Can't talk now; France.

Lots of super Frenchy experiences thus far including but not limited to: eating pain au chocolat in the morning, looking at attractive people, being affected by people going on strike (this was partially in our favor, as we ended up not having to pay for TGV tickets, woohoo!), wearing a scarf, and listening to Django-style guitar on the Seine.

Slurpy times but not those slurpy times.

So, yeah. This is me. "What an unflattering photo!" You might think. And yeah, it's pretty horrendous. But I don't care. Because I'm eating a mango.

I think that instead of everybody reading Michael Pollan (I mean... do read Michael Pollan and Wendell Berry and all those fun people) and having those people try to really slow down to eat, all people - allergic ones aside - should be given a mango and a knife. And maybe a sink or a tub or something.

Do you ever look at children, or even animals eating fruit and get a little bit envious? They way they just don't care, they love the food so much they kinda rub it on their heads or shove their faces into it? They are seriously relishing, reveling, and rioting in their food. We don't really do that anymore as adults in such a privileged country. Except when we eat mangoes.

You see, my friends, there is not a very good way of efficiently chopping up a mango. Mango pitters are just stupid; you really need to feel out the tasty portions near the pit with your teeth anyway or else you get some bitter, fiberous crap that makes you angry and gets stuck in your gums. The best way I know of to eat a mango is to slice off lobes from all four sides, then slicing a tic-tac-toe board into the fleshy side not quite to the skin. You then push at the center of the lobe from the other side, making it go from concave to convex, and the squares of mango extend and present themselves for eating.

Generally, it's easiest to eat this part with two hands. You can just nimbly grab the cubes with your teeth and pull them from the outer skin and you get delicious, sweet mango. Peeling with a vegetable peeler is okay, but you have to peel it about a thousand times over because there is a visually imperceptible layer under the skin that is still bitter, but looks like the tasty mango goodness. After eating all four lobes, you have a piece of mango that's shaped like a long shoebox. You look at it longingly, knowing the pit isn't really that big, and there's all that tasty mango left. Slicing it would be time-consuming. So, you pick it up with both hands, and just start gnawing at it, letting the tender parts tear gently from the pit and slide into your mouth. By this point, you should have mango on your cheeks, juice running from your palms to your elbows, and maybe a tiny fleck of mango on your nose.

You cannot ignore the mango at this point. Eating a mango is an attention-consuming, sense-engulfing, golden-juice-dripping process. You need to devote all of your concentration to eat this succulent thing. You can't check Facebook while eating it, unless you want your keyboard to be a sticky ant-incinerator (my laptop gets very hot). You need to be vigilant or the naked mango will go shooting from your slippery hands. Speaking of hands, eating a mango takes both of them. It takes a bit of time. It creates a great amount of enjoyment: the creamy, floral aroma; the clean, sweet taste with a hint of grass; the happy-colored fruit; the sheer hedonistic pleasure of taking food into your bare hands and putting it straight to your face. How can anyone be oblivious to a food that looks like sunshine and gets all over your upper body in the process?

More brazen than peaches, but with a similar satisfying, juicy ripeness, and less organized and chaste than an orange, mangoes are the symbol of happy, unabashed, carnal nature. A mango is that girl whose slept with everybody, but genuinely and consummately loved each of her companions. She's never been the prettiest or the most proper, but has always been the most fun. She forgets her purse everywhere, but all it has in it is lipstick, firecrackers, and cab fare. However, she remembers everybody's name, and never fails to pick flowers for every lonely person. The mango is tender, bright, hefty, and sensual.

Thanks, mangoes, for helping us understand the slow food movement.

Rule: Eat mangoes only with your hands and a knife. Also, throw out your mango-pitter if you have one. They're so silly.

This is what summer should be.

Via Prince of Petworth:



Rule: Enjoy the outdoors. With your face. In some nature.

Critiquing/Revision time

So, that last post that I posted was definitely not a shining gem. I figured I'd take you along for the thrill ride of a first revision. Now, this is how I would critique any work, and this may not be your style, or a recommended style, but this is how I do. Hope you find it interesting.

