Lost and Found

Food. In Three Parts.

I.

I'm staring at the cover of February's Gourmet magazine, waiting for my lunch date to call. Everything in me covets the grilled cheese with onion jam, taleggio and escarole featured on the magazine. What I'm going to get, however, is something from Subway. I don't think that taleggio is one of their cheese options.

II.

Can I talk a little bit more about Sunday's coffee date at La Chatelaine? I didn't even mention the brioche. Brioche. Bree-osh. I know very little about baking, but the brioche I dipped into my life-changing cup of coffee made me want to quit my job and learn about patience and chemistry (both of which, I gather, are important for that field).

III.

I tried to make banana bread on Friday night, but it tasted weird.

"I don't think that the bananas were ripe enough," I told Ryan.

"I don't think that you mixed it enough," she bluntly replied.

"You called my baby ugly," I said before retreating to my room, glaring at nothing in particular.

It sucks when your baby is ugly. But it's easier to blame the bananas.

Coffee.

I abuse coffee. More often than not, I drink coffee for the side effects: warmth, caffeine, that caramel color it leaves my teeth.

Late yesterday morning, I pulled myself from bed to meet T. for coffee. We'd been texting for days about the coffee date. She picked me up and we decided to try La Chatelaine, the Worthington location. I've been to this French bistro for dinner a few times, as well as for book club. I'd never utilized the location for sitting, talking, and savoring coffee, before yesterday.

The coffee cups at La Chatelaine are tiny and the cream is heavy. It takes work to drink this coffee, to get refills. The tiny cup, balanced on the saucer, spills a quarter of the good stuff if one does not walk with elegance and grace through the dining room. But the walk, the risk, the danger of dropping the whole thing is worth it.

I stopped talking long enough yesterday to allow the aroma of the French roast to waft into my face, which was hovering about three inches above the cup. Oh my God. This is what coffee is supposed to smell like, taste like. And so I slowed down my consumption and took tiny tastes from the tiny cup.

The conversation was good. The company was good. The coffee was good. And I couldn't help but think to myself, "Why don't I do this more often?"

If you can enjoy a cup of coffee, you can enjoy life.

New Happy.

Hillary owns land on Zanzibar Island, off the coast of Tanzania. The Africans I spoke to love her. And they love Barack, as well. They hope that aid, trade, an interest in their corrupt government will increase with the election of one of these Democrats.

I learned about the overall interest in American politics while on a motor boat in the Indian ocean, headed out to Changuu, otherwise known as Prison Island. We were going to see the giant tortoises, a day trip equivalent to visiting Ron Jon's Surf Shop on the way to Myrtle Beach. We were tourists, Muzungus, white people. A prison was built on the island in the 1890's, but instead of hosting criminals, it became a quarantine station for foreigners entering and leaving East Africa by boat. The driver of our motor boat filled us in on the details of his opinions, which have, I must admit, impacted my opinions on our political future.

Although no single Democratic candidate matches up with my views on the issues involved (Iraq, Healthcare, Environment, Immigration, etc.), my leanings have been toward Barack Obama in the past several months. When I think of him as a person, words like fresh, new, hope come to mind. And perspective.

Iowa made its decision and I was content. I don't really know what goes on in Iowa the rest of the year; I have no idea what its people are like. I probably swear too much for their liking. But if even Iowa wants something new, there's a chance that the rest of our country might follow suit.

And then yesterday happened. Hillary got emotional and I got confused. I first heard it on NPR and then googled the video. Political strategy or not, Hillary became human. And it touched me. She has the experience, the kick-your-assness to get things done and now, the compassion and love that drives every good woman to cause a scene and make things better.

Tonight's outcome in New Hampshire will be interesting. Although the Democratic candidate will most certainly be decided by the time Ohio gets to vote, I'll be paying attention, tapping into those irrational feminine emotions. One being hope.

As we returned to Stonetown at the end of our Zanzibar island adventure, complete with plenty of photos of giant turtles eating lettuce, our tiny boat fell into the shadow of a cargo boat with the name, "New Happy."

I don't know how our new President will affect the life of my boater friend, nor do I know how he or she will change my life. We can only hope that new and happy will be in our respective vocabularies after the final election.

1980's.

Songs from the Flashdance soundtrack are on the Muzak in the store. Also, leg warmers, footless tights and leggings are in style.

I feel uncomfortable.

Wonderings.

I can't eat food until 3 p.m. today. All I want, of course, is food. How typical.

I'm getting bloodwork done this afternoon, to see if I have some crazy Tanzanian microbe living in me. Me and my microbe. I've been daydreaming about Tanzania, about its people, its food. Part of me still wants to be there.

Refugees from Kenya are starting to flow into Northern Tanzania, now. I can envision the road they'll take. Moshi Road. The "freeway system" of Eastern Africa is not very complicated. Though I spent much of my time in Tanzania lost, lost in the culture, lost in the language, I clearly remember one direction, one road. "That way," Beth said as she pointed north on Moshi Road, "is Nairobi."

How often do we think about the stability of our government? I don't. If things get out of control in Iowa tonight, the worst thing that could happen is... Well, I don't want to predict that. But I'm pretty sure that church fires and machetes will not be involved.

What would it be like to be a refugee in your own country? Gathering everything you can carry and fleeing the violence of your neighbors? I think that we'd pack different things. I'd probably forget to buy gas and to stock up on water. I'd worry about shoes. The orange ones are cute, but the tennis shoes will last longer. Stuff like that.

That's the difference between me and them, them and me. They probably know how to better survive. That, and I know when my next meal is. 3.30 p.m.