That’s the way she took to cooking everything. I loved standing on a chair so I could watch her scooping up heaps of soft, white flour using an old chipped cup. I don’t think she’d ever heard about spooning it into a measuring cup and leveling it off with a knife. Some of the best food I’ve ever eaten owed its goodness to a pinch of this and a little shake of that stirred together under a keen eye that could sense when things looked just right.
Caution: Driver Singing. I saw this bumper sticker a few weeks ago. It reminded me of a couple girls we watched while stuck in traffic on a hot California day.
Desperate for a reprieve from triple-digit temps, we were flying down the freeway to escape the heat. After sizzling past Dixon, Vacaville came and went like a flash in the rear view mirror. We scorched on through Fairfield and down the hill, chasing a siren song lifting from cool waters of a distant bay and fluttering inland upon the delta breeze.
At times, she walked deep in thought. It appeared she was caught up in a world far away. Often it seemed to weigh heavily upon her; other times she seemed wild-eyed and looked as if she was enthralled with an alternate universe–perhaps, flying through the outer reaches of the cosmos, watching the meteor showers falling all around her. I wished I could see those things inside her head.