The Narrowing Road

The rosary hung from the left corner of the speckled mirror on the old dresser in front of his bed. The Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe smiled at him from within the small silver casing that she occupied at the crossroads of the beaded strands. He had bought the rosary in the little church gift shop that stood adjacent to the old San Felipe de Neri Church in Albuquerque on the first day of that week in June when he could not but truly feel the presence of God at every turn. He had chosen this rosary because it was prettier than the others and because the crucifix hanging from the end was made of metal instead of wood. The kind man behind the counter had asked him twice if he was sure that this was the one that he wanted. He remembered feeling a bit awkward at that moment as if he was doing something wrong, scared that some pious member of the diocese would cry out from across the shop, "Stop him, he is not a Catholic." He had quickly said yes to the man before any questions of his religious pedigree were raised. He was still unsure whether or not he was breaking some church rule of which he was unaware. He was concerned that there might be some sort of confrontation.

Hanging from the other corner of the mirror was a simple hand-carved cross on a plain thin string that he had bought at the old mission church in Taos during that same week. He remembered arguing with her that day because she had moved the orange and white temporary barricade at the gate of the church so that it would not be in the way of the picture that she wanted to take. He thought that it was highly inappropriate for her to just make up her own rules like that and risk getting them in trouble. Couldn't she see the dozens of church parishioners all around them gathered for the annual renovation of the structure? While he had narrowly escaped trouble in the gift shop in Albuquerque, he was certain that her brazen disregard for the rules would land them in serious hot water this time. Fortunately there had been no confrontation.

Above the mirror was the simple painting of an aged man deep in prayer before his meal of bread and soup. The picture had hung in a place of prominence in his grandparents' home for decades before their decline and had always reminded him of them and of their pure and trusting approach to life. Nowadays he saw the praying man as a hero, someone that he wanted so badly to be like. He was driven by the idea of living the more honest life of the man and of his grandparents, a life where he was truly thankful for all that was given to him, a humbled life where he had no doubt that he was the created not the creator, a life where he honestly trusted God the way he had in New Mexico. Then he began to feel a bit sick. A little voice from somewhere deep inside of him exaggerated what he knew to be true, that he was at his core a self-centered, angry, and weak person, regardless of how hard he tried not to be.

His head dropped just enough to see the reflection of himself in the mirror. The peace that he had unknowingly felt just moments before was gone, replaced in an instant by a feeling of disgust and anger that arose from some dark and old place deep within him. His heart sank momentarily, then he sighed and saw the smile return again to his face. "Seems like this road used to be wider." he thought to himself as he turned off the light beside the bed.

Remembered People

Three days ago Minnie and I learned that she is pregnant. The reality of this situation is only now just beginning (at times) to become clear to me. Frankly, I had resigned myself to the likelihood that I would never be the father of a child that was biologically my own. I assumed that if Minnie and I were to ever raise a child that it would be one that was connected to us only by love and proximity, not by blood.

As you can imagine we are very excited about the whole thing. I caught myself calling Minnie "mama" yesterday, to which she responded to me with "papa" and a kiss. Today I learned that our baby is about the size of a sesame seed, looks more like a tiny tadpole than a human being, and that its brain is beginning to grow. Honestly, I forget at times that Minnie is pregnant, or at least my mind has not yet fully integrated this notion into my constant reality. When I read or hear little tidbits of information about the baby a heavy wave a reality passes over me, a deeply emotional wave that steadily pulls me under and holds me in a solemn place of awe and joy. It is at times like this that I feel a strong sense of urgency to not only know the sex of our child but to give it a name as well. Calling our child "baby" is simply not respective enough of this singularly unique human being that has already centered itself in our hearts and thoughts.

I remember being at the cemetery in Osage a couple of months ago for the funeral of Minnie's great uncle Joe. After the ceremony I wandered a bit in the graveyard reading headstones. I was particularly struck by the marker for Oscar Bland, an infant who had apparently died after only a month on this earth. I remember thinking at the time that it would be a good thing to name our child Oscar in honor of this little boy who never really had a chance to experience this world.

While I do not know what name we will ultimately decide upon for this child, I do know that for me naming our child is a serious responsibility that can not be taken lightly. I know that whatever name we settle on will be one that has meaning, one that connects our child in some way with our ancestors, one that our child can carry through his or her life with a sense of pride, confident in the knowledge that he or she comes from a family with a long lineage of remembered people, both good and bad, strong and weak, smart and dumb, handsome and ugly.

