A gastronomic thought (or ten)

When trying to branch out of lunch ruts, I have learned a lesson or two (or ten):

* Wandering around Trader Joe's doesn't help. They have what they have.

* Foil packets of Indian food and microwaved frozen naan seem like a good idea.

* Foil packets of Indian food and microwaved frozen naan are NOT a good idea.

* Nausene is just cola without the carbonation.

* Coke is better than Pepsi for everything including stomach upset.

* Diet Coke doesn't help much with stomach upset. Neither does Fresca. Both are
good at other things. Mostly providing no calorie, tasty, carbonated beverage
experiences.

* Mints do not function like Tums.

* Neither does Advil.

* Do not undertake a rut break-perunity without Tums

* Tums smooth dissolve mint flavor taste like party mints AND helps stomach upset.

In line at Fancy

Honey and I like a restaurant in the heat pit they call the Valley that we both refer to as "Fancy." Fancy is not. It is a really good Mexican restaurant, the older, but smaller sister to another really good Mexican restaurant right around the corner. (I'm trying to give Valley/L.A. people a hint about location).

Fancy has seven or eight tables inside and another six or so outside. The food is reasonably priced, fresh, and good.

Fancy? Not really. Your order from the counter, get your salsa in little plastic buckets, and they call out your number in Spanish and English. The folks who work there are nice and it's one of those L.A. places where people from all sorts of cultural backgrounds sit next to one another, including those who by birth should know good Mexican food. It's next to an express lube place. Why do we call it Fancy? Because it is. To us.

Fancy is on the way home from work for me and since Honey has been commuting by bike, I've been trying to take up more of the cooking slack. My two choices tonight were cooking fish and picking up Fancy.

So, I walk into Fancy and there's a line. I get in it and stand for a few minutes as it inches forward. Then out of nowhere, a young woman in truly ridiculous shoes steps in front of me and says, "I was in line."

I look at her in shock and amazement. "You were?"

She gestures impatiently behind me. "Yes, I was over there."

I turn to look and realize that she had been sitting (though I did not and could not have seen her) in a chair five feet away from the end of the line hidden behind a stack of high chairs.

"You were sitting there?"

"Yes and that was how I was in line."

I glance down at my feet (clad today in Teva sandals) to think for a second and notice that she is wearing five inch teeny spike white high heeled sandals.

Now, what I want to say is:

"If you didn't have on those stupid shoes, you could actually STAND in line like the rest of us."

What I actually say (trying to sound deeply contemptuous):

"Oh."

I'm so brave in my head.

Fancy still tasted terrific and Honey enjoyed her tostada without ever having to see those stupid shoes. The sacrifices I make for love. It's how I'm so brave. In my head.

Grace

I am not a particularly graceful person. I often sport bruises attesting to my lack of deftness at things. Every time I get on my mountain bike, now repainted a lovely pearly white (with blue undertones), I see the small splotches of green on the crank and the front tire from where I tried to touch up its previous paint color and failed. I tried to keep my hand and mind steady and clear.

While we were at the beach last week, I got my shoelace caught in a bike chain and down I went. As I was falling, I slowed the bike with the brakes and tried to will myself to put my left foot down first. (I always put my right foot down first in normal cycling contexts). "Left foot!" my conscious mind screamed, but my kinesthetic responses weren't there. I have the scrapes and bruises (on my right knee) to prove it.

I try to be graceful. I try to be coordinated. I can catch a ball in a glove and hit one reasonably well with a bat, but ask me to do any higher order movement and I will fail.

Today, I was presented with a problem. It was more annoying than anything. I learned about the issue at noon. It took four phone calls and some persuading on my part, but I solved the problem by 4pm in such a way that everyone was happy and contented. No cross words were uttered. I was apologized to (by the creator of the problem) twice, thanked five or six times (by all involved) and am feeling satisfied.

Truth be told, it was a graceful.

I was just reading a piece my honey wrote about em dashes. It was a less boob titled version of this post from her blog. The grace with which she wrote this piece (and many other things) was really amazing.

It's nice, I think, to occasionally rediscover small pleasures in life. Grace, it seems to me, comes in a variety of ways. When it comes, I want to spend a little more time appreciating it, if only for a moment.

If only my knees didn't have to suffer my lack of grace otherwise.