In today’s post, I’ll be talking not about my usual range of topics, but about one of the homes I lived in when I was growing up. The one I associate with my childhood.
I’m waiting for the man- a round and jolly old man in a bright red suit and hat, with a snowy white pompom and a snowy white beard, living in a very snowy place. He has always been old, but he does not age; I assume he lives forever. His Mrs. does too, and I assume she is an excellent cook.
As a writer who did this small bonbon of a book for a certain kind of reader in a certain kind of mood, and being at the Pasadena Library for Author’s Night, one patron who purchased Dust unto Shadow was the ever-smiling Golareh Safarian. She’s also a writer and beautiful inside and out and children flocked to her table and many of them sat on her lap.
When I was seven, the first time I boarded a plane I was in route to San Francisco with my mother. It was during Easter break. In those days food was not accessible everywhere as it is today. People ate at meal times, it’s probably why obesity was such a rarity. Consequently, we arrived at our destination famished. Once at my Uncles’ my mother vocalized our hunger. We were served cold Lenten bread pudding and I was instantly smitten. Capirotada is made of toasted bread slices drenched in a sweet and spicy syrup. It was soft and sticky, and there were crunchy nuts, chewy raisins and a creamy tang…I was in love!
But Winter is my Mother’s season. She symbolizes home and hearth, family, singing, gift giving, Christ consciousness (love) cozy blankets, luxurious sweaters and savoring hot Mexican chocolate.
On Sunday at The San Gabriel Mission Playhouse I saw a silent film that had an organ accompanist. Your probably wondering why I’m writing about it now? Because the humor hasn’t left me. Every time I tell someone about it the words don’t come out because I’m full of snorts, cackles and tears. So I’ll…