This tower of DVDs represents my entire life for the next twenty-four hours. H left for a week-long backpacking trip with her class yesterday, while W and C just headed out for the annual fourth grade campout. I can’t remember the last time I was alone in my own house for more than a few hours. Now, suddenly, I have the whole place to myself.

When I first realized I’d have this little air pocket of time, my first thought was to spend it working on the novel. I imagined myself hunched over my computer for fourteen hours straight. I wouldn’t eat or change my clothes. By Sunday afternoon, when W and C returned, I’d have another chapter in the can.

Then I took H to Hollywood video and discovered that every single movie I’ve missed in the last year has been released on DVD. I had to restrain myself.  It was nearly impossible not cry out and burst into tears as I snatched videos off the shelves. So much for the novel.

I’m a huge movie fan. Give me three hour epic with period costumes and a box of Junior Mints and I’m one happy camper. On sunny Saturdays, when most sensible people are out riding their bikes over the bridge or walking in the park, I’ve been known to suggest that the family head off to the multiplex.

I wonder if it’s healthy or even humanly possible to watch seven feature films in a row (the picture doesn’t include “Margot At The Wedding” which fell on the floor). That’s somewhere between fourteen and sixteen hours of viewing. Somehow, I plan to squeeze in some reading time too. I heard an interview with Meg Worlitzer about her new novel and HAD to get it. Am I being too optimistic? Certainly. Unrealistic? Perhaps. But I have to go for it. This opportunity may not come around again until C graduates from high school.

There’s nothing like going to a reading to make you question where you fit on the literary spectrum. Last night, I went to Booksmith’s to hear my friend Stephen Elliot and his pals read from the new anthology “Sex For America: Politically Inspired Erotica.” Long before anyone stepped to the mike, I knew I was out of my element. Well, maybe not entirely out of my element, because at everyone in attendance was there to because they wanted to hear good writing. But out of my element indeed when it came to the the hipness factor.

Stephen’s a great guy. I really like him a lot. But I have to say, our conversations always remind me that we live in two completely different worlds. I live in the world of carpools, slumber parties and parent/teacher conferences. My evenings begin with homework and dinner and end with a cup of tea and a book on my chest because I can’t keep my eyes open after ten thirty. I can’t even watch a DVD all the way through. Stephen lives in a world of open relationships. Many of his friends are former sex workers or at least people he calls “sex positive.” Sex positive? I’d never heard that term before two days ago.

At lunch earlier this week Stephen was telling me about his current girl friend who is a lesbian and has a boyfriend is gay . . . (yep, I’ll give you a minute to work that out). He casually mentioned that he had a dominatrix . . . A dominatrix? For a moment, standing there, I tried to imagine what I’d do with a dominatrix, how I’d even go about finding one. I couldn’t get past the idea of someone slipping a rubber mask over my face. My mind went blank. I can’t even begin to guess how Stephen’s evenings begin or end. But like I said, he’s a great guy. He’s warm and very nice and very, very smart.

So back to last night’s reading.

As I sat there, waiting for the program to begin, I couldn’t help but notice that the room was filled with people who looked to be at least ten years younger than I. This was the LitQuake crowd, the folks who spend every night of the week at some reading or other funky bar in the Mission. The young women all sported boots and jaunty little tweed caps turned sideways. Most of the guys wore graphic t-shirts and vintage polyester warm up jackets. I think the last time I wore a polyester warm up jacket was in eighth grade.

There was a time not too long ago, when, if I found myself in a situation with which I was completely unfamiliar, I’d at least try to look relaxed. I might even try to make a bit of small talk with the young girl standing next to me, taking the risk that we had anything in common. I might try to use words like “cool,” or “amazing” and stand with one foot cocked to the side. But in the last two years, I’ve given up trying to seem young or cool. I’ve settled into my forties. I’m not saying I feel old. I don’t at all. But I’m not trying to kid anyone either. So last night I spent time looking at books–books I thought my daughters might like. There were a couple of other writers there who I knew, and I made sure to say hello, but I didn’t mingle, I didn’t try to work the room.

