My dad used to be very good at running--Olympic-time good, in high school. I always remember hearing about how once had food poisoning and threw up all over the track in front of everyone, but then raced anyway, and broke the school record. He opted for football instead of track when he went to college because there were full scholarships for that, but he still ran in training. My mom said that was the first time she noticed him: he was running the track above her lab. She said he looked so effortless running that he almost looked bored, that his feet didn't even seem to touch the ground at all.
I think about this sometimes when I run. I don't float, not even close, but every now and then I feel like I'm breaking into a place where I could. This is possibly over-optimistic.
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I am wearing my Star Wars t-shirt like a cool girl.
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It's starting to rain outside. I can tell even though I can't see it actually falling. It's making a very soft sound as it hits the honeysuckle leaves outside my kitchen window.
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I love to cook. I get so much genuine satisfaction out of it. Different spices and herbs make me happy, and I like to understand the nuances of them, grow them, read cooking magazine and books about different uses, experiment. I enjoy trying new dishes, improving old ones. Grocery lists excite me. I especially enjoy picking out, planning, and executing well-paired meals--the right wine with the right meat with the right vegetable. The more I can sync, the more satisfaction. And I like the rituals. I like to eat by candlelight, or outside in a nice space. I think too much about matching plate sets for somebody under 40.
That said, when I'm alone, I shamelessly eat cold refried beans and tomatoes out of a Tupperware. In the dark. (That sounds a bit sadder than I mean it.)
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I got a canary melon and soon I am going to butcher that. I also got a watermelon. I'm big into melon right now, I guess.
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