Black Cherry Goat Hides

I know that I am not supposed to be concerned with what other people do or with what they think about me. I have been taught that such things are simply none of my business. My experience reminds me that when I care too much about what others think about me (either for the good or for the bad) that I become unhealthily tied to their opinions, many of which are frankly more unbalanced than my own. But as the slow learning and quick forgetting human being that I am I often do care (too much) about what other people think about me. Because of this I have spent much of my life trying to be as cool as possible in hopes that people will like me, that they might even love me, and that they will as a result of such attachments be less likely to leave me to the cold winds of that solitary existence that at my core I fear the most.

Thank goodness for cowboy boots. Nothing makes me feel cooler (to be read "lovable") than wearing a pair of nice boots. When I wear them I feel taller, I feel more handsome and manly, and most importantly I feel like that cool guy that everyone wants to know. Please understand that I am neither a cowboy nor am I trying to look like one, though I have absolutely nothing against cowboys or their rugged look. I do not wear a western hat and I do not own a big rodeo belt buckle. I wear Levis not Wranglers. The look that I am going for is one that fits more with my punkish upbringing, a rock and roll look that requires a black t-shirt, jeans, and dark sunglasses.

My love of boots is fairly new (I did not own my first pair until I was almost forty). It was perfectly obvious to me growing up in Southern California that cowboy boots were the farthest thing from cool. I would not have been caught dead in anything that seemed western. The only boots that I owned as a teenager were a pair of black leather Beatle boots that I bought on a crazed road trip to Tijuana when I was seventeen years old. In fact when I moved to Texas more than twenty-five years ago I joked with my friends that if they ever caught me wearing cowboy boots or a big western hat that they were to immediately kidnap me and take me "home" to the reasonableness of Los Angeles. Funny how things change.

The first cowboy boots that I bought were a beautiful pair of black calf skins with intricate white stitching and very pointed toes. I loved every little thing about those boots. If I was wearing long pants it was simply given that I would be wearing those boots. I even remember times (when I was drinking too much of course) that it did not really matter if the pants were long or short, or even whether they were on my body or rumpled on the floor. I wore those boots until the knuckle of one of my toes finally rubbed a hole in the top of the leather, something that true cowboys have told me should not have happened. I remember looking down one day to see a piece of my white sock ballooning out of the front of one of my boots. I was heartbroken, knowing that I would have to retire those boots for good.

A few months ago Minnie bought a beautiful pair of black cherry goat hide Luchesses for me for my birthday. Now that the weather is beginning to cool down here in central Texas (by which I mean it is now only in the mid-90s instead of mid-100s) I have started to wear these boots more often. I actually look forward to putting them on in the morning. I love the feel of the boots' thick leather when I first grab hold of them in the morning. I love the coolness of the leather against my skin when I slide them on at the beginning of the day. I love the way that the boots smell, that clean unmistakable wholesome scent that only new leather can give off. I love the solid sense of security and support that I feel when I stand up after putting them on. I truly could not have dreamed of a better present and I thank Minnie for her thoughtful and generous gift to me.

It is unclear to my seemingly schizophrenic mind whether or not I wear my boots because of some true and unrequited love for them and the way that they make me feel, or because some part of my recovering mind still desperately desires the approval of others. I suspect that the truth is that I am motivated in no small degree by both. This is the type of question that my busy brain will often attempt to answer, that is until the saner part of me intervenes to inform myself that it is really not that important of a question.

Ducky Dogs

While I have been known to eat hot dogs with chili and cheese I generally prefer them with yellow mustard and sweet relish. There was a time in my life when I would eat four or five hot dogs four or five times a week. Now, not so often, mainly because of my growing (morbid) obsession with my ever-expanding belly, though I have to admit I am beginning to be concerned with what they are made of as well. Minnie tells me that the part of our brain that fully comprehends consequences does not completely develop until we are well into our twenties. Mine apparently is developing a little more slowly, an occurrence that is admittedly a bit disconcerting but that I am nevertheless grateful for.