It's about to storm outside. The hall smells like warm licorice. It's overwhelming this sentence really describes nothing. The weight of the air feels like a bed sheet. The kind that diffuses light in the morning and my eyelashes brush against it as I blink myself awake not sure if this is a good analogy.

Outside, there is the metallic smell of earth, and the sweet smell of vegetation. Water makes everything bolder, fearless switch with next sentence, also, this needs to be less of a command. The scent of the outdoors gets stronger when it gets wet, as it absorbs, breathes, comes to life. The smell gets into your upper sinuses - a cloud that floats into your brain and hangs there is this an exciting sentence?. Water atoms glide around each other, stirring thoughts what thoughts? why? we need a hint of the thoughts.

I have a headache that sits like an animal at the back of my skull. It sulks there, cold and shuddering where my spine connects with my brain stem conflicted about the use of official terms vs vernacular. I'm re-reading The Secret Garden and imagine this rain on the garden. Plump, warm drops enriching the secret. Whispering on each leaf and then what? The Secret Garden goes nowhere. Perhaps these are the thoughts that are being stirred?. When I breathe the storm-pregnant air, it makes me excited for the coming release release of what? need a hint.. It feels like I've swallowed something cottony but rich MOAR DESCRIPTION PLZ. New paragraph It is as though I have walked to the back of my mouth, and I am looking down the sheer cliff of my throat, straight down into the pit of my stomach, and in it, I see life, that hot and glowing brick I don't know if I buy this description. I am exhilarated by the height, the thought of the drop. I imagine this is how raindrops feel: air rushing by their round faces, the thrilling fall, the eager anticipation to be accepted completely by the earth Good sentence, but must scrap. Not what the narrator is concerned about.

The piece has a lot of description and few crucial mini-subjects/points. They are the stirred thoughts, the headache, the secret garden, and the obvious life-examination. None of these points are linked, and none of them are fully explained. Perhaps the headache that occurred during the writing of this caused that, but now the headache is gone and it's time to cut and figure out what the real message or feeling this piece is supposed to convey. Take out the "stirring thoughts" portion; it's obvious that the narrator is thinking, and there's no reason for that to be in there. Expand on the Secret Garden or take it out completely. It seems as though this might have been just a passing thought that has no relevance to the whole. The main point of the piece seems to be the last paragraph about the exhilaration of life, and how the narrator comes alive with thought and examination just as nature comes alive when it rains. It seems to be a piece about marveling and possibly reveling, and less about relationships; which makes the last sentence incongruous. Main thoughts: cut out a lot of stuff, figure out the real point, because it seems as though the piece was just rambling to figure out the real point/what the narrator is thinking or wants to say, which starts to show itself near the end.

Rule: Revise your stuff. Read Annie Dillard. Then revise your stuff again.

Topical inane musings: Weather edition

It's about to storm outside. The hall smells like warm licorice. It's overwhelming. The weight of the air feels like a bed sheet. The kind that diffuses light in the morning and my eyelashes brush against it as I blink myself awake.

Outside, there is the metallic smell of earth, and the sweet smell of vegetation. Water makes everything bolder, fearless. The scent of the outdoors gets stronger when it gets wet, as it absorbs, breathes, comes to life. The smell gets into your upper sinuses - a cloud that floats into your brain and hangs there. Water atoms glide around each other, stirring thoughts.

I have a headache that sits like an animal at the back of my skull. It sulks there, cold and shuddering where my spine connects with my brain stem. I'm re-reading The Secret Garden and imagine this rain on the garden. Plump, warm drops enriching the secret. Whispering on each leaf. When I breathe the storm-pregnant air, it makes me excited for the coming release. It feels like I've swallowed something cottony but rich. It is as though I have walked to the back of my mouth, and I am looking down the sheer cliff of my throat, straight down into the pit of my stomach, and in it, I see life, that hot and glowing brick. I am exhilarated by the height, the thought of the drop. I imagine this is how raindrops feel: air rushing by their round faces, the thrilling fall, the eager anticipation to be accepted completely by the earth.

