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Last Meal

Last Meal

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On Sunday the Octave of Easter ended, though the season of Easter will last until Pentecost. But for me the celebration truly came to an end when I ate the last turkey sandwich made from Easter dinner leftovers. 

Sometimes I forgo the turkey on Easter, serving only ham along with the deviled eggs, asparagus, ambrosia salad and potatoes au gratin. But this year’s crowd required reinforcements. I was happy to oblige with a 23-pound bird. That’s a lot of turkey sandwiches — and I have relished every one.

You have to understand that if I were offered a last meal, I wouldn’t hesitate. It would be a turkey sandwich made from all white meat, thinly sliced, on white bread (which I usually avoid) and mayonnaise (ditto). If I’m feeling virtuous I garnish with lettuce … but I usually don’t feel virtuous. 

I would illustrate this post with a picture of a turkey sandwich, but alas, the turkey sandwiches are gone. A glass of iced tea will have to do. It, of course, would be the last beverage. 

Semana Santa

Semana Santa

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It’s Holy Week and I’m imagining I’m back in Sevilla, where Semana Santa is a very big deal. This is what I love best about traveling. That even though I must leave the place, the place never leaves me. It stays in the angle of the light, the heat of the day rising up off the paving stones, the expressions of the faithful waiting patiently for the procession.

The taste of Semana Santa that we experienced in last June’s Corpus Christi celebration is what I’m remembering, and I’m multiplying it by, oh, a hundred at least. The religious floats are much larger, the crowds much denser, the people more serious and pious than they were last summer (and they were seriously pious then). 

It’s the holiest week of the year for Catholics, and in Sevilla, that’s abundantly clear.

Foolish or Fake?

Foolish or Fake?

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It’s April 2, and having shared no foolery yesterday I went in search of some today. I looked online and found a few famous pranks from history. 

On April 1, 1957, the BBC aired a segment on the great spaghetti harvest happening in the Ticino region of Switzerland, near the Italian border. There was footage of farmers “harvesting” the spaghetti and then sitting down to eat it al fresco (and maybe al dente, too). Some viewers were convinced enough that they called the network to ask how they could grow their own spaghetti at home. 

More recent April 1st “new product” announcements include Velveeta skincare, Cauliflower Peeps and Teletubbies cryptocurrency. And then there’s this year’s “launch” of Harry and Meghan’s new video game “Mexit: The Call of Duke-y,” in which the couple must surmount obstacles on their way to California. 

My impression in general, however, is that pranks aren’t what they used to be. In a world of fake news, April Fools’ Day is redundant. 

(Spaghetti “harvest” photo courtesy Wikipedia.)

For the Women

For the Women

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On this, the last day of Women’s History Month, I’m thinking about the women in my life: my daughters, sister and mother, my sisters-in-law, grandmothers, aunts and cousins.

I’m thinking about my women friends, so many dear ones, some I’ve known since high school and college, others of more recent vintage. 

I’m thinking about the women I’ve met on travels around the world, women tackling enormous problems with grace and good cheer.

How strong these women are, kind and capable and funny. Yesterday, still mulling over the tragedy in Nashville and lawmakers’ tepid response to it, I thought, if women were in charge, we would do something about it. 

First, we would not be in the same dire predicaments if women were running the world. But even if we were, we would be facing them differently, more collaboratively and courageously. 

I could be wrong, of course. Maybe women would fall into the same traps that men do. But I don’t think so. And I hope one day we have a chance to find out.

(I met these women from Ntcheu, Malawi, in December 2018.)

A Few Words on Nashville

A Few Words on Nashville

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I generally avoid writing about political topics here, thinking that we get enough of those from other sources. But it’s hard stay quiet about the latest school shooting. Three nine-year-olds! A principal, custodian and substitute teacher! People who love children doing their best to keep them safe. 

If we take a long view of history, the 2020s are not an especially violent time. But if we start with the world in which most of us grew up, then the fact that three months into 2023 we’ve already had 130 mass shootings (defined as four or more people killed), or the fact that one in 20 Americans owns at least one AR-15 rifle, a gun designed for military use, it’s hard to argue that our society isn’t violent. 

As it happens, the Washington Post began a series on the AR-15 on Monday. It was the lead story on the Post website … until the Nashville school shooting took that prime position. 