I generally like "Dirty Water" dogs (those boiled in water flavored by the other dogs cooked that day) more than dogs that are steamed, fried, or grilled, though I am not a snob about such things. Of course it goes without saying that the bun must be steamed. When I am cooking at home I buy Hebrew National's all-beef franks, which are made with 100% kosher beef (better cuts of meat processed cleanly) that contain no artificial flavors, no artificial colors, no by-products, and no fillers. I generally boil three links for a few minutes (until they are crisp), then put each of them in their own bun topped with mustard and relish. Of course milk is the (absolutely required) drink of choice.

On a side note, the lawyer in me believes that it is appropriate at this point to make the following DISCLAIMER: "Ducky (Author) is not, nor has he ever been, employed by Hebrew National, Inc. (Company) nor any of said Company's subsidiaries. Furthermore, said Author does not hold, and has never held, any financial or other pecuniary interest in said Company nor any of said Company's subsidiaries. Said Author is simply of the opinion that the products of said Company are yummy."

I have a dream of one day opening a hot dog stand in Austin, to be named of course Ducky Dogs. Every detail of this my true calling is firmly cemented in my brain. As you would suspect Minnie supports each and every one of my dreams, though she has made it perfectly clear that her support of this endeavor will be that of the hands-off variety. Apparently she has paid her dues in the food service industry and thus will only be available to cheer me on from afar. Even promises of naming a vegetarian dog the "Minnie Dog" has not to this point changed her attitude about the glory of slinging dogs in a shop of our own creation. While I find her reluctance a bit disappointing, my study of history reminds me that the greatest of men have often had to pursue their passions on their own. While my drive for greatness may ultimately be along such a lonely road, I have no choice but to slog on, knowing that there are few callings more important that providing a good dog to a hungry populous.

Webbed Feet Fantasies

Minnie decided to bestow the glorious name Ducky on me a couple of years back because of my deep affection for water and because of its unconditional acceptance of me. I love to be in the water, under the water, on the water, around the water. Clean water is nice, but not required. Deeper water is preferred, but even a puddle or a little drizzle will do in a crunch. Ocean, lake, stream, pool, bathtub, it does not matter so long as it is wet. There is nothing that tastes better than a cold glass of water when I am thirsty. There are few things that sound as pleasant as water bubbling from a spring, or as exhilarating as water rushing down a creek or over a fall. Water refreshes me, it nourishes my body and my soul, it soothes me when I am stressed and it provides the opportunity for excitement when I feel adventurous. There are simply not enough good things to say about water.

I do not remember a time when I could not swim. I must have learned at a young age, though I have no memory of actually being taught. Given the rugged and spirited nature of my ancestry it is quite possible that I was simply thrown into a body of water and told to make do, a possibility that could explain why I have no memory of the occasion. What I do know for certain is that I was a fairly proficient swimmer by the time I was five or six years old. I know this to be true because that was the age at which my loving grandfather attempted to drown me, my first conscious face to face encounter with death.

My grandparents had taken a number of us grandchildren to Lake Meredith in the Texas Panhandle to camp and fish for a week or so. It had become a sort of family tradition for my grandfather to tie four or five intertubes together in a long train behind his fishing boat, then drag us screaming and sunburned grandchildren around the lake at incredible speeds until we begged him to stop. At some point during one of my grandfather's wild rides I became stuck underneath my intertube. Every time that I was able to pop above the water I screamed at my grandfather to "SLOOWWW DOOWWWN," to which he sped up, seemingly out of some sadistic grandfatherly pleasure, though more likely in order to force me to release the death grip that I had on the intertube. Needless to say I did not find his behavior amusing, though his wild driving did eventually cause me to release the intertube. Though I did almost drown, I have to say that nothing about this experience dampened my deep desire to be in the water. In fact, I believe that it strengthened both my love for it and my resolve to find some way to grow webbing around my feet and hands so that I could become a real-life Aquaman.

To this day I find few things more relaxing than being under the water. One of my favorite swimming holes in Austin is Barton Springs Pool, a three acre spring-fed reinforced pond that stays at about sixty-eight degrees year round. I read somewhere that Robert Redford learned to swim in this pool when he was five years old while visiting relatives in Austin, though I was not there so I can not actually confirm this. This little tidbit of trivia does nothing but encourage my fondness for the place. Those who know me are well aware of my rock solid belief that, "If it is good enough for Redford, then it is good enough for me."