First up was a young woman who’s just moved here from Orgeon. She had that “I”m a young writer,” look about her: cute little choker around her neck, super short bangs, hair pulled into two little pigtails. She read the last third of a story in which the narrator and her friend shoot up in the laundry room after groping each other in the elevator. She described the lights in the hallway as she and her lover pushed through the laundry room doors. She described the look of the yellow powder on the spoon before he cooked it over the lighter flame, the feel of the needle piercing her skin and the sudden, glorious sensation of feeling absolutely nothing as the drug coursed through her body. Her dialog was stunted and edgy, her characters spoke to each other in short busts :

“Not to much. You promise you won’t give me to much.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Don’t leave a bruise.”

“I’ll try not to.”

I’m not trying to mock the woman’s writing. It was actually good. It just sounded . . . well, young. Or maybe it just sounded like dialog whose characters I’d never think of.

Next up was a guy named Nick Flinn, who wrote a story about a prisoner at Abu Grabe. It was a real life account based on an interview he’d had with the man who has since been released. Nick wore the requisite polyester warm up, and had greasy hair and a goatee, which led me to think his piece would be equally hip and edgy. But in the first lines of his story, he mentioned his daughter’s ultrasound picture and the rush of love he felt at her birth. Great, I thought, at least he’s in my same parenting zone. Nick’s writing was fast paced and tight as an army sheet folded in army corners. Really impressive. But as I listened, I caught myself having this conversation:

Me: “Gee, I remember when I wanted to be a journalist. I wonder if it’s too late. I’d love to fly off to Abu Grabe and interview prisoners. I wonder if I’ll have a chance to do that before I die. ”

My ego: “Hold on there, sweetheart. What about the novel? Why don’t you finish that first?”

Me: “I know, I know. But I’m just saying it would be nice to think all that’s still possible. Can’t a girl dream?”

The next woman read about a woman being held captive by an indigenous tribe who nursed from her breasts and raped her before going into battle. The good news was that each night she at some sort of herb that was slowly poisoning her breast milk. In a few months, all of her captors would be dead. She wasn’t half way through the story before I knew for sure, she didn’t have to worry about me immitating her style. In my wildest dreams, I’d never come up with a story like that.

Finally, Stephen went up to the mike. All I can say is that if this is what having a dominatrix does for your writing, I’d better go out to find one. Not that I could ever write on this subjects Stephen writes about. I’m way too “vanilla” (which Stephen explained means something like straight and mainstream, i.e., not “sex positive”) for that. I loved Stephen’s book, “Pretty Baby,” which, I admit, was a little challenging to the sensibilities at times. But it’s beautifully written, a really fine book. Stephen is a wonderful writer. The story he read last night, which I was lucky enough to find on YouTube, is so smart. His delivery isn’t as smooth here as it was last night, but you’ll get the idea. I’m interested to hear your thoughts.

As I listened to Stephen’s story, all I could think was how happy I was for him, and how glad I was to have slipped out of my world and into his, even for an hour. The best news (for me, at least) is that I’m okay with the stuff I’m writing. It isn’t hip or edgy or experimental. It’s just a good story–that’s what I’m shooting for anyway.

Here in San Francisco, you can throw a stick and hit a dog walker. They’re everywhere.

Before I moved up here, I’d never heard of such a thing as a professional dog walker. In our old neighborhood everyone walked their own dogs and wouldn’t dream of paying twenty dollars for a half hour “group” walk and thirty for a “private.”

Today, on the way to the parking garage, I saw this guy ahead of me. He was halfway up the block, but I was so curious to know his story, I actually ran to catch up with him. Not only was he walking eight or nine enormous dogs, he had a kid strapped to his back and was holding another by the hand. Who was this guy?

“I’ve never see you before,” I said.

Turns out, his name is Dave–Dave the Dog Man–and I guess I haven’t been very observant because he explained that he walks dogs every day. He had a beautiful smile, muscles on top of muscles, and his graying goatee was divided into three fine braids with small red beads on the ends. He introduced me to his two sons and proceeded to tell me all about his business, throwing in the fact that he was available for dog training and personal appearances.

