My choice to eat fast food the other day

Two weeks ago, after a routine mammogram which progressed quite quickly to other frightening imaging techniques which came as a bad surprise and then to a biopsy between results in which I cried myself to sleep, made love to my husband as if it was our last chance to continue humankind, rethought my entire life plan, and gave some serious thought into career decisions, I had a bad craving.

It was a nasty, awful, take out, craving for a fast food chicken sandwich. Why? I hadn’t touched those fast food things forever. The day after my biopsy last week I entered a McDo for the first time in a good seven years, ordered specifically this sandwich, this particular sandwich, ate it on a park bench, and in between bites let memories flood into my mind.

James Street. Mama. Exit 45 on route 81 on the way to the yacht club, only with Mama, because my father would never agree. Burger King (does not exist in France) Chicken sandwiches would only do. How we looked smiled into each others eyes as we devoured them.

Willie came home. I knew, and I didn’t know because between us it was too difficult to take and impossible for him to tell. He had AIDS, at the time when people didn’t have a chance to live very long, he was going to die, which he did within a rather short time, something he never told me he was going to do but which I was aware was going to happen, and when I wrapped a silk scarf around my hair to keep it calm, I pushed the button to cause the 1968 Chevrolet Impala roof to ceremoniously raise itself and back and fold like self satisfied arms behind us. The convertible cruised round coners through the east side, and he popped the tape into the system he’d made for me in NYC. I guided that loose steering wheel along the streets of our home town - through it and along and we wound the black and silver two toned Impala round corners through the projects here now and there.
We ordered drive-through on Erie to go and took our prepared bag full of rebellion with fries complete and so very bad for him, although he wanted it, and parked at the Thornden water tower where lovers go and unwrapped them and looked into each others eyes like me and my mom and we never let any kind of remorse rule us. We laughed although he wasn’t normally allowed to eat these things at this time, we laughed about how it was perfect, loved it and loved our friendship like never before. I wanted him to talk some and mention it but he could not so I didn’t push but I took pictures it being afternoon and directed him to lean against the wall like the first ones I took for his fashion portfolio. We didn’t talk about Marthas Vinyard but we kissed, like first love because we knew that maybe it would never happen again and our friendship as children had been long and rich.

Willie never said goodbye. His health deterioriated soon afterward and he never had a chance to contact me during the time when people come by the bedside. I only knew from his father through my sister who was a nurse who talked to him.

The results came back from my test and it was benign. The sandwich comforted me although I suspect the strange food craving was related to memories of Willie and also the confort that came with my mother indulging me so.

Ski Picnics

Loïc's idea of the perfect picnic is squatting in the woods with a swiss knife and a piece of cured meat. I like luxurious spreads complete with proper linens, silveware and glasses, and food that has been thoughtfully planned for the event. We have come to compromise on picnics when we ski. This past Sunday we went for a nice jaunt into the forest. Along with a thermos of hot pumpkin soup, we brought simple things. I have hauled very big meals to far-flung places, but simple picnics also have their place.

The first ski picnic I have the pleasure to remember was one prepared by my mother. I suppose I was 10 or 11 years old at the time. This was when my father went all out and bought everyone cross country skis when they were on sale at Marjax. My mother and I soon lagged behind the group. I was just learning to ski and hadn't dressed properly, so I was hot, tired and hungry by the time she pulled out our individual lunches, each in their brown sack. In addition to some sandwiches which I remember weren't too remarkable because of some tomatoes that had gotten everything soggy, she brought out nuts and dried fruits, and something I could not believe: chocolate. I suppose someone had told her the things one was supposed to take skiing because my mother would never choose to feed me chocolate or any sweets if she could help it, or that was my impression as a 10 year old, anyway. I remember that as the first time my mother and I ate chocolate alone together. My spirits lifted immediately after that special picnic with my mom. She said she was proud of me when we finally reached the station to find the others drinking hot cocoa in the lodge.

The next ski picnic I remember very well, it was the first one I had ever prepared. I was to go skiing with my dear friend Willy. We were about 14 years old, I think. Willy was a remarkably graceful person, and was a champion figure skater. We spent a great deal of time together during the holidays. When I suggested we start doing some cross country skiing, he really caught on fast and before we knew it he'd convinced his parents to get him some skis and he got his mother to drop us off at the trails. He was very good at convincing his parents to do things. For the picnic that day, I carefully prepared corned beef sandwiches on rye with russian dressing, with lots of crispy lettuce and pepper. For good measure, I topped them with thick wedges of cheddar cheese which where I grew up was made locally and was extrordinarly good, but at the time I didn't realize how good it was because I had never had any other. We were alone on a rather advanced trail, and lo around lunch time we happened upon a shack beside the trail. We sat down and had our sandwiches, which were packed tight and heavy and full of goodness. The snow was deep and there were icicles hanging pristinely from the roof at the front of the shack with the sun sending off beams of light in all directions. A cardinal came to join us. I was just thinking how great it was to be eating that sandwich when he said - "This is the best sandwich I have ever had". I glowed with pride and we laughed for a long time, I don't know why. It was a pretty good ski picnic.



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Note to mom:

Lest we forget your last visit:



Hey mama! If you're in the mood for another adventure, please book your tickets soon! I miss you very much! Love, me.