the sign said 'super sweet green plums!!" and they were. And the dusty green of an antique velvet ribbon. So I bought more than I'll eat thinking maybe a pie. Plum pie - sounds nice no?
I bought fennel, corn, apples, persimmon, basil and chives, chanterelle and shitake mushrooms and spring onions that I could smell from the booth across the isle. On the way home I imagined a few combinations and reminded myself to shoot the food before consumption - a goal often overlooked post a glass of obligatory pre-cooking wine.
My friend suffering through perfectly timed mid life divorce had called that morning before market. So we met at Cafe Figaro on Vermont St in Los Feliz. Sitting outside on rattan chairs at tiny round tables we were squished between a handsome man who resembled jason statham and a duo of pretty young girls and a papillion. I handed her a bag of tart/sweet fuji apples and a couple of the plums. She had a croque monsiour and I had zucchini soup. We reviewed her grueling week of despair and lonliness and to her credit quickly moved on to the possibilities of the near future - where to move, what to sell, when to buy and all other kind of adult talk (in which I am at best only an interloper). A young, chic, size-zero-if-even swished by in a mini poodle skirt, thick black patent leather belt sinched around an 18" waist, some kind of asemetrical modern sweater and ankle boots, grey and rolled at the top. Everyone watched her walk, heads turning and silencing as she passed each table. She owned it, we were all transported to Paris proper. "Fucking brilliant" I said, too loud.
My friend and I agreed - Life is just like that sometimes. We've had our days like that each of us. We don't begrudge the next up.
My friend and I agreed - Life is just like that sometimes. We've had our days like that each of us. We don't begrudge the next up.
We kissed cheeks and went in opposite directions.