We only talked for as long as it took us to walk to the end of the block, mostly about what a gorgeous day it turned out to be–then I turned into the parking garage and Dave, his sons and his dogs headed off towards the waterfront. But our brief exchange lifted my spirits. I’d spent the day staring at my computer, agonizing over how to rewrite my chapter and telling myself that the creative block I was experiencing was only a temporary. Thanks to Dave’s sunny disposition, by the time the attendant pulled my car around, I’d snapped out of my blue mood and was able to remind myself not to take things so seriously. Sooner or later, the words will come. They always do.

The next time I see Dave, I’ll have to thank him.

I just ran into my friend J, who asked me how the book was going and when I thought I’d be finished. J is a writer too, which is only to say that when we talk about the writing process–the pleasures of discovering something new about a character or the frustrations of writer’s block–I know he understands where I’m coming from. But today, when I told him that I hoped to be finished by the end of the summer, and that my writing group pointed out a problem with my main character which has caused me to reconsider everything I’ve written so far, I thought I saw a look of impatience darken his expression.

“Sometimes having a deadline is a good thing,” he said. “I’d never have finished my book if I hadn’t had one.”

“I don’t have a problem with deadlines,” I said. “I think I’m pretty disciplined.”

I tried not to feel defensive as I acknowledged this revision was taking much longer than even I’d anticipated. I explained to this wasn’t a question of perfection or not wanting to let go of the book. After all, no one wants to release this novel into the world more than I do. I didn’t want to sound like I was making excuses, but I could see J wasn’t buying my story.

“Sometimes,” J said, “we get to the point where, whether it’s inside the novel or outside of it, we’re just arranging pencils by height.”

Is that what he thinks I’m doing? Fingering the novel? Working and reworking chapters because I’m afraid to let go? But what could I say? If I tried to defend myself, I’d sound like I was, well, trying to defend myself. So I just nodded. But I have to admit, J’s comment stung a little.

There’ve been other instances in my life when people have wanted me to release things before I believed they were ready; times when my vision fell under the intense scrutiny and pressure of others and I had to hold fast. Take our old house in Los Angeles, for instance. It was an okay house, a rambling ranch that we’d converted into a Spanish-style hacienda. The house had lots of potential, but for reasons too involved to go into here, there was still potential we didn’t fully exploit.

When the time came to get ready to put our house on the market, I called two agents in to see it, and both suggested that I sell it for the equivalent of scrap value. Each of them tried to low-ball me on the price I should list it for. They couldn’t see the potential in the house that I saw. They couldn’t see that with some concentrated attention and a few thousand dollars, one could transform the house from a sow’s ear into a silk purse. But I could. So I thanked them kindly and sent them packing. Then I contacted a contractor I knew and got to work. Four months and twenty-five thousand dollars later, we had a pretty nice spread. The house looked better the day we put it on the market than it had in all seven years we’d live in it. We got six offers within a week and ended up selling the house for a hundred thousand dollars (a lot of money back then) above our asking price. That’s when I learned that it’s worth staying true to one’s own vision.

But it’s hard. Especially when it comes to the novel. It’s hard to have people ask about how the writing’s going and hear yourself say, for the hundredth time, ” Oh, it’s going,” or “It’s coming along.” It would be nice to say, “It’s finished.” Over the years, I’ve grown accustomed to the looks of skepticism that cloud people’s faces, especially if they aren’t writers. But when another writer looks skeptical, it kind of sucks.

But I have to keep going. I have to stay true to my vision. Because the last thing I want, the thing I dread, is the idea that I’ll rush just to be able to say it’s finished and put this book out in the world before I believe it’s ready.

It’s on days like today when I have to remind myself that I’m making progress. Yes, it’s slow, but it’s still progress. And when I see Jason at lunch today, I’m not going to say anything. I’m not going to defend myself or try to explain where I am with the book. J is a good friend. I know he’s cheering for me. One day, hopefully soon, this novel be finished and I can move on to the next one. In the meantime, I have to keep working. I know there’s a silk purse in here somewhere.

At lunch today, people were sitting around the table talking about the acceptance letters for kindergarten, high school and college that went out last week. There was lots of talk about the insane admissions process and whether, in fact, there was any way to beat the system. So it seemed only fitting that I’d come home from a day of writing to find an admissions letter waiting for me.

