the box is not your friend. You should never EVER have to specify on the label that a product is indeed food.

Finally, in total exasperation I found an employee and inquired about my precious Velveeta. Apparently, it's housed on an end cap. All by itself. At the end of the toy aisle. Yes: TOY AISLE.

Yup. Behold a "food product" so unclassifiable, so inexplicable it stands alone, save the Limited Edition Malibu Barbie.

Bon appetit!

Recap.

Yes, I've slacked off for the past week. Frankly, life has just been too much fun for blogging. Kidding! Nothing is better than this sweet, sweet piece of cyberspace right here. Anyway, here's the weekend highlights:

• Went to The Highball with my [visiting for one-night-only] brother and friends. Had a great time...pros: excellent cocktails and food, cons: too many hipsters and apparently I suck at bowling.
• Saturday farmer's market made for a lovely brunch spread. I made: mini zucchini-leek frittatas, rosemary new potatoes, Fredericksburg peaches with [made from scratch] whipped cream, and sliced up some early girl tomatoes. P.S. Kocurek Family Charcuterie makes outtathisworld Czech style bacon.
• The game Twister is much smaller than I recall...seriously, don't you remember struggling to reach right hand red? Turns out, the damn thing isn't much bigger than a postage stamp.
• Best weekend discovery? Pudding shots. Yes, you read that correctly.
• South Congress Cafe has the best bloody mary in town. Hands down.
• 80s dance parties never get old. NEVER.

Sadly, I'm now grounded until Friday...all this playing meant absolutely zero studying got finished. Which leaves me shackled to 250 painful pages of reading about Czech politics circa 1968, before class...tomorrow.

Let them eat cake.

I love Scott Calvert of The Cake Plate. Love! Also kind of hate, because he launched a new company called Cake Jars and brought samples to our office....



Mind you: I have an inflatable slip 'n' slide to attend to this Memorial Day weekend. Sailing the next weekend. Pool party the following. Now is *not* the time to bring me cake, layered with mousse, topped off with sprinkles, and stuffed into a convenient, all-too-easy to hold jar.



[insert sigh of resignation here]



I was able to "just say no" to the red velvet layer cake. The carrot cake. Even the cuteypatootey named Dreamsicle cake. But the man brought -wait for it- waaaaaait...



Peanut Butter Chocolate Bomb.



AKA: THE. DEATH. OF. ME.



It 2009 I placed a peanut butter ban on my house (which has yet to be lifted) after I once purchased a jar on Sunday afternoon and polished it off by Tuesday evening. The horror! Unfortunately, we've had these samples for a couple weeks...but in an office full of women, we decided to risk it.



One colleague said, "hmmmm...it definitely tastes like something is thinking about fermenting in there."



But did that stop us? NO! We plowed through that milk chocolate cake, with peanut butter pie filling, dark chocolate mousse and peanut butter cups like it was our last day on this green earth. Like it was a mission from god, I tell you!



So if you pick up tomorrow's Statesman and it reads:

"Young Woman Loses Self-Control and Gorges Herself on 8 Billion Calorie Cake Gimmick Resulting in Early Death"



...it's me.

The good life.

I've decided today is a good Tuesday. Here is why:

• our weekly meeting that normally lasts three hours was shaved down to a waif 50 minutes. Funny- the male heads of department are at our corporate office for the day. Turns out, when the "womenfolk" are left to their own devices we: a) start on time b) avoid passive-aggressive pissing contests and c) operate efficiently. Shocking.


• the New York editors have given me a feature which just might be my crown jewel of 2010: writing about the food scene at Austin City Limits music festival in the fall.

In sum: I have more time to accomplish work at the office today, while also knowing come October I will get my ACL pass comp'd so that I can soak up the sun, listen to live music all day, and eat whatever the hell I want.

When did it get so good?