Dappled light in the forest of my dreams. Serene. Peace. At ease. Body vibrating at the same frequency as the trees. The breeze lifts a tendril of hair and my spirit soars. I feel good.
Oh to feel good. For nothing to hurt. Not my back. Not my feet. Not my heart.
I can’t remember when.,, Let’s not go there.
I want a komorebi tan – light-kissed skin with the shapes of leaves tattooed by the sun.
I remember my first fall and deciduous trees. I was enraptured. I made a glue of flour and water and pasted fallen leaves to the mirror of my Sears French Provincial dresser. I was 12. The leaves were orange and red and brown. The flour dried hard and solid. Those leaves were there for months and months. Until… I don’t know why or when I removed them.
Komorebi – you can almost smell the fragrance of chlorophyll. The trees respirating oxygen. A body can breathe in the forest. Deep cleansing breaths. Breathe in the now, exhale the past.
Relax. Rejuvenate. Rejoice.
May the forest always be with us. May the light always be with us. May peace be our birthright. Forever and ever Amen.
Isobel scrubbed out what was left of her third cigarette of the morning and drained the dregs of her second mug of coffee. Black of course. No sugar. Of course.
She’d been chain-smoking Marlboros and shotgunning coffee since she joined the Academy at 14. It was the only way to keep her profile long and lean.
Isobel was famous for the lines she could make of her body. She preferred modern dance in nothing but a leotard the exact shade of her skin, but when you are called to dance, you go where your talent takes you.
And so she was the prima for the New York Ballet – a position envied by many.
Today they had her costumed in swirls and twirls of scarlet silk and chiffon. Madame signaled that it was time to begin. She walked in her toe shoes, that distinctive walk that only ballet dancers with years of experience can duplicate, to the center of the backdrop. Simple black. The scarlet of her costume, the pale peach of her skin, with her dark hair — oh the photos would be extraordinary if the photographer had even a drop of skill. En pointe, she lengthened her neck, pulled her arms into position, and rotated. She heard the photographer gasp before she heard the camera shutter start its incessant chatter. She always strained for that sound. When her audience gasped, she knew her body was telling her true. She had arranged the lines perfectly. The veins and arteries of her neck reaching upward as did her arms and fingers – balanced perfectly on her toes and the wooden blocks inside her shoes.
Would Claude be in the audience tonight? She wondered as she pirouetted and her skirts billowed to the background rhythm of the shutter clicking. Claude was pursuing her with diligence and finesse. She had learned he was a podiatrist early on. She was dubious that she could allow herself to be at ease with him. Surely, such a doctor would want beautiful feet.
What most didn’t know was that professional ballerinas had the world’s most god-awful feet. Isobel was vain. She did not see her ugly feet as the vehicle for her talent. She saw them as grotesque appendages never to be exposed to a curious world. She never wore sandals and only went to the beach with water shoes. She could not fathom exposing her naked feet to a connoisseur.
Claude’s interest was likely to be rebuffed. Again.
It just wasn’t Saturday without Tom & Jerry, Felix the Cat, and Bullwinkle & Rocky, but my favorite cartoons were the old classics: Silly Symphonies and all the Looney Tunes. Oh, how I laughed. Oh, how I was entranced. Dancing teacups, sentient plants, Singing tubs of cold cream. No wonder we grew up to be the generation that put music videos into the mainstream.
My brother and I would assemble on the floor in the living room. Bowl of cereal in front of us far too close to the television. Mom would say, you’re too close to the television and we would scooch back. After two bowls of Sugar Pops with the Sugar Bear mascot, I’d be wired for sound. I did love that cereal which is odd because I wasn’t much of a cereal eater as I hated milk. I often ate my sugar pops without or as little as possible.
Funny, but I can’t remember the order of the cartoons though I remember that I was done by the time Johnny Quest came on. Sometimes I’d watch it, other times not. My brother was done before then and likely in the backyard with his Tonka trucks.
At about the age of 10 or 11, I added American Bandstand to Saturday cartoons. I think it came on at noon. In later years, soul train followed.