A few months ago, I got to thinking about how nice it would be to have time away this summer to (hopefully) finish my novel. I’ve grown accustomed to having a few days of quiet time each summer to, if not work on the novel, then at least read and think about writing (ahhh, those good ol’e Warren Wilson residencies) so I applied to Yaddo and MacDowell.

Last week, I heard from MacDowell. I could tell by the size of the envelope (wafer thin) I hadn’t been accepted. But my disappointment didn’t last as long as I thought it would. Sure, there was a moment, standing by the mail slot, when I felt that sinking feeling. But then something else came over me and I heard myself ask, “does this mean I’m going to stop working on the novel?” Of course not. I put the letter on the steps and went inside. I had a busy weekend ahead of me. H was celebrating her 13th birthday, and between taking her and six of her friends to the movies on Friday, C’s championship basketball game and dinner with another family on Saturday, and two mother-daughter book groups on Sunday, there wasn’t a lot of time to dwell on rejection.

Today my Yaddo letter arrived. I’ve been wait listed. For a few minutes after I read the letter, I caught myself asking all the anxiety producing questions: What was it about my work the admissions people didn’t like? Is my novel not literary enough? Do they think I’m a hack? But when I re-read the letter, I noticed the sentence, “As you can imagine, space limitations and complexities of dates prevent us from scheduling everyone who we wish to welcome as guests,” and their request that I advise them whether there are other dates when I might be available. So their “no” wasn’t actually a “no,” it was more of a “maybe.” And you know what? I’ll take it.

Years ago, when I first decided to start writing seriously, I had lunch with a former grad school professor of mine. When I told him that I’d decided to write a novel rather than pursue a Ph.D in English he frowned and said, “you know, you’re setting yourself up for a lot of rejection.” Without thinking about it too much I said, “That’s okay. Because the day I start getting rejection letters is the day I know I’ve reached a point when I’m ready to start putting my work out in the world.”

I haven’t decided what to do with my Yaddo letter. Part of me thinks I should toss it. The other part thinks I should save it as a celebration of how far I’ve come. Whatever I decide to do with it, I know I’ll keep working on the book until it’s finished. This isn’t the first rejection letter I’ve received and I know it isn’t my last. And the thing is, writing residency this summer or not, I’ll still have the quiet time to work. The girls are going to sleep away camp for two weeks and they’re spending another two weeks with their grandparents.

Who but the craziest among us chooses this writing life? My God. Between the struggle to write, the search for an agent, the hopes for publication and whatever else lies in store, I think you have to be a little nuts. But it’s the life I’ve chosen and I love it too much to stop now.

I was just visiting Bora’s blog tonight and saw that she’s reading William Maxwell’s The Folded Leaf. What a wonderful coincidence! I’m just started the novel last night after carrying it around in my purse for weeks. I’m not as far along as Bora is, but I agree that the writing is stunningly beautiful. I can see why Bora says all she wants to do is read.

Back in January, January 25th, to be exact, I heard a 1995 interview with William Maxwell on Fresh Air. I didn’t have a chance to listen to the entire thing, but I do remember one comment he made. Terry Gross asked him how he felt about modern society, whether he made an attempt to keep up with all of the technological advances–computers, TV, cell phones–and whether they were important to him. Maxwell remarked that he preferred the earlier decades of the twentieth century (he was born in 1905), and he quoted a Quaker phrase, “It doesn’t speak to my condition,” to describe his relationship to contemporary life. He explained that in the past, there was time to listen to the sound of horses going past his house, and making presents for people rather than buying them, that there was time for telling stories. I often find myself wishing my life was less cluttered, less hectic; that I had time take a walk or just sit and read the paper. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying I can understand how Maxwell feels. I think that’s one of the reasons I love writing. I have to slow down if I to see anything. I have to make space for quiet.

It’s nearly midnight, and I still have lots of work to do on this chapter if I want to send it out the writing group by Friday. I’ll work a while longer, and then, as reward for a good day’s work, I’m going to treat myself to a few pages of The Folded Leaf.

