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Summer Adventures, Part I: Facing My Fears

“But I can’t swim. What if I drown and ruin the experience for everyone? I bet the water is freezing cold. And what if I have to use the bathroom?” 

A slight chill crept along my insides as my heart raced. I folded my arms across my chest to protect myself from the threat of dying in that deep, flowing river.

Courtney assured me. “Mom, you’ll wear a life jacket and the wet suit will keep you warm. We’ll find a bathroom on the way.”

Seven of us squished into my jeep, backpacks loaded with water bottles, sunscreen, and cameras. As we drove through Arizona’s Salt River Canyon, excitement filled the car. Fear penetrated my body, so I imagined reclining inside a large raft, floating peacefully down the river, appreciating the beauty of cacti in the desert against golden rock formations.

On the way, we stopped at an outhouse invaded by flies. I held my breath and struggled to keep my swimsuit, tank top, and bike shorts from falling to the grimy floor. 

Nearing the site, warning signs read: “…this activity can be HAZARDOUS, INVOLVING RISK OF PHYSICAL INJURY OR DEATH.”

My stomach churned as I signed a waiver accepting my fate. 

Once aboard the raft, we didn’t sit in it, but on top of it, with only our feet to hold us there. I froze when the guide handed me an oar for maneuvering rocks and rapids as if I knew what to do with it. When an enormous wave washed over us, I quickly understood the meaning of “Class IV.” 

Before I could catch my breath, my family had rescued two men and a woman thrown overboard from another raft. Nick reached out and pulled a man almost twice his size into our raft, while Daniel lifted the woman into the raft where he sat, and our guide helped a third person to safety. The woman bled profusely from colliding with rocks. 

Are we sinking? Is this bleeding lady going to die right here in OUR raft? These thoughts crashed through my head while the others calmed her, used the guide’s first aid kit, and applied bandages to her wounds. Lucky for her, the sight of blood didn’t faze them, and they were able to maintain composure, unlike me. 

The sun’s intense heat smothered me, and claustrophobia started beating against all the layers I’d worn to keep from freezing to death. “Will someone help me get this life jacket off? I’m suffocating,” I heard myself say. Eyes rolled. “Seriously mom? Right now?” But, seeing desperation on my face, Courtney managed to help me out of my distress.  

The next day, I bragged to family and friends that we had rescued three people during our adventure, saying we were heroes on the Salt. The truth is, it was others in that raft who were the true heroes, unselfishly putting a stranger’s needs before their own. 

Yet, in an unfamiliar way, maybe I too was a hero for having the courage to make the trip and do the thing I feared most. 

(This year I’m paying tribute to all the “moms” who are “dads” too. Happy Father’s Day to you. And to all the real dads (like mine) and grandpa’s out there who have earned the title.)

A baby wakes his mother at 2:00am, and she’s distracted from a bad dream she wanted to end. 

Her eyes open slightly and she’s suddenly aware of every muscle in her body, a still-swollen belly, and cramps so painful she flinches. The mother takes this baby into her arms and is distracted by the splendor of his ocean blue eyes peering into her own as she feeds him. The baby tugs at her breast and she rocks him gently, singing him back to sleep. 

As the baby grows and discovers his world, he stumbles. He finds amusing objects to fit into his mouth, and he wails when fever hits and he learns about pain though he doesn’t have words to describe it. The mother is distracted with worries and fear, so she reads “Dr. Mom,” asks other mothers for advice, says a few prayers, and soothes him. 

Before long, the child discovers his own way and sees how big the world is. He goes about exploring the rivers and mountains and friends and music. And while he’s creating his future, the mother is distracted with the stress of her job, paying the bills, taking care of her home, and doing her best to be mother of the year for this boy and his sister. She’s so distracted, she loses a sense of herself and then wonders where the time went. Absorbed with school projects, band concerts, and wrestling matches, her life is full. So full she doesn’t see that one day her child will be grown and on his own. 

