Molly is Moving

Recently, many of my friends have abandoned Los Angeles. Some say they will be back. Others, I know, probably will not. Molly is the latest to defect. She lives about 12 minutes away from me, a rare quality to find in a friend out here. In a few days she will live about 41 hours away, in New York.

Last week was one of packing, organizing, purging and selling. Along with other friends, I tried to help. We all had our own philosophies on what to do with her things. Pictures of ex-boyfriends? Trash. The automatic 35mm camera? Sell. Her library card? I think it got tossed. Then there was a notebook from graduate school with piece of paper taped inside. On that paper was a poem that Molly had written when she was a child. Her mother had typed and mailed it to her with a note for inspiration. Keep the whole notebook? Someone thought she should.

Molly gave us some things as well. I took home three beautiful plants, some tea, homemade preserves, a bracelet, an envelope of change (which will go to my perfume fund) and this sculpture. Molly is an artist, musician and teacher. She made this. He was resting in her shower, staring up at the ceiling. I noticed him when I used her bathroom. He looked lonely. I asked her about him and she asked me if I wanted him. I hesitated. I wasn't sure. She wasn't taking him with her? No. She was thinking of giving the sculpture to her parents because they were probably the only people who would want it.

She said she thought of him as someone from the past. A native who'd been here before us. When I look at him, I see someone from the future. Someone who hasn't come yet. His eyes are a little unsettling, but still, there is something comforting about him.

Bye Molly.

Perfect

Those who know me know that my kitchen is not an ample one. The things that fill it are mostly hand-me-downs (I have a set of pint glasses my brother amassed during his days as a bachelor when he used to frequent Pint Night at the Snake Pit) and tools I've collected out of impulsive necessity (I purchased my only mixing bowl, a baking sheet and a crank, stove-top popcorn maker because I wanted to bring caramel corn to an Oscar party). There is no microwave, but a reliable toaster oven. I have an entire shelf devoted to tea, but the spice section of my cupboard has about four or five offerings. The most constant staples of my refrigerator are beer and potatoes. It is, some would say, a sad sight.

It is so sad that I get nervous when friends venture into my kitchen, even to fetch something as simple as a glass of water. I don't want to be judged for what they see or don't see.

My friend Raquel came to visit over the weekend and we had plans to meet friends at an outdoor concert at the Hollywood Bowl and have a potluck picnic before. Southern California suffered a heatwave last week, so cooking was out of the question. I suggested we go to the farmer's market for inspiration. We settled on black bean salad, with corn, cilantro, mung beans, Blenheim apricots and red bell pepper, dressed with vinegar and olive oil. Yum.

Being more experienced in the kitchen, Raquel took the reigns on assembling the salad while I tried to take an afternoon nap. With it being too hot to sleep, I got out of bed and stood in the doorway of my kitchen to observe. She was cutting the corn off the cob with my one good knife.

This knife is the prize of my kitchen. It was a birthday gift from the Baron and I use it every day. I asked Raquel what she thought of my knife. She gushed about how perfect and sharp it was and how she didn't want to comment on it because she didn't want it to seem like she was slighting me. As though a girl like me, with a kitchen like mine, wouldn't have a knife like that. I told her I wouldn't have been offended if she'd said that out loud. I know the truth about myself and though I may not have much, at least I've got a perfect knife.

Indeed

Game 6: Celtics 131, Lakers 92. Wow.

It's over. I'm glad Boston won. They are clearly the best team in the NBA. But I feel a little said for the Lakers. That had to hurt.

Read about it here.
Hear about it here.

Some Call It Bliss

Last night, gays in California began to marry. There will be more weddings today, and the next day and the day after that. Cheers.

Classic

This is how my father taught me to drink tea. I had a cup this morning in honor of him. Happy Father's Day.

Wildlife

Spotted on a boulder off the driveway. I don't think this animal is native to the neighborhood, but these certainly are. And I am frightened of them.

My Pioneer

I have had countless cups of tea with one particular friend. This picture is evidence of a soothing tea we shared after being lost in the rain in Florence, Italy. She is a baron and she showed me the way to blogtown with her own blog. I recommend reading it while drinking a small bowl of jasmine tea.

Go Green!

The Boston Celtics just went up 3-1 over the Los Angeles Lakers. My brother's text message says it all:

If you want details, read my favorite sports writer's take on it here.

When I got home near the end of the first quarter to see the Lakers up by 21 points, I was wishing it was 9 p.m. instead of 6:45 and so I could turn away to watch So You Think You Can Dance. Fortunately, I stuck around. And it turned out to be one of those games where I found myself doing the most annoying thing—clapping and cheering at the television as the Celtics fought their way back. There were lots of reasons to get excited, Paul Pierce's defense on Kobe, Kevin Garnett's magical ability to reach the length of the court and Ray Allen's pretty left-handed layup. But this text message from my favorite sports writer during halftime elicited the most joy:

I will try to forgive him for The Love Guru. So it's on to Sunday, when hopefully the Celtics will wrap this series up.
Note: My favorite sports writer sent me the above text message because he knew how excited I would be to receive it. He is not a fan.