Years ago, Bernie and I lived for a short time in Beverley Hills, the flat part, not the hilly part. We lived in a small compound with apartments around a center–can’t remember if there was any grass. In the single apartment next to us, a woman complained to me of the guy in the single apartment next to hers. He took interminable showers, she said. And that’s the sign of a heroin addict.

I’m sure my jaw was on my chest. A real-live heroin addict near us! I think this was the same guy who put on brief briefs and danced on the lawn outside our living room window over-looking the street on Thanksgiving day. We had two guests for dinner and, as we sat at a card table in the living room to enjoy our meal, one of my guests faced the window. She was speechless.

Bon Appetit!

On occasion, the call of the Bernie Bird is heard throughout our house. Although where  we live is called a cottage, I call it a house: a central living room and kitchen and two wings, each with bedroom and bath. and Bernie’s wing has a den with tv.

He’ll be in the den and I on my bed reading, resting when this loud cry is heard. Clearly heard.

It’s Bernie… sneezing. I’ve never heard such a loud sneeze, anywhere, any time. Hearing it from yards away (sometimes when my sliding door is closed) is notable. but hearing it next to my ear is….  I jump a foot, curse and glare at him.

He grins and prepares to do it again. I thrust my fingers in my ears and wait. There’s always another and, on occasion, a third.

Then I can relax. When or if he sneezes again…unknown.

I should make a recording, shouldn’t I, and play it back. Scare him, make him jump. Ha!

Some people are happy only if they have a new recipe with new ingredients like frozen ginger leaves in a fusion of Arugela seeds and l’umphere cheese from the mountains of Northeastern Bulgaria. I’m proud of myself if I go to the trouble of opening the refrigerator to get some food out. Peanut butter, for example.

For then there is the question of what to do with it. Bread? Toast? Crackers? And jam–strawberry? blueberry? or without?

I actually sautéed some mushrooms yesterday, but I didn’t know what to do with them afterwards. So I put them in the freezer–the land of forgotten dreams. They were sitting out on the counter before I cooked them. Since I rarely cook, I’d forgotten that they dry out. Their outsides resisted my knives.

I used to keep my knives sharp with a sharpening stone my son bought for me from a Japanese knife store in Washington D.C.

If I get the sharpening stone out, that’ll postpone any cooking. Yes!

In Prince Edward Island this summer, I bought a new stove. It is one that has a ceramic top, all black and shiny.

The old stove went into the old farm house, only about 25 feet away. My clever daughter, when the electricians were rewiring it about ten years ago, asked for an electric stove outlet. So the stove delivery guys simply took it, carried it over and plugged it in.

Voila! It changed our summer. Instead of having a half dozen people milling around our kitchen (which means our dining area and living ditto), they are all over at the Old House, cooking in the big, farmhouse kitchen.

That’s better. I think.  But now that they are all gone, I missed them.

from yoga class yesterday and realized, a second later, that I didn’t have my sunglasses on.

Ohmigod! Squint lines! I put my glasses on immediately and relaxed.

Then I thought: Do I want my obituary to say: “Ancient woman dies with very few squint lines around her eyes!! People are amazed! They linger too long at the side of her casket and must be shooed away so others can see.”

No, I don’t. I shall reject such mundane concerns.  And focus on my hair.