I understand the library of America is publishing a two volume set of Maxwell’s work this year. The first volume is already in the stores. Can you guess what I’ll be purchasing this weekend?

I’m a Californian by birth, but a Louisianan by blood. This is what I rediscovered last week when I went to Louisiana to visit my relatives. Some of you might remember my post of a few weeks ago when I agonized over whether or not to join some friends for a getaway spa weekend. Well, I decided not to go–but not because I didn’t want to spend the money on myself. A few days after my friend extended the invitation to the spa, my dad called to say he and my mom were going to Louisiana and asked if I’d like to join them. Of course I said yes. How could I not? My novel is set in Louisiana and while I’ve been to New Iberia many times in the past three years, it’s been a long time, over four years, since I visited the part of the state from which my family comes. It was time refresh my memory, time to see the people and places that originally inspired my novel. It was time to go home.

I wish I could say that I can trace my family’s roots to the town of Basile. Unfortunately, I can’t. Apparently, we’re from the nearby town of Washington. Luckily, Basile is just down the road from Elton, the town where my dad was born. You’ve got to figure that since slaves were named after the plantations they lived on, there has to be some connection. In fact, according to the story my dad tells, our last name was actually spelled BASILE until some members of the family added the “z” because they liked the way it looked. That’s Louisiana for you.

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The first thing I’ll say about Okina Sushi is if you blink, you’ll miss it. The second thing I’ll say is that after the meal I had on Friday night, I’m pretty sure I’ve had a religious awakening.

My friend Andy, a true sushi connesiour, told me about Okina Sushi a few weeks ago. I’m not kidding when I say Andy is like a zen sushi master. He’s studied the art of sushi eating. He knows all the real deal sushi places in the city, the places where you have to know a secret password to get a table; places where, if you call to get directions or try to make a reservation, the sushi master (is that what you call them?) doesn’t say anything when he answers the phone, there’s just a dead silence on the line. Okina Sushi isn’t that hard core. There’s no secret password, and I did see the proprietors answering the phone. But when you walk into the place, you get the distinct feeling that you’ve crossed over into uncharted territory.

For one thing, the place is tiny. There’s a modest wooden sign over the door and some unremarkable curtains in the window, but that’s it. No neon. Inside, there are only three tables and a sushi bar that seats a maximum of seven people. The walls are painted white and other than the bamboo polls arranged over the bar to look like the facade of a japanese tea house, there’s no decor to speak of. If you’re looking for a place that blasts rock music and employs a dozen sushi chefs with bandanas wrapped around their heads who scream out greetings and churn out California rolls faster than a Ford assembly line, Okina sushi isn’t the place for you. I’m don’t offer this warning like I’m a sushi expert or anything. Give me a dragon roll and a couple pieces of Yellow Tail and I’m happy. To be honest, I was a little intimidated when I stepped through the door. At 6:30 in the evening, while other restaurants are packed to the rafters, this place was practically empty. There was only one other couple in the place and they left fifteen minutes after W and I arrived. This was our first night out together in weeks and I suggested we try the place, so I had to follow through. For a moment, surveying the nearly empty restaurant I thought, “well, if this isn’t the place Andy told me about and I’ve wandered into a place that’s at the top of health department list of violators (not that Okina sushi wasn’t emaculate–it was. Pristine.) I guess this is my last meal. Too bad I didn’t leave a note for the girls.”

Luckily, the hostess was really nice. She greeted us with a warm smile and offered us a seat at the bar–which was a good thing and a bad thing. Good because we got to watch the master sushi chef at work. Bad because the pressure was on. There was no place to hide.

