Last Thursday I flew to San Francisco -- just me -- to visit my sister. I spent three nights and four days. On day one, we had a nosh of goat cheese with craisin compote on those things that I call crackers but Lo insists are cookies.
Later, Lo practiced the piano; I watched Blue Bloods on my iPad and knit. Every day that I was there, Lo and I would spend some time apart in our individual pursuits. She and I share a the same requirement for a high degree of alone time. Okay, so Lo's making music and culturally improving herself while I'm just oogling Tom Selleck, but otherwise? The same-the same. In a pinch, I could easily see us as roommates. It'd make for a harmonious living situation, but a pretty dull sitcom.
That first night we had pasta with pesto, and homemade bread. We watched a few episodes of Breaking Bad, then later, we ran into each other in the kitchen when we both felt the need for a late night snack at the same time.
I stayed up until the wee smalls watching Tom Selleck, knitting a project I'd abandon the next day, and eating the remainder of that goat cheese on the cookie-crackers. Olive has taught me many things, and among the most important lesson is to appreciate the unmitigated freedom of a night spent sleeping alone. There is great joy to be had in knowing that no one will need me between my nodding off and my waking... which will happen at a time to be determined by my own internal clock.
The next day we had our nails done. I had intended to just get a pedicure, but there seemed no reason to stop the manicurists when she put my hands in the soaking water. When you're getting a manicure, you cannot knit or check your phone for messages or check your datebook to see how many days you have left to do your back to school shopping. You have no choice but to sit and rest, and you may as well close your eyes and experience the full measure of the hand massage.
Here are my lovely toes. Olive is entranced by the blue, and I feel happy every time I look down at them. They are tangible evidence that I have relaxed.
After our mani/pedis, we went out for Mexican food. We needed fortification for our next activity: yarn shopping at Uncommon Threads. I have projects earmarked for each yarn, but as we all know, I'll probably end up making something completely different. I am a stasher as opposed to a project shopper. Sometimes the yarn tells you what it wants to be, and sometimes it says, "I have no clue, but you need me." Sometimes it wants to be used right away, and sometimes it needs to age a bit.
Apparently I needed Lana Grossa Babykid in bright red:
and Rowan Kidsilk Aura:
and Noro Silk Garden.
The next day Lo and I went to an antique mall. She saw a garden rabbit she liked, but was unsure if adding it to her tableau would make her front yard overly cutesie. I found a book for Henry, my soon-to-be nephew (see how I slipped his name in there, all casual-like?). We looked at cameos, and I pointed out an especially pretty pair of earrings.
After I paid for my book, Lo suggested that I go across and check out Anthropologie while she made her purchase. I figured she didn't want me to see her buy that rabbit after all.
As soon as I entered Anthropologie, I saw a dress on a mannequin that I thought would be lovely on Sabina. Almost as quickly, I realized that this dress was not styled for the willowy and leggy. It was designed for the short and curvy. It was designed for me. Inititally I did feel very guilty about buying clothing for myself, but with my sister's encouragement, I got over it. In fact, I recovered so fully that I was able to include a pair of pants and a sweater. (I took this photo in my sister's bathroom.)
When we got to the car, Lo showed me what she'd stayed at the antique mall to purchase. It was the beautiful earrings I had pointed out. Awww.....
Later that day, we met with our cousin Amy for lunch at an outdoor cafe. Cousin Jeannie joined us later, at Lo's house. But in the middle of lunch, Lo looked at me with dismay and said, "Jen, your earrings!" One of them was gone. I couldn't believe it. I'd owned the earrings for less than an hour, and had already managed to lose one. I went to the cafe's main counter to see if perhaps it had fallen out while I was ordering our food, but I didn't hold out much hope. The cafe was packed with people, and we had walked some distance to get there in the first place. But there it was: on the floor directly in front of the cash register.
On that last night, we went out to dinner with my brother-in-law John and nephew Brendy. We went to a restaurant where everything is fresh fresh fresh and local, and where even the most incidental lettuce leaf is there on purpose, for a reason, and no doubt beat out several other lettuce leaves for the opportunity to be in your salad.
While we were looking at the menu, the waiter brought out an amuse-bouche for us all to share--a small dish containing four little cubes of peach, accompanied by four tiny forks. The waiter explained that the peach was picked yesterday, and went on to describe the various seasoning experiences the peach went through before arriving at our table.
I admit it: I regarded those smidgens of peach with the somewhat scornful doubt of someone who's spent the last seven years in the land of Da Pork Chop. We were, after all, talking about a piece of fruit, here: not a magic bean. But I took my tiny fork and dutifully put the tiny piece of peach in my mouth.
In my stone fruit irreverence, I had not paid attention to what the seasoning was. It was something tangy, maybe balsamic vinegar. The tang did not overpower the sweetness, and had the unusual effect of making that wee cube taste bigger than it was, and, somehow, peachier than if it had been left plain. The waiter was right: that flavor was worth getting excited about, and merited all the fanfare.
My trip to California was a lot like that little dish of peach cubes. Three nights and four days seems very short, considering the length of the plane ride and the cost of the flights. Was it really worth it, for a few child-free, responsibility-free days and a chance to visit with my sister, whom I'd seen only weeks prior and who comes to Milwaukee about four times a year?
Without question.
If I close my eyes, I can still taste that peach.
