I drank my espresso this morning from a small, colorfully glazed ceramic cup made in a Central American country, a gift from a friend who recently returned from there. Though I am not—unfortunately—one of them, I admire people who make a point of bringing little gifts to their friends from their travels. The gift itself, though nice, is incidental to something far more meaningful; the fact that the recipient was on the gift-giver’s mind. In the case of my gift, its meaning was amplified because it demonstrated my friend’s knowledge that I am especially fond of espresso. Gift-giving has never been a strong suit for me, though I often wish I were more thoughtful. I attempt to justify my empty hands by saying I do not know what to give to people, but that is a poor excuse. The value of a gift may be enhanced when it illustrates a personal connection (as with my little ceramic cup), but the core of its value lies in its giving. Mi novia often shows a person who is important to her is on her mind when she gives a gift she knows the recipient will find especially meaningful. Is the absence of such behavior in me a “natural” trait of males? I doubt it. It is simply a personality flaw; evidence that I lack one of the characteristics usually found in caring, considerate people. Perhaps I can train myself to be a different person; a better person.
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Prime rib, freshly-grated horseradish, mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and steamed asparagus are on my mind at the moment. Though that menu is a Christmas tradition with some families, my family (when I was a child) had turkey and dressing with an assortment of trimmings on Christmas Day; a repeat of our Thanksgiving Day meal. After I left home, I changed the Christmas tradition. Prime rib sometimes, when I could afford it, but more frequently, meals in Thai or Chinese restaurants. Or, on occasion, frozen burritos purchased from the freezer case of a small-town gas station. My late wife and I liked to experiment with non-traditional holiday meals, especially at Christmas time. I vaguely remember having Korean food once, when the waiter tried to convince me not to order something she Americans hated. Whatever it was, I enjoyed it…despite the fact that I learned it was grilled intestines from a farm animal. It might have been sheep or cow or pig…I’m not sure. This year, we’ll play it by ear. My preference would be to take a long, leisurely drive on both holidays. But in the absence of reliably good Asian restaurants within driving distance, we might even return to prime rib. I am not inclined to seek out frozen burritos this year.
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Soft-boiling an egg is not particularly difficult, nor is it time-consuming, but it is apparently more demanding than I would like; because in spite of the fact that I enjoy soft-boiled eggs, I rarely go to the trouble. “Trouble.” It’s not trouble. But it’s more involved than I would like. And the clean-up after the fact does not appeal to me in the least. Until a few short years ago, I did not find soft-boiling eggs especially onerous. Frequently, I soft-boiled two eggs for breakfast, which I accompanied with a small glass of tomato juice (enhanced with the juice of a freshly-squeezed lemon and a few drops of Tabasco sauce) and a sliced tomato. The loss of that ritual may have followed the loss of a kitchen that seemed particularly well-suited to soft-boiled eggs. Yet it could be something else, given that about the same time I stopped engaging in my daily habit of drinking that glass of tomato juice and its companions. The timing of the change in my breakfast habits might have coincided with my return to chemotherapy, when I detected a noticeable change in the flavors of food. If and when the time comes for me to stop chemotherapy (maybe even before), I will give soft-boiled eggs and tomato juice another go. I miss that morning ritual far more than I would have guessed I ever would.
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Flesh-colored is not a color. It is the reflection of a white person’s beige skin and an assertion that persons of color do not have flesh. But people get around its racist underpinnings these days by claiming it is the color of any person’s skin tone, regardless of lineage.
