What a beautiful home you shared with D.! And what an amazing kitchen. I get a better sense of what you lost - almost like a fairy tale in reverse (the house does look almost like a little castle). I can see also why you loved D. He must have been a very youthful like man - though in this case, behaving like a teenager, or someone in a very late midlife crisis. But, before all this, he must have been a very fun companion.
I think my wife would gladly sell me off as a sex slave to have that kitchen. Or...did I volunteer for that? That's probably it. O, the sacrifices we have to make for the women in our lives!
I had the strangest sensation reading this, like the words were washing over me. Very evocative, and a beautiful way of telling a bit so beautiful experience. I've read the R. Akiva teaching before, and although at first it's surprising, it makes sense to prioritise yourself in that situation
Here is where life, memory, history, and dreams intermingle. Clear and often startling details, of scenes and emotions. Refrigerators, stolen kisses, Michelle wowing Paris, and not cooking anymore.
I'm taken with your associative style in this memoir, like a dream (nightmare), a blur of experiences, the mind is struggling to see sense in, make meaning of. Like Charade, I think, as I recall it. The presentation of D and S is like that. Flashes in the memory. The kiss at the bar. Walking home alone. Coming upon them, confused, in the kitchen. I hear Henry Mancini. Are you Stanley Donen?
Oh, man the title for this one just hit me. Ooof. Love your writing, Mary.
What a beautiful home you shared with D.! And what an amazing kitchen. I get a better sense of what you lost - almost like a fairy tale in reverse (the house does look almost like a little castle). I can see also why you loved D. He must have been a very youthful like man - though in this case, behaving like a teenager, or someone in a very late midlife crisis. But, before all this, he must have been a very fun companion.
I think my wife would gladly sell me off as a sex slave to have that kitchen. Or...did I volunteer for that? That's probably it. O, the sacrifices we have to make for the women in our lives!
The dessert story reminds me of airline instructions: "Put on your oxygen mask first before helping others." Sounds cruel, but it's compassion.
This is mesmerizing. But I must say: I would kill for that kitchen. Well, maybe I wouldn’t kill, but I might maim...
I had the strangest sensation reading this, like the words were washing over me. Very evocative, and a beautiful way of telling a bit so beautiful experience. I've read the R. Akiva teaching before, and although at first it's surprising, it makes sense to prioritise yourself in that situation
These are breathtaking words, Mary. ♥️
Here is where life, memory, history, and dreams intermingle. Clear and often startling details, of scenes and emotions. Refrigerators, stolen kisses, Michelle wowing Paris, and not cooking anymore.
Incredibly interesting especially the part about fireflies, their behaviour and what happened after the bar encounter. Beautiful imagery too.
I'm taken with your associative style in this memoir, like a dream (nightmare), a blur of experiences, the mind is struggling to see sense in, make meaning of. Like Charade, I think, as I recall it. The presentation of D and S is like that. Flashes in the memory. The kiss at the bar. Walking home alone. Coming upon them, confused, in the kitchen. I hear Henry Mancini. Are you Stanley Donen?