Now the mother is distracted with new worries and fears. Will he be safe? Will he make good decisions? And will he find love? When the answer to all these questions is “yes” the mother becomes distracted with life-changing events that fill her heart with pride and gratitude—his graduations, a spectacular wedding after finding his love, and the most cherished gift—a new baby. 

A grandchild is the best kind of distraction because now the mother has more to love, and her life is too full for worry. She only has time for silly games, ABC songs, books about dinosaurs, and hide and seek. Her world is all about building forts, playing catch, baking cookies, and sleepover parties.

Then one day the mother realizes her child is a success. He has become the man she hoped he would be–adventurous, caring, and wise. She’s as proud as the day he was born. He’s ready, he says, to explore the big world, and before she has time to worry, the mother is saying goodbye. She can’t wait to visit. And though she’s distracted by miles between them, she knows he is happy. Her heart is full. 

The mother’s distractions don’t end there. She loses sleep about what she’ll do next. She looks around inside her new world, and it seems much smaller, still filled with distractions. A stack of books waiting to be opened. A memoir screaming to be finished. A mind to grow, a body to nourish, a heart to mend. She’ll step into the light and discover that there’s more to learn, more to do, and more to become. 

But she’ll need some distractions. Give her distractions. Her world is nothing without them.

(PS: In case you’re wondering, I did find two beautiful distractions who also love dinosaurs!)

*published by Pure Slush Books, Love Lifespan Anthology, Vol. 4, 2021.

Today, my garage door blew its spring. Snapped clear in half. So that’s what that loud unidentifiable crash was this morning! I didn’t notice it until deciding to take the trash cans out to the curb. Pressing the garage door button on the wall, I could see the door struggling to open, pushing its way up just a tad, making a clicking noise, and then falling back down. The left side is crooked, its bottom not quite reaching the concrete beneath it. I’ve tried manually to help it along, but it won’t budge.

This is a problem for several reasons. First, the garage door company can’t come out to fix it for at least two days. Since my car is in the garage, I feel more sheltered-in-place than in 2020 during the pandemic lockdown. I can’t walk anywhere because of scorching heat here in Phoenix, day and night. And a bike ride is out of the question since my bike is holed up in the garage. The worst part about this is the trash cans can’t be emptied until next week after the garage door is fixed. 

I can’t help but smile, recalling what’s in that can and memories from the past week. Time spent with grandkids, pets, gardening, and cooking. Everything I treasure.

Yesterday, I decided to clean out the tortoise house which hadn’t been cleaned out since Spring. Zulu, my African spurred tortoise, reminded me of this when she started cleaning out her own space, pushing piles of poo out her door and onto the lawn. She weighs over a hundred pounds so you can imagine the size of her poo. It’s like cleaning up after a horse. Yet I can’t stand the thought of not having her, despite all the poo. I filled four trash bags full and had placed them into the large trash bin in the garage along with dirty grandkid diapers, grass clippings, and food discards from the past few days. So, every time I empty trash into the bin, I get a lovely whiff of all that deliciousness marinating inside. 

Never have I longed so desperately to take out the trash.

One afternoon a while back, I rolled my trash bin around to the backyard to collect grass trimmings before setting it on the curb for trash pick-up. I’d unlocked the back gate, and once safely inside, by habit, I latched the gate and secured the combination lock. I proceeded to clean up after mowing and then slumped into my Adirondack chair to admire the fruits of my labor. I tried relaxing but was agitated by a tiny bit of debris settling inside my right eye. With no success at rubbing it out, I was frustrated and popped out both contact lenses. Now I could clearly see the sun sinking low in the sky and gray clouds hovering above me. Time to call it a day. 

Remembering I had a cold beer waiting for me in the fridge, I got my butt up out of the chair, grabbed hold of the trash bin and headed to the gate when I realized it was locked. Since my disposable contacts were shriveling up somewhere in the freshly mowed lawn, I couldn’t see worth a damn. Opening the combination lock was impossible since I couldn’t make out any numbers. 