As I said, I like sushi. I like all the delicate flavors. I like that you can eat a lot of it and not feel bloated. I like that you don’t have to eat a lot to feel satisfied. But I must confess, I’m about a 6 when it comes to being a hard core sushi eater. Salmon, yellow tail, unagi? That’s about my speed. So as I rolled up to the bar, I had those old favorites in mind. W, on the other hand, is like Evil Kinevil of sushi. He’ll try anything. The last time we went out for sushi, he convinced me to try sea urchin and I nearly passed out at the bar. Something about the pinky-orangish color made my eyes water. Something about the consistency, the way that little slice of suspiciously-ripe-French-cheesy looking matter settled into seaweed wrapper, made my palms itch. I looked over at W, who’d already popped the first piece into his mouth. He let out this long, orgasmic sigh, “Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Oh God. Mmmm.Yes. Oh! That’s sooo good,” and slumped in his chair. His head sort of fell to one side and all I could see were the whites of his eyes. I thought, “well, damn, if it’s that good, I’d better get to it. Bring it on, baby. Bring it on!” But the moment that . . . that . . . whatever-it-was . . . that little slice of nightmare hit my tongue, I knew I’d made a mistake. I closed my eyes and said a prayer as my stomach rolled over. “Please Lord. Let me not vomit all over this sushi bar.” Of course, the sushi master was right there, inches away, watching my every move. I couldn’t spit it out or even take a mouthful of water and try to swallow it whole. I had to chew every soft, milky, runny-cheesy-like, gut-twisting morsel, and I had to do it with a smile.

So you can understand why, tonight, I started to sweat as I took my seat.

I looked at the menu. No dragon rolls. “Okay,” I thought. “I’ll take it slow, play it safe.” I could feel the sushi master’s eyes on me. We were, after all, his ONLY FUCKING CUSTOMERS. “I’ll start with yellow tail, please?”

W scowled.

The sushi master nodded. “Try the tuna. The tuna is very good.”

I faked out like I didn’t hear him.

W sighed.

If people had thought bubbles over their heards, the sushi master’s would probably have read, “Stupid American woman. Light weight. Get out of my restaurant.” But he nodded again and whipped up two orders of yellow tail which, by the way, he placed directly on the bar. I forgot to mention that part. You know how usually, when you go to a sushi restaurant, they give you a little mount of ginger and a ball of wasabi on a plate? Well, at this place, all the condiments, ginger, wasabi, a little mound of white noddle-looking stuff that tasted like jicima, were arranged in a little pile right on the sushi bar. I’ve never been to Japan, so I don’t know if this is the traditional way of eating sushi or if our sushi master was psycho, but I thought it was best to go with the flow.

I’m happy to report the yellow tail was really good. Really, really good. Light, mildly sweet. Perfect. I started to relax.

The sushi master nodded again and said, “Try the tuna. The tuna is very good tonight.”

So I tried the tuna, which was, I’ll admit just as good as the yellow tail. I thanked him.

Once again, the sushi master gestured toward the array of fish, inviting us to place our next order. I was eyeing the unagi when I thought I saw something flash across his face. In fact, I swear I saw a thought bubble pop up right over his head. It read, “The stupid American woman is going for the unigi. Coward. Why are you wasting my time?”

That’s when W stepped in. He gestured back to the sushi master and said, “We’ll leave it up to you. You choose. Whatever you think is best.” Then he looked at me and flashed this big Cheshire Cat grin.

You’ve really got to love a man who puts your life and the future of your children in the hands of a sushi master. For a second I wondered whether W wasn’t trying to kill me so he could collect the insurance money and retire. Didn’t he remember the sea urchin experience? But what could I do? The sushi master looked happier than he had since we sat down. Believe me, I recognize the look. I understand the feeling one has when one is “in the flow,” when one is in union with his or her art. It’s the feeling I get every now and then when I’m on a roll with the novel and the words are coming faster than I can type them. It’s heaven, Nirvana. There’s nothing better. How could I come between an artist and his craft, his life’s purpose? Every few seconds he reached into the little glass cabinet and pulled out a different chunk of fish. I caught him sliding something, I couldn’t see what, into the toaster oven. You know that feeling when you step onto a roller coaster, pull the bar down over your head or across your waist, and feel it lock into place? That’s the feeling I had. Like it or not, I was taking the ride.

First up: something called Jack Fish–a delicate slice of tender white fish with what I can only describe as a mildly sweet, sort of fruity leaf between the fish and the rice. It was magical. Like a little fairy floated by and sprinkled a bit of pixie dust over everything. I let out my own sincere, but well mannered orgasmic sigh.

