Pinks

I just started watching Modern Love.

For those that don't know, Modern Love is a New York Times weekly essay post, a pod cast,  a miniature story section called Tiny Love, a book, and a recently renewed for a second season Amazon series.  It takes the stories that have been submitted by readers and honors them with either published essays, or mini movies, or stories you can hear being read through a channel as you ride the subway, or board a plane. It is part of the style section on the Times, and the section you should turn to, skipping the headlines, that makes you feel good first before turning back to educate yourself.  The innocence of the style section, all superficial and chatty, is just the thing sometimes.

It reminded me of my early 20's.  I was going to school in Sacramento, working during the week, and taking as many classes as I could and still stay just under the advisors' radar for unit overload.  I was in my own apartment, having skipped the drama of the dorms for the drama of two story apartment life in a slightly less than upscale neighborhood, but one that had a pool. One bedroom, one bath, ground floor, spectacular view of the parking lot, no air conditioning.  But I also had a boyfriend who lived in Oakland, and I spent as much time with him over every weekend as possible.

On Sunday mornings when I was there, we always woke early.   There was a cheap little bodega around the corner in Oakland that had not very good pasties, and even less good coffee, and we would grab both, then pick up the Sunday San Francisco Chronicle just to get the Pink Section. 

For those that remember, that was the part of the paper officially called the Date Book. It might still be a thing, but I have not picked it up in years to find out.  It had all the entertainment, happenings, listings, style, movie reviews (praise to the Little Man!), and anything else entertainment related you wanted to know.  We would take our coffee, and pastries, and our newspaper back to bed, and that was how we decided the day.  If the Pinks told us about something interesting, we would get re-dressed, and head out.  Day concerts, art openings, festivals, street fairs, anything really that caught our attention that was close enough (SF was okay, Sausalito was too far) and free (that was an important criteria) then off we would go. If nothing appealed to us, we usually stayed in bed for the rest of the day, reading through the other parts of the paper and enjoying the aspects of poverty and youth.

So Modern Love is not quite like that because the Pinks never really concentrated on the personal aspect of anything SF related, and stuck to the public view of art and entertainment.  I can appreciate that; every paper has its own brand, but it would have probably kept me in bed even longer if I could have read a little of the SF loves stories along the way. It didn't matter though, because we were our own little love story, and it was a perfect slice of fleeting happiness I still think of.

I will probably binge watch the rest of the season over a weekend here soon, and maybe binge watch Season 2 as well.  And I think I will write an essay about periods of love I have been lucky enough to have in my life, and submit them for consideration.  I am super happy I can still think of love as something worth seeing, hearing, and celebrating.  I hope I continue to notice. 

Plenty

I was gifted a book tonight.

It is completely random.  I did nothing to earn it except be born close to the giver’s birthday, which had been the extent of the contest for receiving the prize.  It is a cookbook from which tonight’s recipe was taken (delicious by the way), that now was being lovingly passed on.

I should explain here that this was at my monthly bookclub meeting.  And by bookclub, I mean a group of women who suggest books every month, then throw a dinner party with wine and talk about the book (or books) for five minutes.  

There is no pretense with this club at all.  We meet. We eat. We drink.  We sometimes read.  Books are what bring us together for the evening. It is divine.

I am a relative newcomer to the club.  About a year and a half in, but with most of the members being friends for a decade or more.  But within the timeframe of the 2.5 hours we are on someone's couch, or around a dining table or firepit, we have all known each other forever. 

Topics are unique but universal.  Tonight it ranged from Vietnam vets, to gardening tips, to bosses that make us crazy.  We also talked about health issues, and deaths, and children. We talk sex.  We talk politics.  We talk art and literature and history. We could switch from talking and laughing about stolen car parts, to an upcoming surgery with a kind of grace that only comes from camaraderie and deep, deep affection.  We have all had successes and failures.  We have all had joys and heartaches.  We have all known pain and survival.  We notice each other for our clothes, or our make up, or our hair, and are quick to share what we have done and who helped us get that way.  We give each other tips on where to get the best decomposed granite for our patio walkways, and where to buy the best warm scarves. For the suspended time crammed into the few hours on a Wednesday night, we are kindred, timeless.

So my promise and my plan, since I was gifted the cookbook (and to be honest, the entire lot of us are book hoarders) is that I would cook one of the recipes (maybe one that is already page marked, even) and share it online in our private chat group.  If it is especially delicious, maybe I would bring it to the next month’s meeting and share it with the group.  

When I am done with the book (which happens sometimes, even with our hoarder tendencies) I will pass it on. We do that in this group, because of course we do.

Thank you,sisters, I am grateful.