Well, I’ll just go through the back door of the house and grab my glasses. But it too was locked. So, I’m imprisoned in my own back yard, it’s growing darker by the minute, and I don’t have my phone. I stood on tiptoes, balancing on a bucket near the gate yelling like a lunatic for a neighbor to rescue me. Yet not a soul was around. In the end I managed to hoist my sixty-year-old, tired body up onto the concrete block fence and leap to freedom. I wish someone had witnessed that awesome escape. At last, I was able to go through the garage, into the house, grab my glasses, unlock the back gate, take out the trash, and call it a night. 

On my morning walk, I passed a certain house and remembered a short story I’d written Memorial Day weekend, 2020. I’m sharing this now, as a reminder about pool safety. 

Backing out of my driveway, I noticed a sunshine yellow fire truck rounding the cul-de-sac. Could be a heart attack or stroke. Nearing the end of my street, I encountered at least ten police cars and news media invading the area.Yellow tape. Looks more like a crime scene. Maybe a murder, or suicide, or murder-suicide. 

Reports of depression and crime had escalated as lives were disrupted by unemployment, loneliness, sickness, and death due to COVID-19. 

Yet on Memorial Day weekend, parties erupted as if the pandemic was merely a bad dream. 

I was taking my Shih Tzu, Millie, for a drive that afternoon to alleviate our restlessness from three months of isolation. On returning home, I flipped through the local news channels. My heart fell, hearing a three-year old girl had fallen into a swimming pool and drowned, in my neighborhood. The weight of this tragedy was impossible to shake. 

I made salad for dinner but didn’t have much of an appetite, missing my own precious grandchildren. Wanting them safe by my side.

Rocketman on Prime kept my mind occupied for a while. And later, carousing next-door neighbors were so loud I couldn’t sleep. With a queasy stomach, I finally drifted off sometime after midnight. 

The morning came, as it does every day, but my sorrow hadn’t lifted. I strapped on shoes and headed out for a walk when a memory rattled me. Two days prior, I’d walked at a nearby park, snapping photographs of nature and misplaced objects. Strewn several yards apart near the bank of a man-made lake, my camera captured a small pink mitten, one small sparkly pink sandal, and a Little Mermaid beach towel. These findings left me with an uneasy feeling, wondering how the items were lost and if they’d been missed. Had I taken a different route that morning, or walked at a different time of day, I might not have noticed them. The impression weighed on me so much I returned home and journaled about it—my way of unloading.  

My walk this morning was longer than usual, and it was a relief to turn the corner into my development. Nearing my street, I looked up and saw one pink Mylar balloon with a silver ribbon floating high above the houses. Coincidence? Maybe. But then, another pink balloon trailed the first, and three more after that. I broke down, feeling connected to the little girl whose life was cut short, and I grieved for her though I’d never known her.  

Hearing of these tragedies from time to time, my heart breaks. But this was different. Maybe it’s too close to home, or because I’m a grandmother. Either way, I’m holding my grandbabies close and appreciating every second. I pray for the family, one street over, that can no longer do that. 

We’re all responsible for vigilance around water. Parents love and care for their children the best they can. But eyes diverted for just a few seconds can change their lives forever.

From the moment I walk through automatic doors of the antique mall, my senses stir causing my insides to rumble and I’m relieved to see restrooms nearby.  This usually happens when I enter a Hallmark store, seeing too many cards of different varieties in one setting. But today, I’m looking at 55,000 square feet of antique heaven. It’s enough stimulation to keep me regular for days.  

As I begin strolling through long narrow aisles, I’m greeted by the vintage woman I’d seen propped on the front end of a red ’57 Chevy when I entered the store. She introduces herself as “Mae” and offers directions for maneuvering through the traffic of patrons searching for the ultimate antique shopping adventure. “You’ll see street signs at each of the intersections,” she says. “Pay attention to those, or you may never find your way out.”

She wasn’t joking. Yet somewhere within this vast treasure trove, I’m bound to find the one thing that brought me here. A perfect set of vintage bookends. 

