Kitchen

Honey pot

She looked over at me in that way. We were having dinner with some family friends. The hot summer day was finally a temperature we could tolerate. The sun twinkling through delicate leaves just beyond the window. She's eating less now, I've noticed. She always watched what she ate. As children, when she made a mistake, as a punishment we'd tease her that she couldn't have salad for a week, as if salad was her honey pot. but this is different. I know it's a symptom, but every symptom is so quietly apparent, a slithering gas leak slowly moving nearer. One more bite.

 

Fixing the Light

They came to visit me in San Francisco. My kitchen light had been acting as an odious strobe light for a month or two. As unsettling as it may have been, I am very low maintenance and would just avoid turning on the light, all together, instead of taking the time to change it. But that's one of the good things about Dads, they like to fix things for their kids.

That ladder was incredibly rickety, and for a minute I did worry for his safety. But then I thought back on his strengthening exercises he used to do at night (he would stand on one foot and closes his eyes for extended amounts of time -- try it, it's hard.) and I realized he probably has better balance than I do, even if he is in his mid-sixties. Mom cautiously stood beside him, looking less worried than I'd expect, holding down his left calf until he successfully fixed the light.