Next: some kind of mackrel. I didn’t catch the name. It was butter and satisfying, the way a slice of Mozzerella cheese is satisfying, only, again, lighter

The sushi master looked happy.

Then: something that looked like baby scallops on a bed or rice with thinly sliced scallions on top, all wrapped in a piece of sea weed. Again, spectacular. Other worldly.

Sometime right in through here, W, the sushi master and I became one–cosmically speaking. He clearly appreciated our willingness to surrender to his sushi genius. Every few seconds, I’d see his hands reach for the something new. Then I’d hear the little toaster over door slam and I’d see the sushi master’s face awash in its glow as he stared into it, waiting for his next creation. There was lots of nodding and smiling.

Through my sushi induced haze, I watched as a party of three came in, apologized profusely for being early, but clearly hoping they could get seats. Keep in mind, the place was EMPTY. But the hostess turned them away. I’m not kidding. She smiled and firmly told them to come back at their reserved time.

Next: I don’t even remember. Maybe Tuna something. It’s all a blur.

The small voice, the watcher, in me was starting to whisper that I was approaching the edge of my comfort zone, but my egoic mind was determined to press on. (Actually, I shouldn’t kid about that shit. I’m going to screw up my karmic mojo.) The sushi master was turning out dishes faster than I could consume them. There wasn’t time to stop and inquire. But if you’ve ever eaten one bite of sushi too many, you’ll understand the feeling I’m about to describe: somewhere, way down deep in the pit of your stomach, you start to feel a little full. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, but if you’ve ever eaten a donut and you walk around for the next hour with feeling that wad of greasy dough in your gut, you have a good idea what eating too much sushi can feel like. And somewhere, far back in the corner of your lizard brain, you begin to think about the fact that you’ve consumed two pounds of raw fish in less than an hour. That’s when you have to seize control and push back from the bar.

And that’s when sitting at the bar is a bad thing. Because by then, the sushi master has taken you into his inner circle. Once you were just a customer, a stupid American woman with a taste for the McDonalds version of sushi. Now you’ve earned his trust and maybe even his respect. There’s nothing between you and the master. As I watched the sushi master dip into the case yet again, I tried to think of how best to politely indicate that I’d had enough. I knew I couldn’t eat one more thing, believed, with my entire being that the smallest grain of rice would send me over the edge.

And thank God, that’s when W decided to go for broke. “It’s time for the sea urchin,” he said, his eyes glazing over slightly.

I held up a hand. “No.”

“No sea urchin for you?” the sushi master asked.

I patted my belly. “Not this time. But thank you. It was all delicious. Too good.”

The sushi master shrugged, but I saw something different in his expression this time. I think it was grace. Yes. Grace and forgiveness. He saw me for the mere mortal I am and recognized my silent plea for release. He allowed me to maintain my dignity–and for that, I’ll always be grateful.

A few minutes later, the sushi master laid two piece of sea urchin sushi on the bar. I have to admit that in their own way, there were beautiful. W savored every bit, demonstrating the proper amount of respect and appreciation for the small piece of art he’d just consumed, and I . . . I leaned back against my chair flushed with relief that I’d survived.

I think the sushi master will remember us the next time we pop in. Not because we were sufficiently appreciative, though I think we did okay. Rather, because W when W went next door to get cash to pay for our meal, he returned with the money a box of Easter sugar cookies.

“Cookies????” the sushi master asked.

“I love these,” W said holding the box up for him to see. “They’re my favorite.”

If we’d been in a tony French restaurant, I bet you dimes to donuts the chef would have tossed us out. Who tops off such a masterpiece of a meal with a box of sugar cookies? But I think, in a way, W’s move was so unexpected, so odd, the sushi master couldn’t be offended. In fact I know so. Because all of a sudden he threw back his head and cackled. It wasn’t a laugh. It was a cackle–the strangest, most hair-raising cackle I’ve ever heard.

As W and I gathered our coats and thanked the hostess, the sushi master was still cackling. It was the last sound I heard as we stepped through the door.