An hour passes as I’m distracted by thousands of items salvaged and repurposed. Like me, they want to reinvent themselves, to be valued for their age and wisdom, and not passed over for something shiny and new. Buried somewhere among antique roll top desks, Victorian mahogany clocks, and pin-up retro posters, is a set of bookends screaming out over this crowd of crazies to be rescued. Most bookends I find are too tall with a cheap appearance. I’m looking for simple yet elegant. Classic and timeless. 

Rounding the corner at the intersection of Main Street and Thomas, I finally see it. One perfect bookend, high on a shelf next to a few weathered books resting on their spines like fallen dominoes. Heavy cast metal vintage. Simple and elegant. 

I reach for the bookend and on the inside is a label: “Scholar.” A quick Google search shows this bookend was created in 1925, the year my dad was born. He might have been a scholar had he been given the chance. One of the most honest and intelligent men I’ve known, he fought for his country and worked hard until his death. Yet “Scholar” would not be engraved on his headstone. 

Etsy says the bookends feature an embossed “Scribe” versus “Scholar.” Taking a closer look, I see a man kneeling on one knee with a document resting on the other. Google’s historical definition for “scribe” is a person employed to copy documents before printing was invented. But what caught my eye was the general definition for scribe: “one who writes.” 

That’s me. One who writes. 

I must have these bookends. 

Engraved on the back of the bookend is SNEAD & CO Jersey City, N.J. Patent Pending. With some more internet digging, I learn a little history behind the inventor. Snead & Co. Iron Works began in Louisville KY in 1851 and Jersey City NJ in 1898. The company developed and manufactured the library stack system leading to the American System of Libraries used in the Library of Congress and Harvard University. Who would’ve known?

So, what is Patent Pending? Investopedia says it’s a term used by inventors to let the public know they’ve filed a patent application with the relevant patent and trademark authority. In other words, a patent was applied for but hasn’t been granted. What are they waiting for? It’s been 97 years since this invention. 

The bookend is about 4¼ inches tall, 4 inches wide, nearly two inches deep, and weighs a pound and a half. Perfect size. Not too pretentious. Aesthetically pleasing to the eyes even though there is some wear to the bronze. I’m told the bookends have not been cleaned so as not to disturb the patina, a brown film on the surface of bronze or similar metals, produced by oxidation over a long period. I later learn a magnet will stick to the metal, although I’m not sure I’ll be decorating my bookend with magnets. 

On tiptoes, I look for the other bookend so I can make my purchase. It isn’t there. I scan nearby shelves and search behind dusty old books. Nothing. I ask the vendor. He knows nothing of its whereabouts. 

Was it destroyed by fire? Or separated from its mate as the result of a broken relationship? Did someone buy only one bookend, leaving this one behind? I can only speculate. 

Soon I realize this single, vintage bookend is just right for me. A single, vintage woman who doesn’t depend on another. One pillar of strength, supporting the books she loves. 

I feel peace. In the warmth that settles on my skin. A light breeze teasing my hair. My heart throbs with love overflowing.

I hear peace. In leaves that sway, chimes that ring, and a waterfall sending ripples into a bright pool of water.

I smell peace. In freshly mowed grass, a baby’s skin, and wafts of soil. 

I taste peace. In cinnamon, maple French toast made by a tiger boy with handsome eyes and a heart of gold. 

I see peace. In the little boy tiger as he skips along sun-kissed green grass, dinosaurs in tow, to a corner tree, its branches leaning low where he snatches leaves to serve “dino” dinner. Then he nestles them safely in for the night under pods and leaves and soil. While his dump truck slippers hold up under the threat of thorns, rocks and tortoise poo. 

The 110-lb African spurred tortoise saunters, sloth-like, along the perimeter of grass, grazing, then lifting her head to find the boy, anticipating his next ride. And alongside the tortoise, a 10-lb Shih-Tzu rules her brood in a tender way. Her tan spots peek through soft white fur, as her tail—featherlike, sways back and forth with childlike wonder. She comes face-to-face with the tortoise and her eyes soften, knowing the creature is different yet kind. Curious and free. 

