Refrigerator Girl

I think there’s a secret in my refrigerator. I don’t know what it is, but almost every night I feel compelled to open the door and stare inside.  I know exactly what is stored in there. That part is no secret. Tonight there are salad greens, cheeses, a pesto sauce, deviled eggs, aloe vera juice, limes, zucchini, cod liver oil, yogurt and cherries. The contents don’t vary a whole lot, but something in me expects a surprise or a fulfillment of mysterious origin. 

This frig has a life of its own. It’s taken to making random staccato forte sounds at the least appropriate times, which escalate in manic fashion, then die completely away. I’ve never heard anything like it. Could it be possessed? Is that why the adjoining microwave has decided to go on and off whenever it feels like it? Is that why I’m under this spell? 

I walk over, open the door, look inside and watch with full attention. I gaze off into middle space.

What is this relationship with my refrigerator? I would be no less captivated by the sway of the wide winged head of a cobra.

I have noticed that I am not the only person to do this ritualized search. My best friend, Susan does it, and my husband did as well, only his path included the cupboards, particularly the shelf that stored the baking chocolate. But I am not drawn to the cupboards; they hold no mystery for me. 

I don’t care about breakfast and feel indifferent at lunch, so dinner finds me ravenous. I eat too late, then boomerang back to the refrigerator – again and again. I pull open the door and study each shelf as if something new might have sprung up inside, as if the lighted interior might have birthed a full-dished banana split complete with whipping cream and sprinkled walnuts, the kind I could eat without gaining weight, feeling bloated or getting a raging headache afterwards. Or maybe I’ll discover a ticket to the Bahamas hiding in the lettuce crisper, or a perfect and eager lover waiting to materialize behind the raspberry lemonade.

Specks of dust motes glow against the interior light as I close the door once again…closing the door…walking away.  Didn’t find it tonight, maybe tomorrow.

Blind Date

Thirty-seven years ago I bottomed out in my life, and decided to end it. I was living in Ohio, my children were in Philadelphia, and my friend, Joy, whom I lived with, was out for the evening. At that time, I believed that any prescription drug taken in large quantities could kill you, so I went to Joy’s medicine cabinet, swallowed several large vials of pills and lay on my bed, prepared to die.

I had barely closed my eyes when the doorbell rang, persistent and unpleasant. Oh, all right. I’m coming. I’m coming.

I swung the door open to find a dark-haired man in his early 20’s holding a bouquet of flowers.

Hi, I’m Dave, your blind date. Did you forget?

He wore navy pants, a pin-striped shirt and good intentions.

No, Dave, I lied. I didn’t forget. Just give me a minute. He sat in the living room while I changed my clothes. If I’m going to die, I thought, I might as well be having a good time while it’s happening.

I smiled at the bizarre situation unfolding as we drove through the country. Dave lit a joint and passed it in my direction. The humor wore off as I held it to my lips and inhaled. My reality began to shift as it absorbed in my system. Dave had been talking for sometime, but I hadn’t been listening. Suddenly I felt I owed him an explanation.

Dave, there is something I think you should know. I looked in his direction, smiling a thin smile. Just before you came I decided to kill myself and took a whole bunch of pills, so…. ah… actually, I could die any time.

This is a joke, right?

Nope, not a joke, I’m telling the truth.

There was a moment of introspection as he assessed the situation and let the news sink in. The next time he glanced in my direction his face had changed, I could tell he believed me.

Holy Shit! He reached over and positioned the side window so the cold night air flooded my face. Gravel flew and tires squealed as he made a u-turn, going faster than I had ever driven.

What are you trying to do, kill me before the pills kick in?

He didn’t answer; humor was drained from his expression. I’m taking you to the hospital.

No, you’re not.  I’ve spent most of my life in hospitals and I don’t intend to die in one.

You’re not going to die. You’re going to get your stomach pumped.

Dave, I don’t do hospitals, understand?

Twenty minutes later the car shrieked to a halt in front of the ambulance entrance at Columbus General Hospital. He ran around the car and yanked my door open.

I’m not going in there, I insisted. I told you that.

Yes, you are. I’m not going to have a dead girl on my hands. He dragged me from the car, past wheelchairs and magazine racks to the front desk. This woman has to have her stomach pumped, he told the nurse, she’s taken pills. He had a strong grip on my arm, but I pulled away and ran toward the door.

We can’t admit anyone who doesn’t want to be admitted, the nurse told him, sorry. A hot-tempered conversation ensued.

I’d made my way to the sheltering branches of a giant oak and settled in the grass. When Dave emerged, he walked slowly, defeated and tired. He lowered himself on the ground next to me.

Nobody seems to care what happens to people around here, so there’s nothing I can do.

I took his arm to comfort him. That’s okay; it’s not a big deal.

Oh, a human life is not a big deal to you?

My life isn’t. I’ve hated being alive as long as I can remember.

We lay back on the well-manicured lawn and looked at the sky through twilight branches.

Dave, doesn’t it seem that I’m taking a really long time to die? If I think back to the time I took the pills, and all the things we’ve done between now and then, it just seems like I should be dead already. I don’t get it. I don’t even feel sick, maybe something’s gone wrong.

I don’t get it either, he said, but Denny’s restaurant is over there, let’s go get some coffee.

A waitress came over. How you guys doin’ tonight? She was dressed in an orange and white uniform with food stains on her apron. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, as she waited for our order.

I’m fine, Dave answered, but my friend here could die any time, she’s taken a bunch of pills and the hospital won’t admit her.

The waitress chewed on the end of her pencil and looked blankly out the window. Do you know what you want to eat?