When I got older yet, I discovered that often there were old movies on in the afternoon. I Sugar Popped my way through musicals, film noir, Jerry Lewis, and Tammy movies.
Saturdays were blissful. The only real day I didn’t have much to do. Sure, we were expected to clean our room and do other housecleaning duties, but none of that “no playing until chores were done.” As long as we did get it done, we were pretty free to choose when. No school, no church, hours and hours to just be. Laughing at cartoons, reading Beverly Clearly, eating when hungry, and straightening my bedroom when I was good and ready to.
As an adult, I watched cartoons with my son. I wonder if he realizes how cheated he was. Everything has a moral, a lesson, a sponsor. No silliness just for the sake of being silly. No whimsy. No dancing tubs of cold cream.
I am resolved to buy the old Warner Brothers stuff on DVD so that my grandson will have those hours of childhood. Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, The Roadrunner. What a golden period for cartoons.
Pancakes or waffles, you ask? Well. I’m actually a French toast kind of chick if I’m going to be that carb indulgent. Normally, my breakfast of choice is potatoes, sausage, two eggs over easy, wheat toast well done and well buttered. That’s my mainstay.
But there are mornings—or evenings more likely—when a warm breakfast bread calls to me.
I once had a vintage waffle iron I bought at the Goodwill for $2. I was excited to have it. I brought it home, plugged it in to see if it worked and told my five-year-old son not to touch it. What did he do? He touched it. Nearly 2nd degree burns on his little hand. I learned real fast why it was at the Goodwill. It was not safe. The whole thing got hot. Scorching hot. 2nd degree burns hot. I did the world a favor and threw that sucker away.
I did eventually get a new waffle iron. Hated it too. By the time you got the waffles from the iron to the table, the butter wouldn’t melt, they were so cold. And that is mostly my experience with waffles. You can’t keep them hot. And there is no point in a waffle or a pancake or even French Toast if it’s not hot and swimming in melted butter. Lots of butter. Real butter. Good real butter. Like a nice Danish butter from the Gucci Kroger cheese case.
So, we went back to pancakes. I like pancakes. Tons of butter and sometimes, certainly not always, a bit of maple syrup. Real maple syrup. Not that fake stuff. Ooooo ick. No. Never that. Never. But I seldom order them and even less often make them at home. Just not big on the pancakes.
But the French toast, you might ask? Well. There’s a problem with French toast. I like it one of two ways. Made with that dirt cheap white bread you can buy at any Dollar General or French toast, Pan Perdue, made with my homemade bread. The problem is I seldom have either when a French toast urge comes upon me. So, it’s a once or twice a year thing unless I’m out somewhere, but they rather bug me the French toast purveyors do. By the time they’re done with it, it’s a dessert. Powdered sugar, fruit compote, whipped cream. Now that can be good, as a dessert, but it’s not French toast.
Here’s the recipe for French Toast:
Connie’s day old homemade white bread sliced about an inch and half thick.
6 eggs, beaten
Heavy cream
A dash of nutmeg
Salt and pepper
Good butter
Mix all the ingredients except the butter until you have a creamy thick liquid. Soak the bread in it and pop the slices into a hot pan with melted butter. Fry on both sides until puffed and golden brown.
Serve with copious amounts of butter and maple syrup if you must. Savory sausage patties for contrast on the side. Perfection.
But waffles or pancakes, you ask? I hang out at the Waffle House. In fact, I have a book started: Meet Me at the Waffle House. I have a couple of chapters written. One morning, I wanted something different and noticed they offered waffles with pecans. I have never turned down a pecan in my life. Waffle House waffles with extra pecans and a load of whipped butter are the bomb. Love ‘em. I think it’s the pecans, but they hold the heat. I can actually get a hot waffle. Oooo doggies. Good eating.
Yesterday, I took my Consort to the Waffle House. He decided on a waffle along with eggs etc. I told him to get it with extra pecans. He’ll tell you. Perfection.
So, the answer? Waffles or pancakes? Waffle House waffles (hot) with extra pecans at 5 a.m. with your hot lover and hot coffee. Oooo doggies.
W. Va. Fur and Root 