And only inches away from mine are eyes like chocolate kisses, almond oval, looking for meaning. Only nine months of life’s experience, she knows how to recognize, trust, and love. She smiles at the angels, waves with awareness, and searches my eyes to know what I know. 

Find your peace. 

In a garden.

In a tiger chasing dinosaurs.

In a wandering reptile.

In a curious puppy.

In a smiling baby. 

I found mine.

Life is like a puzzle, with all its loops and sockets, edges and corners. Colorful and shiny on the surface, gray and drab underneath. Deceiving you in an artful way. At times complex, misshapen, or crumbling from decay.               

A good amount of trickery and problem-solving can tempt you to abandon it for a while, moving through the day-to-day, going about your business, seeing through the corner of your eye the pieces and parts calling out to you, “Hey, over here! I need some attention.” You forget what you were working on, striving for. The thing that will fill you up inside.

            Your passion summons you with brazen assurance, “So, take a chance, will you? Sacrifice those long-standing convictions that don’t serve you, except to lead you down a path of uncertainty and self-doubt. Beliefs that zap your confidence, your enthusiasm. Your inner voice misleading you, a superego looking over your shoulder, watching your every move, having you solve the puzzle their way, not yours.”

            You see, in order to do life or to work a puzzle, you’ll need some structure. A solid foundation to provide support when you need it. A starting place. Ambition. Discipline. And perseverance. But the best part is, you get to make your own rules. According to your timeline.

             So, begin with some preparation. You can’t expect all the pieces to merely fall into place, swirling around you with the slightest breeze, looking for the right fit, magically landing in a place of destiny. No. You must collect the pieces, make a plan, and use tactics to decide your next move. You’ll find missing pieces along the way that will help you reach the finish line. 

Here are some tips and tricks:

• Turn all the pieces right side up so images are clear, visible. See the light. Show your colors. Be honest with yourself. The truth is right in front of you if you look for it. 
• Begin with the border. If it’s a little rough around the edges, don’t worry. You can smooth things out with some tender loving care. Then work toward the center, safeguarding the innermost parts, the most vulnerable, the heart. 
• Look for patterns in your life or puzzle. Do you see clear lines and connections that lead you to your purpose? If not, draw them. Be creative. Design it yourself. Afterall, you own it.
• If life or the puzzle becomes too challenging, categorize the elements. Sort through the clutter. Focus on the pieces that bring you joy. Those that move you. The ones that give you peace. And when you need some help, ask for it.
• If you feel defeated and you’re ready to give up, look at it from a different perspective. Step away. Take a break. Try something new. But never give in. 

A puzzle is a game you can win on your own. Alone. So is life. It can make you crazy at times. You might talk to yourself while you’re in the midst of it. Or lose sleep, thinking about how you’ll get through it. Imagining what you might have done differently, though you tried every angle. 

Before you know it, a scene will develop, with colors and shapes like you’ve never seen. The image is well-crafted. Exquisite. Delight in what you’ve accomplished. Share it with someone.

But be cautious. Life and the puzzle are fragile. What you’ve built can fall apart at any moment. If it’s unsalvageable, start over. Take a different path. Make a new plan. Then find the glue that will hold it together. 

My last blog was about “first dates” and since last week would have been my 37^th wedding anniversary (had the marriage lasted), I decided to write about a first date with my ex. This is likely the nicest story I will ever write about him. And, as you might have noticed, I enjoy writing about food. I believe food and romance go together, don’t you? Here goes. 

“You’ll love it,” he said, gazing at me across the kitchen counter where he’d prepared his favorite recipes. As a starter, Tim introduced me to what looked like a large green flower bulb, perfectly arranged on a platter alongside leaves of the same plant and a dip he concocted simply from melted butter, lemon juice, and a dollop of mayonnaise. His sky-blue eyes softened–seeing through my contrived smile and raised eyebrows that this was my first encounter with an artichoke. Without a word, he looked me in the eyes, peeled off a leaf, dipped it in sauce and scraped the flesh with his teeth. 