Rule: Splashing around in rain and puddles then taking a hot shower or bath is the best thing ever. No way that is not the best thing ever.

I got tackled off a bar stool

And thus got kicked out of a bar. This was my first time ever getting kicked out of a bar!! I'm actually quite proud of myself. I've been kicked out of a Meijer, but that's easy because people are uptight at Meijer. Especially if you go around plunging stuff with a plunger and then setting the stuff in different parts of the store. The staff's outrage is so silly, because what else are big box stores for? Plus it's not like I was hurting anything. I can't think of any more times when I've been kicked out of retail or some other venue.

Anyway, that's it this week. Last week I was still ill (and a crazy person), so no posting then.

Here's the rule: Get kicked out of a place, but don't get the cops called on you. The ultimate in classy fun.

A bit of fiction.

Lilacs bob outside my window. They smell like paper smeared with honey. The shadows try to sweep the bits of sunlight from my desk, but they stay put. I put my hands in the sun to warm my fingers. I weave the warmth with my fingers, twisting them in the air. The creases in my fingers look deep, like fault lines. Imperfections in the foundations of the land, pushing and pulling, shaving crumbles off each other. Maybe my fingers will dry up and crumble into a pile of dirt. Maybe they'll push into each other and form strong mountains. I fold my hands together tightly to imagine what it would be like. My knuckles form a little range of hills. Not too impressive.

There are toy trains all over my desk. I pick one up and admire its detailed body. I drive it over my knuckle hills; its wheels turn smoothly and it navigates my hands with steady and reliable precision. I look around for some track to set it on, but I think my son has taken them back to his room, leaving only this one engine for me. I roll it up and down the desk with my palm.

I'm still in my bathrobe. Tying it seemed like a nuisance, and besides, I'm enjoying the touch of the sun. My stomach has stretch marks. More faults. The lilacs have calmed down a bit, enough so that the bees are having an easier time landing on them and searching for nectar. Their little warning-colored bodies crawl clumsily over the blossoms, then are lifted by buzzing, iridescent wings up into the sky. They fly higher and higher until I can't see them anymore because the bright light wipes everything out of sight.

I lean my chair back from the desk, trying to follow the bees' flights for as long as possible. I have my foot flexed and hooked onto the back of the desk and I'm balancing some tea on my chest with almost complete no-handed success. I shouldn't have sweetened the tea, because soon, a curious bee wriggles its way through a hole in the screen and dips into the tea. It carries its sweet, herbal liquid back out the hole to tell the others. I take a sip. I think the bees will like this, and imagine a batch of tea-scented honey. A couple more bees come in and dip into the cup. I think about my son, similarly humming back and forth in and out of rooms, slamming the screen door, coming back in to show me this trinket or that frog, offering me strong opinions. His favorite thing to do is ask me questions. They are small but hard, like the beaks of birds, pecking. Most recently, "Why daddy has more keys than you?"

I should've put the cup back on the desk. Now, the bees are coming in and out in a steady stream, filling the room with yellow noise. One decides to land on my stomach instead of the lip of the cup, and in a panic, I flail to brush it off. My foot slips from the desk and I fall backwards with a crack. The cup spills over my shoulder and soaks my hair with tepid tea. I am surprised the bees seem unfazed. I lie on the floor, watching as some blood mixes and swirls with the tea. The bees are still coming in, floating their tiny bodies up and down to siphon and carry the liquid to the hive to be turned into something golden, sweet, and translucent. I feel the sun warm my face. Just a little accident. I will get up in a second.

The bees are starting to fill the room now, as it's easier for the bees to collect the sugared tea now it's pooled on the floor. I see little feet patter toward me through the haze of fluttering bodies. They exclaim, "Mommy!" I squint to try to see the feet better, but they're still a bit blurry. The feet say, "Mommy, bees. Mommy, bees!" I see a little body sit and begin to cry.

Yesterday I was told my body was the only thing that had any value. This morning, I woke with a little boy bringing me his trains to play.