It was a very long time ago, and I feel sort of pitiful admitting it, but one of the best years of my life was my senior year in college. It had nothing to do with the parties I went to or the classes I took. 1988 was an wonderful year because I did anything and everything I wanted to do without a moment’s hesitation. I’m not talking about big things like climbing K2 or paddling down the amazon. I’m actually referring to the small things, the every day pleasures I allowed myself to enjoy.

My decision to live a no-holds barred senior year was inspired by my trip to New York a few weeks before school started. My sister was starting as a freshman at Columbia and my parents and I flew her back to New York for freshman orientation. As I stood on the street in front of her dorm watching all those freshman families unpack their station wagons and mini vans, I was overcome with melancholy. I couldn’t help but reflect on my own college career and the fact that it was almost over. I wondered whether I’d taken full advantage of the opportunity, whether I’d wrung the most out of my years of freedom, and decided that I hadn’t. Sure, I’d had fun, but I’d played it relatively safe, colored within the lines. So, right then and there I made a promise to myself: during the next year, I’d indulge every whim, explore every possibility. If a friend was interested in joining me, fine, but I wouldn’t let the notion of going it alone stop me. Needless to say, I had one hell of a year. If I wanted to see go to a movie or concert, I went. If I had a craving for Teuscher’s champagne truffles, I drove into San Francisco between classes, bought a box, and ate a few as I leaned against the big Chinese arch at the entrance to Chinatown on Grant.

I try not to spend a lot of time dwelling on the past. I’ve come to believe that every step I’ve taken in my life has had it’s place and it’s purpose. But last week, I thought about that twenty-year old pledge and decided to renew it. Yes, I’m much better with spontanaety than I used to be. I see my fair share of plays and concerts, and still treat myself to a box of champagne truffles when I feel the urge. But there’s something about this phase of my life that lends itself to a certain amount of stagnation. It’s easy to fall into a rut. With that fact in mind, I decided that every Friday, I’d visit some place or try something I’ve never visited or tried before. It doesn’t have to be big or expensive or take a lot of time. It just has to be something I’ve wondered about and haven’t taken the time to try.
Every day, on my way to my writing office, I pass the Leland Tea Company, and every day, the conversation I have with myself goes something like this: “Hmm. Tea. That’s interesting. How did they come up with that idea? I like tea. I wonder what teas the sell.” But that’s where the conversation stops. I never think, “how many times am I going to have this conversation with myself? Why don’t I pull over and find out?”

Until today.

So this morning at 9:25, I found myself, once again, idling in front of the Leland Tea company, waiting for the light to change. But this time, I decided to break the cycle of madness. I parked and went to the door. And guess what? They were closed! Talk about a let down. So I got back in the car and headed off to work.

Thank goodness, they were open by the time I swung by the second time. By then it was 3:30 and C was with me. One of the pleasures my youngest daughter and I share is a love of tea. We’re not afficionados by any stretch, but at least twice a week, she’ll ask me to fix her a cup of tea as a dessert alternative, and I usually have a cup after the girls go to bed. Right now, PG Tips and Yogi Tea’s Green Tea are two favorites.

Leland Tea has a kajillion teas to choose from and C and I must have spent a good seven minutes trying to decide which one to try. How can we possibly choose when the place offered up such delicious sounding teas as Organic Jamaican Bang Bang, Brooklyn Serenity, Dragonwell and Garbo’s Peachy Blend? You can even create your own blend from the dozens of ingredients stored in little canisters at the counter. We opted for Jasmine Fancy, a tea whose green tea and jasmine union is “known to be the emblem of good luck” and smells like “a garden in bloom.”

It’s one thing to make tea from tea bag and drink it at the kitchen table, and quite another to have a little pot of tea brought to your table on a silver tray with a dainty assortment of powder sugar-dusted shortbread cookies and madelines while 1920s’ jazz plays in the background. Perhaps some of you expert tea drinkers out there knew the difference, but it was news to me.

C and I couldn’t help but grin as the waitress/counter person delivered the pot of Jasmine Fancy to our window-side table. We couldn’t help but swoon as we took our first sips. The tea was so fragrant. It really did smell like a garden in bloom. We both relaxed. Time seemed to slow just a bit. It was a small, wonderful moment. I think C said it best when she paused after her first sip, smiled and said, “I feel so alive.”