Omlet

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Sometime in May I flipped an omelet in the pan, just like Julia Child told us to. A flick of the wrist, a little faith, and two cooked eggs aloft, turning, landing softly. A flick, faith, and turn.

Now I literally have a different wrist.  It has a metal rectangular plate inside held to my bones by pins, and outwardly looks slightly different from my left.  There is a red, raised scar.  Four months after surgery, there is still pain and stiffness, and I am making more of an effort not to start every conversation with “Did you know I broke my wrist?”

I made an omlet yesterday.  One egg.  Ghee.  It slid easily onto the dish, which was more than I hoped.  I added too much salt, but it was fine, nevertheless.

 

 

 

Santa Fe’s FarmersMarket

First were the bushels of peppers chilies waiting to be roasted. It was chili season, and [in addition to this treasure ,] heaps of shiny red, orange,purple, and green peppers were in baskets under a tent.

Eight kinds of potatoes, more varieties of the chilies, small sweet cantaloupe, tomatoes, string beans, pale lavender to dark purple eggplant–the market stalls burst with color. Okra. Stone ground flour. Hand pies. Gourmet donuts, thick enough to dunk. Sage wands wrapped in rose petals, and bunches of cosmos and stock and delphinium. Here, the photos are worth far more than the words.

Universe?

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Moscow and London were out because of my accident resulting in a broken wrist. August left  one further plan. My brother wanted my mother’s long-cherished dream of seeing Hawaii to come true, so he booked passage on a cruise, and I was invited.  Seven days sailing along the Hawaiian islands, visiting various ports with garden tours, coffee-tastings, and a luau thrown in.  The first kink in the plan was that I threw my back out while leaning to brush my cat who was sitting on a chair.  The second was Hurricane Lane. I traveled to NJ as scheduled. There, we wondered what to do.  After much delay, our flight to Honolulu was cancelled and Norwegian trimmed the cruise back to five days. After hemming and hawing, or humming and howing,  along with intense perusal of weather forecasts, and pondering the ethics of visiting a disaster-zone as tourist-consumers, we cut the cruise out altogether. Thus, New Jersey, on my back, waiting out a pulled back, on a carpet or bed of my choice.