Getting acquainted with the artichoke and the man behind it, I discovered similarities between the two. Both were “an acquired taste” for me, like some of my favorite wines. Just as I’d never seen or tasted an artichoke, I hadn’t dated anyone like Tim, a knowing and caring man underneath a rustic demeanor. With some insight and inspiration, I found myself falling in love with both. Attempting a new and unfamiliar dish for the first time can be a bit unnerving, so preparation and presentation are equally important in making that first impression. 

What family and friends may not know about me is that I’m a curious and adventurous soul willing to tread, cautiously, beyond my comfort zone to try something new. An open mind is essential and it’s best not to bring high expectations to the table. Just be present in the moment with what is directly across the counter in front of you, and you will enjoy a uniquely flavorful cuisine. Take it slow in the beginning, savoring each mouthful, while gradually becoming familiar with its tastes and textures. This process can take time, and it’s wise to sample something new a few times in different settings to fully appreciate its value. One might find, over time, that this newfound fare is a delightful source of pleasure. 

The artichoke, if not harvested, will become a beautiful purple flower or thistle. Since quality matters, one should learn the source of any new acquaintance–vegetable or human. As it turns out, both the artichoke and Tim are products of southern California. At the core, each has a warm and tender heart, protected by strong outer layers, rough and virile on the surface. Unearthing the heart isn’t easy, but the reward is out of this world. 

The artichoke can be roasted in the oven or on the grill. Tim’s artichokes are steamed until soft enough to peel back layers and get to the heart. This delicacy can be served up at any temperature, but it is best after a good simmer, and it’s always wise to let it cool down before handling. You’ll know it’s done when the stem is fork-tender. 

The artichoke and the man may be delectable, but they can also be intimidating and precarious. The reason an artichoke’s fuzzy center near the heart is called a choke is because it is a choking hazard. The danger of marrying Tim was my bringing unrealistic expectations to the table, moving too fast, anticipating the perfect finish, and ultimately discarding the heart. 

In my last blog, I mentioned one of my favorite pastimes is sitting at a bar observing people and taking notes. This may seem intrusive, but it’s how I get my stories.

You just know when it’s a first date. Body language gives it away. She folds her hands in her lap, nervously fidgeting, her nails perfectly manicured, with a flashy ring on the middle finger of her left hand, evidence she’s unattached. His hands appear misleadingly pure, nails neatly trimmed, fingers soft and fair, as if they’ve never touched a woman or known a hard day’s work. And the hair, a focal point for each of them—hers highlighted and cut into perfect layers, flowing down her back and around her face. His the same, only shorter. And if I had to place a bet, I’d say he’s had some work done on his face. His features are just a little too flawless, perhaps an attempt at youth and integrity. 

Her drink is a feminine pink cocktail with a thin slice of lime clinging to the rim of a dainty glass, to imply: “I’m a ravenous feline, graceful and sleek, clinging to my virginity.” His drink is served in a lowball glass, maybe scotch or whisky on the rocks, and sits alongside an amber-colored beer screaming: “I’m a red-blooded American boy, working up the courage to ask you back to my place.” 

They share an appetizer—herb hummus with grilled flatbread, tomato, cucumber, onion, and feta. Each has placed a small amount of food on an appetizer plate rather than digging in to share from the platter. Yet it hasn’t been touched. She worries about messing up her lip gloss. He’s afraid taking a bite will expose his bad manners. 

He attempts an awkward cut into the pita. Who eats pita and hummus with a knife and fork? If I could get inside his head, I’d say: Just pick it up, Buddy. That’s how it’s done. But he gives it up, sets the fork down, picks up his phone, and… Oh no! He’s showing her a selfie he took while looking in a mirror–the naked upper-half of his body. I gather he wants her to check out his abs: “When I saw this view of myself, I asked ‘where’s the nearest buffet?’” Gag me.