What exactly did you take? he asked, as the waitress disengaged and walked through swinging kitchen doors.

I thought back to the empty plastic cylinders but remembered nothing.

I don’t know. I was just sad and went into my room mate’s medicine cabinet and swallowed everything she had. They were all prescription.  He asked for Joy’s phone number and got up to call. When he returned he said, those pills won’t hurt you, there was nothing lethal there.

Stunned and embarrassed, I peered across the table. Then all this was for nothing, right?

He drained the last drops from his cup, and pushed back his chair. It’s beginning to look that way. Come on, I’ll take you home.

Well, look at the bright side, I told him. You’ll probably never have another date like this one.

Recession

A client gave me a box of chocolates. I am not supposed to eat chocolate but who can resist? I am not supposed to eat anything that is really wonderful anymore, but I do. In fact my mouth is full of chocolate. I’m on my third piece. I’ll leave the fourth one, the last one, because there is no chewy center. No surprise in the middle. There is only a small rectangular piece of milk chocolate with a logo stamped on it. Oops, too late! I picked it up to examine the design and bite into the corner to prove it was solid. What could I do then, put it down? Nah, just stuff it in next to the rest of them. Now there is an empty box. Soon I will start to itch, and my throat will close a little. People who call will ask if I have a cold because I’ll be sniffling. I get such incredibly low marks for discipline.

I did the cards this morning. They said to be careful of over-indulgence. Don’t try to fill the empty space with food. Ride out your feelings, notice and allow them. I obviously am not listening to guidance today.

I have done everything I know to avoid writing. I have baked a quiche and watered the plants. I have framed a picture and done laundry. The sound of the heater fills the room as I study the tea that spilled in the saucer of my cup.

My thoughts are scattered. Life is strange. We all think we have some control and some say in things, but I wonder. Sometimes life is just life and we’re in it, being stable and happy, or being tossed like a ship at sea. My clients are suffering from the recession, their survival fears are strong. They are being stripped of material security and what savings they had to keep poverty at bay. I worry about them. They are asked to cope differently and be creative in finding solutions. Astrology has thrown us a curve as well. The difficult placement of Venus is great for the arts now, but will highlight weak points in relationship to the point of separation. Ouch.

I talk with my husband about the recession. What would you do if we had lots of money, he asks. What difference would it make? I spin a few fantasies of home and generosity, while he does the same, but as I look around I know that we have everything we need. Our lives are bountiful, the simplicity of our existence full and over-flowing.

I am busy being strong for others now. Sometimes I feel too strong, sometimes I feel too weak. Sometimes I feel like taking long walks to clear my heart. I search for perspective in the distance. I wish life was not so hard. I wish things could flow with more grace and ease, and that there were not so many broken bodies lining the landscape, and filling my dreams. I wonder if there is enough chocolate in the world to deal with all of this. I would be surprised.

France and food

I must have been such a pain in the butt, but Elise was an exciting cook and I simply did not want to leave the table.

I was in Vincennes visiting relatives, Claude, Elise and their four year old son, Gilles.

Growing up in a restaurant, I was accustomed to good food, but was completely unprepared for the culinary delights of France.

Each morning I would follow Elise through open air markets, as she slipped fresh fruits, vegetables, fish and bread in the small string bag over her arm. I had never seen pastries like the ones displayed in the windows. They were works of colorfully displayed art, ready to be tasted and moaned over.

The baker was covered in flour as he stood in the door of the boulanger, smiling and looking satisfied with his work. Two years of high school French had not prepared me for conversation, but I felt the gist of community as he handed a baguette to Elise fresh from the oven. I was surprised to see them sold without the clear wrapping of breads at home. Customers carried them off on the back of bicycles, and tucked them inside packs with no regard for protection. Great chunks of artisan cheese made with whole unpasteurized milk were handed over the same way.

I had just left boarding school and had a summer before I began studying music in Cambridge. Elise and Claude wanted to show me the sights, which began with the famous Vincennes Medieval Castle which loomed above city streets. That summer we took the metro to Paris and saw the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, Jardin de Luxembourg, Notre Dame, and the Arc de Triomphe, but I had little interest, because I had been hopelessly seduced by the cooking of Elise. It was all I could think of.

When Claude asked what I wanted to visit each day, I told him I didn’t care. I just wanted to eat anything Elise would make. She stood over her simple wooden table, chopped, whisked, and tossed, stopping only to wipe her hands and push a lock of black hair from her forehead. I was in a pool of sensual pleasure and hoped to drown.

Smells of fish sautéed in butter and white wine wafted out her window as fresh herbs splashed in and out of the pan making sauces I had never imagined. I was introduced to the exotic unknown flavors of saffron, shallots, fennel and leeks. She braised white onions and caramelized mushrooms, boiled a rich sauce with blood red burgundy, and served steaming bowls of boeuf bourguignon. Crusty loaves of bread ripped by hand soaked the juices.

Dessert came in white ridged dishes of golden-brown crème carmel, or chocolate mousse with gobs of rich cream on top. The house filled with smells I had never known each time she donned an apron. Elise did not seem a gourmet cook, I am not even sure she took pleasure in it. She was simply preparing the daily meals for her husband and child. In the end, her kitchen was the only part of France I wanted to know. She had ensnared my young taste buds and opened a whole new world of pleasure. I’m sure they were relieved when it was time for me to leave for Salzburg. I had been a ravenous freeloader.

I never forgot the sensual delights of my summer in Vincennes. After several weeks of over-indulgence and added weight, I flew to my school in Salzburg, where I traded the poetry and passion of France for a German class, where every word sounded like an execution.