Serenity & Spice

I think about all of the GOP candidates that were far more qualified for office. Candidates who were more educated and had greater achievements. Most had extensive backgrounds in politics, the military, and civil service. They knew full well the demands of the office of President and fought for it because they wanted a chance to make a difference. Their policies aside, any one of them would have been a better choice for the job than the one who was hired. Which is better? Embittered quiet rage or going for broke? The other day, I was out Christmas shopping with my mom. We were looking for a parking spot at Whole Foods and she told me look up front for any spots. For as long as I could remember, she had a knack for always finding a close parking space where ever we went. Sure enough, there was a spot two spaces from the front door.  “As always, old buffalo hide strikes again,” I said, using an affectionate nickname my dad had given her over the years. She responded, “moth

The sudden smell of a fresh piece of paper and I think Fall. It will all happen in the Fall. It’s not that I want everything to be pumpkin spiced, it’s that my summer has been hijacked in a way. Diabetes runs deep in my family. Both of my parents have it. My aunt and grandfather died from it. Recently, my mother’s been put on dialysis because of it. It’s a very scary thought. Because I have not been taking the proper care of myself in the last few years, my doctor has placed me on a low carb diet. I can have a cheeseburger but without the bun. Pastas will be made with zucchini instead of noodles. No pizza, no sushi, no sodas, and above all, no cake. Most fruit is high in carbs. There will be no going out to eat because restaurants pile on the sugar and salt. In a way, it’s a good thing and needed to happen. I am getting older. I just keep thinking; things will get better in the fall. I will be more fit and occasionally can indulge in the foods I love, but only if I do

I have a habit of stumbling upon memories while cooking. On an ordinary weeknight, I will throw together something quick for dinner. Usually it’s pasta of some kind. On occasion, I will start a roux and add some milk, basil, and garlic. With that first taste, I am eight years old. In a dark corner of an ordinary shopping center in Casa Linda, there existed a tiny restaurant called Frankie’s Little Europe. Frankie, the owner, would greet every guest who walked through the door. He knew who his regulars were and treated them like royalty. My parents and I had been regular customers there for years. Because of how expensive it could be, my father would limit taking us there only on special occasions which ended up being at least once month. Frankie would drop what he would be doing, rush over and kiss my mother’s hand as soon as we stepped through the door. Regardless of how busy they were I never remember waiting. At places three times their size, we would wait for over an h