08
Mar
10

Sunday

I remember hating Sundays when I was a child. I think it was a combination of being bored out of my skull and dreading having to go back to school the next day. It really doesn’t make any sense if you think about it: I have absolutely nothing to do, but dread tomorrow, when I will have not only places to go and things to do, but people to see as well.

I don’t dread Sundays now; just the end of them. This was a very nice Sunday.

Started with me getting up to go play for my church job, but I’ll just skip over that part, although there was a really good chocolate chip cookie involved; talking about that would just make me sound like a child. This does actually remind me of something, though: the pastor, during the children’s sermon, was pointing out that different types of trees bear different types of fruit, and that our lives could reflect this in kind. He then asked of the children the infamous Barbra Wa-Wa question: “If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” An adorable, blond, curly-haired imp chirped “A candy tree!” We all laughed. I thought “a money tree” but instantly felt shame and remorse for being so shallow, and looked around wondering if anybody knew.

I then met my husband at the grocery store for our weekly shopping. Bought good food and wine, congratulated ourselves on good deals found, laughed about the fact that I stood stymied in front of the bananas for way too many minutes trying to find the perfect number of green and almost green and no longer green bunches to get us through the week without contributing too greatly to the frozen-bananas-for-smoothies supply in our freezer. (I’m also opposed to breaking a few off of a bunch, even though I know this is standard practice. I feel badly for those lone bananas, left forlorn on the bottom shelf, and sometimes wonder if I should give them a home like Charlie Brown and his tree.) My favorite moment was in the snack aisle, where I noticed our favorite brand of potato chip was on sale. I gawked and said regretfully that I shouldn’t buy them, but also pointed out to my husband that his favorite style (vinegar and sea salt) were also on sale, at which point a woman with dark curly hair and a scarf said “You know you want, to” and proceeded to dance two bags over into our cart. I then pointed out that they had a 40%-less-fat variety, and proceeded to read (alas, aloud) the back of the bag which painstakingly explained that these were not, as one might expect, an example of one the poor-relation cousins of the potato chip, a dehydrated-potato product “potato crisp,” and neither did they contain a not-to-be-found-in-nature fat substitute, but included only potatoes, canola oil, and salt. In the midst of this reading, the woman leaned over to my husband and asked, “Is she always like this?” I invited her to lunch, but she thought I was kidding, and off we went our separate ways.

We came home, put all of the food away into what had been a very empty refrigerator, ate leftover spinach-and-goat-cheese hamburgers and potato chips (yes, I we bought them), finished up yesterday’s unfinished the laundry and went for a walk. It was in the 50s today, the snow was practically falling over itself in its hurry to melt, the sun gleamed over our shoulders. There were two pairs of teenage boys on opposite sides of the road trying to throw snow slush balls at each other. We wondered, briefly, if the battle was in fun or in earnest, but before we got near the two on our side of the road got onto their bikes, crossed over, and joined the other two, and they all slouched off together.

Further along a small boy, his dad, and the boy’s little red wagon were parked along the path. The boy was casting, with all of his might, the small stones his dad handed to him over the split-rail fence and into the grass on the other side. As we neared, one cleared the verge and plopped into the river. The boy clutched the fence and jumped with both feet shouting “yay, yay”; and then turned to us and beamed with pride and joy.

My husband and I walked, holding hands; we must have looked happy because everyone we met smiled or waved or said hello. Or maybe they were happy. He mocked me once and I tried to push him into the “snowbank,” but he’s a hockey player, and trying to push a hockey player over is like trying to move an old rusty truck with its parking brake on. Thankfully he didn’t try to push me back. I’m a pianist, and think that taking off my shoes qualifies as exercise. You could probably push me over just by thinking about it.

When we got home g went to exercise (the walk was my “workout” and his “warmup.” See?) and I made gumbo.

[Has anyone ever met a stranger vegetable than okra? The first time I cooked with it, I had harvested it out of my garden — I liked to plant one unusual thing every year, and that year, for some reason, I had taken it into my head that okra would be an interesting crop. Anyway, its gluey transformation in the pan convinced me that it was “off,” that I had left it to grow for too long, or something, and dumped the whole dish unceremoniously into the trash.]

So we had gumbo and rice and a good white wine for dinner, and went to pick up my daughter while listening to our favorite Beatles tunes. I like Eleanor Rigby. G likes When I’m 64 but that’s just because he thinks he’s getting old and claims that it’s “just around the corner.” (Sure it is, if the corner is 13 years long.) We both laughed at the line “You’ll be older too.” As if she, I, needed reminding.


3 Responses to “Sunday”


  1. December 6, 2010 at 9:30 am

    I believe you’re describing Kettle chips…. the device of the Devil…particularly when used to scoop up industrial quantities of hummous . . . . . . Mmmmmmm

  2. December 6, 2010 at 4:44 pm

    Only a couple of hours ago I was facing exactly the same banana dilemma as you! I’m sure it’s complicated by the fact that the bananas come to the shop with varying history behind them and they ripen at different rates….and of course then you have the problem that just when the bananas in your house are at their peak eating condition, no one feels like eating them!


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