Undoubtedly, many factors are producing these mass shootings: mental illness, social media, a culture of celebrity, a lack of belonging. The people who are perpetrating these acts, often little more than children themselves (though not in this case), are usually loners, people who in their final acts seek the notoriety they hope will make up for the anonymity in which they’ve lived. Banning assault weapons would not solve all of our problems. But it would be a huge start. 

I keep thinking about the Covenant parents sending their children off to school in their plaid uniforms, backpacks and lunchboxes in tow. Those parents were expecting to see their kids back home Monday afternoon. They would have offered them a snack, nagged them about homework, given them a hug. Instead, they had to identify their bodies. 

We are the adults. We’re supposed to keep our children safe. And we’re not doing our job. It’s as simple — and as horrifying — as that. 

The Beauty

The Beauty

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I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve trekked around the Tidal Basin to see Washington, D.C.’s cherry trees in bloom. More times than I can count, for sure. I’ve seen the trees with toddlers in tow, with Mom long ago, but for the last many years, I’ve seen the blossoms alone, usually before or after work.

Yesterday I went down early, as if it were still a workday for me, wanting to beat the crowds. I snapped photos of people, not just blossoms, because it’s the people I notice year after year. Old and young, nimble and slow-moving. The amateur photographers and the serious, long-lensed people, too. 

There was a woman in a strapless dress with a pink parasol. She made a lovely focal point for this amateur photographer, but she must have been cold. I was wearing three layers. 

If you look closely at her, you’ll notice the water lapping nearly at her feet. Some parts of the path were completely submerged and pedestrians had to detour up a little hill until the trail reappeared. There have been articles lately about the peril the blossoms face with rising sea levels and early blooms. 

But when I saw the trees again, I wasn’t thinking about the peril—just appreciating the beauty. 

To Be in Ireland

To Be in Ireland

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Truth to tell, I don’t think St. Patty’s is the day I’d want to be in Ireland, if I was given a choice of going any day of the year. But it’s on this day especially that my thoughts turn to the “auld sod.” 

A place where the faces look familiar and the landscape is magical. 

Where hearths are warm,  pubs are lively, 

And breakfasts to die for …

Come to think of it, maybe I would go to Ireland today.

The Fact Checker

The Fact Checker

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Do facts matter? How integral are they to the underlying truth? These questions and more were raised in the one-act play “The Lifespan of a Fact,” which I saw last night with journalist friends.

The play and book on which it is based raise all sorts of questions about literary license, rights of authorship and fiction versus nonfiction. But for me it was also a trip down memory lane, as I recalled a fact checker I worked with at McCall’s magazine. 

Carmen had a quick laugh and a determined air. She wore well-tailored skirts and blouses, and everything about her was precise, from her sturdy pumps to her tidy bob. When she appeared at my desk with a manuscript covered in red ink and pencil marks I always wanted to slink down into my chair, down, down, down until I could slide under my desk and hide out there a while. 

Too late, of course. Carmen knew I was there. And even if she didn’t, she would hunt me down just as she did every fact in every article. I’m not a sloppy reporter, but everyone trembled in Carmen’s wake. In a pre-Internet era, fact-checking was no easy task, but Carmen and her minions made sure that every piece in the magazine was shipshape and gospel-true. There were no questions about the lifespan of those facts. 

Love and Whimsy

Love and Whimsy

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A long walk yesterday along a Reston path, the Cross-County Trail, then around Lake Audubon and back to the car. 

It was one of those hybrid walks that I enjoy for its variety. 

Along the way, this Valentine’s surprise attached to a fence post. A tribute to the power of love … and of whimsy. 

23,000

23,000

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23,000. The number flares, it burns a hole in the mind. The pain it represents. The terrible loss of life from earthquakes in Turkey and Syria and the human misery left in their wake.

The earthquake that struck Lisbon on November 1, 1755, occurred before there were ways to measure temblors, but it’s estimated to have been as high as 8.0 on the Richter scale. Estimated loss of life: 30,000 to 50,000. 

The event widened an already wide rift in European intellectual life as philosophers like Voltaire challenged optimism and belief in a loving and engaged God.  

Natural events ripple through history. How, I wonder, will this current one ripple through time? 

(An engraving of the Lisbon earthquake and tsunami that followed. Courtesy Wikipedia. Four days after I posted this,  the death toll in Syria and Turkey reached 41,000.)