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Among Friends |
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| Vacation break for the mind I have given my mind a much-needed vacation. "Shoo," I said. "It's high summer. Run along and play." And so it has. My responsible adulthood has been replaced by a flurry of frivolous pursuits, childhood regressions and a hiatus in which I do nothing but have fun. My mind's summer vacation began when I drove under a wild mango tree and, without warning, a barrage of sun-ripened fruit fell out of the sky. Pulling over to wipe the gooey mess off the windshield, my mouth started watering at the luscious mango smell, so I picked up one, two, three of the crushed fruits and gorged on their sticky-sweet flesh. A horse, its muzzle stained as orange as my smeared lips and dripping chin, issued a demanding whinny to share the loot. In the process of feeding the horse, I gathered up an armload of mangoes to take home. Thus began my chutney marathon. For years, I'd lugged a shelf of canning books around with me. Although I'd never actually "put up" homemade foods, I'd been my mother's and grandmother's "helping hands," trusted enough to cut up the raw fruits and vegetables for their prize-winning jams, jellies, preserves and pickles, but never allowed to fly solo. Now it was my turn. What else could I do with eight plastic bags of mango pulp but make chutney? Six hours and "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Jams, Jellies and Preserves" later, I had a dozen beautiful jars lined up on the kitchen counter, their lids sealing with a reassuring "pop." Needing a rest, I settled into the porch rocking chair. I'm not used to napping, but I got the hang of it quickly by watching the dog. When she woke up, I gave her a cookie. But where was mine? We don't keep people cookies in the house because we'd eat them. This logic eludes my husband but makes perfect sense to me, since I've been on a diet for 40 years. Because I couldn't get the idea of a warm brownie out of my head, I looked in the freezer for the chocolate I'd hidden there months ago. It is a known fact that men who stand in front of refrigerators and freezers never look down, so there it was, right where I'd left it on the bottom shelf. "What's the occasion?" Dean asked as I passed him the brownie plate. "My birthday," I said, giving him just enough time to look horrified before I added, "just kidding." But it feels like a week of birthdays. I'm spending so much time in the garden that my toes are sunburned. Dishes are piling up in the sink, and the ironing basket is full. I've made time to take flowers to a sick neighbor and spent leisurely hours visiting on the phone with faraway friends. I've even written a real letter, on nice, heavy paper with a good black pen. The slower I move, the more time I have. "Come watch the moon rise," I say to my fella. "Hurry, don't miss the rainbow," he says to me. The best part of sending my mind on vacation is a lack of guilt. Normally, I'd have to be dying to justify watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers tap dance their way through the 1935 movie "Top Hat" at 10 a.m. on cable television, but not this week. Seeing teenagers stampeding to the beach and greeting returning 20-somethings who've been backpacking all summer, I wonder: When and how did I get so serious about life that most of the spontaneity went out of mine? Is it too late to be irrepressibly irresponsible again? I practiced by shoving the overdue bills back in the drawer and forgetting to take my PMS pills. I hope I get used to this newfound laissez-faire attitude when my mind returns from holiday. Until then, I'm going to stretch out by a pool with Danielle Steel. |
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