I see he has slipped off his seat and is heading toward the restroom. This is her chance to take a bite. She forgot to ask for utensils, so she grabs the pita bread and scoops up a serving of hummus to devour before he returns. After looking over her shoulder, she tears off another piece, scrapes more hummus from the plate, and quickly consumes it while checking her phone. She takes a corner of her napkin to blot excess oil from her t-zone and gently dabs at her mouth before reapplying lip gloss–just in time to see him rounding the bar to approach his seat. She takes a small sip of her drink, attempting to wash down any remnants of hummus from her tongue. When he returns, he’s seemingly more confident than before his trip to the restroom. 

Before his butt hits the seat, he begins talking about two women he dated previously, both long distance relationships. He explains that the chemistry just wasn’t there. It’s hard to make out the rest of the conversation held quietly under background music and voices around the bar. He does most of the talking as she continues to fidget with her hands, collecting her cloth napkin into a perfect triangle against her lap, now delicately reaching for a sample of pita and rearranging the hummus on her plate.

Both wonder within their individual minds how this will end. “Will he invite me back to his place?” she muses. “Have I impressed her enough so she can’t resist me?” he considers. She gingerly tastes her cocktail and follows it with a quick sip of water to clear her throat, realizing he has asked a question she’ll need to answer. But, damn it, I didn’t hear the question. She’s talking with her hands as he talks with his eyes. The food is barely touched though I see they’re both hungry. Maybe saving their appetites for what comes next. 

Let’s talk food! 

As life begins returning to normal after months of stay-at-home pandemic measures, I dare to venture out to my favorite places. 

Prior to February 2020, I made a monthly date with myself to visit a cherished indie bookstore, Changing Hands, and enjoy the afternoon lingering at my favorite eatery, True Food Kitchen. I’ve missed the atmosphere, service, food, drinks, and camaraderie among team members–bartenders, waiters, cooks, managers. And visitors like me–health fanatics with a passion for savoring great food and good company. 

Typically, I sit at the bar to people-watch, read, and record my thoughts and observations while sipping on Cava Mercat (Penedès, Spain) or Sauvignon Blanc Crossings (Marlborough, New Zealand). As a side note, I’ve experimented with several types of wine over the past few years. Reds and whites of various vintages and regions. Ultimately, my preference is any sauvignon blanc from Marlborough, New Zealand. 

Now I safely sit at a “sanitized” table with access to a “contactless” menu, using a barcode scanned with my iPhone. Now that’s sophisticated! It’s a different world. And I’m okay with it. What I’m not okay with is the young hostess who concerns herself that I might need assistance, “Ma’am,” using the barcode technology. I may be old, but I’m not stupid.

Because it’s a new day, I’m sipping on a craft cocktail instead of wine, possibly the best drink I’ve ever tasted. I can’t tell you the name of it because it was muffled under the mask of my waiter. But it’s a cranberry-infused organic vodka with ginger liqueur, cranberry and lime juice on the rocks. Luscious. I’ll tell you what else is luscious. The gorgeous green eyes of my waiter. I’m embarrassed looking at him and feel as if I should look away, but I’m bedazzled. He’s likely one-fourth my age, but I’m also not too old to recognize beauty when I see it. Hot damn. 

For starters, I have in front of me a spectacular herb hummus with cucumber, organic tomato, onion, olive, feta, lemon oregano vinaigrette, and house-made pita. My entrée is an ancient grains bowl with miso sesame glazed sweet potato, turmeric, charred onion, snap pea, grilled portobello, avocado, and hemp seed. Fresh ingredients in layers of goodness. Is your mouth watering? 

True Food Kitchen will create your favorite meal while meeting the need for gluten free, vegan, vegetarian, keto, paleo, or other science-based nutrition. Ingredients are farmed organically and crafted to entertain your taste buds with savory delight. 

If there’s room left in your belly after taking pleasure in this fabulous fare, you might enjoy the Chia Seed Pudding with banana and coconut for dessert. It’s a joyful end to this True Food COVID experience.