Anyway, I love to dive to the bottom of Barton Springs Pool to explore while others splash around on the noisy surface or laze (I mean flirt with coeds) in the hot afternoon sun. The sense of weightlessness and the strange semi-silence at the bottom of the pond always fill me with wonder and joy. It is a truly magical place for me (though I can say the same for each of the underwater worlds that I have visited). Sometimes I swim after turtles that live in the springs, sometimes I float above small mother fish guarding the spot in the sand where their eggs are maturing. Other times I just pick at smooth rocks or mine the fine sand for treasures, or simply swim through the flowing weeds that grow from the bed of this watery paradise. I have found no better way to forget my few troubles or to reconnect with that sense of carefree wonderment that I believe I must have experienced as a child.

I have yet to grow the sort of webbing and gill structure that would allow me to live permanently in water, and I am not sure how Minnie would feel about such a thing (though I fantasize that she might want to join me as some sort of scientifically modified human/mermaid). Until that time I think that I will have to be satisfied with learning how to SCUBA dive, something that I have always wanted to do, though have never made the time for. Perhaps the time is now.

Better Than a Stick in the Eye

So last week I had to go to my doctor's office and do some lab work in preparation for the annual physical exam that I had today. I distinctly remember thinking that it was less than ideal to be up so early, and fasting at that. Then one of my grandmother's old sayings popped into my head, "Well it's better than a stick in the eye." Of course my grandmother was right, it was not that bad after all and I probably should have been more grateful for having the opportunity to take advantage of such great health care. But frankly I found it hard to appreciate being stuck in the arm with a needle and having to walk through a busy waiting room holding a plastic container of warm urine.

Well anyway, these annual visits have over the years become a routine for me, one that I no longer look forward to. In the distant past my doctor would review the lab tests, poke and prod me a little, pat me on the back, and then say in a satisfied way, "Everything appears to be great. Keep doing what you are doing." More recently things have not gone so smoothly and I have actually come to dread this time of year, knowing that it is quite possible that the doctor will tell me that he is concerned that there is something horribly wrong with me.

Anyway, last year a young woman from my doctor's office called me a few days after I had given blood to inform me that the doctor did not want me to take any calcium-based antacids for ten days or so. The woman told me that the doctor was concerned about the high level of calcium in my system and that we would talk about it when I came in for my physical. "Alright" I said. "Is this anything that I should be concerned about?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Well, I'm not sure. The doctor just asked me to let you know."

I should have immediately called my sister the doctor who would have told me that the labs were most likely screwed up and that I should not worry. Instead I took matters into my own hands and decided to google "high calcium". Part of my "I don't need to ask for directions" mentality I think. The first article that I opened told me that "Hypercalcemia is the most common life-threatening metabolic disorder associated with neoplastic diseases, occurring in an estimated 10% to 20% of all adults with cancer."

My heart sank. I knew that I had some untreatable malignant form of cancer that was intent on killing me within a matter of days. I actually envisioned asking the doctor how much time I had left and him responding "ten," to which I asked if he meant years, months, days. "Nine, eight, seven . . ." were the next words out of his mouth.

What helped to elevate my anxiety even more was the knowledge that I had not taken any antacids in a quite a while, and certainly not on a regular basis. Then it occurred to me. "Maybe it is from the milk." You see I do not remember a time when I did not drink at least four gallons of milk a week, and it is not at all unusual for me to drink a full gallon on any given day. There is absolutely nothing under the sun that I love to put in my body more than milk. When I was a child it was chocolate milk. I would mix a quart or so of milk with something approaching a cup of powered Nestles Quick then sit in front of the television with a table spoon and my concoction, draining the glass one slurping spoonful at a time. The only thing that has changed today is that I know longer add the chocolate to my milk.

The truth is that I am addicted to milk and the thought of giving up my habit was almost unbearable. For five full days I did not drink any milk. Not one drop. What was I going to do if the doctor told me that I had some condition that required that I not drink milk anymore, for the rest of my life. The fear of having cancer was lifted, having been replaced by the panic that resulted from the realization that I was going to be told that I could never drink milk again. This is how my mind works and yes it is tiring.

Come to find out that my sister the doctor had been right. The lab technicians had messed up my tests somehow. I did not have cancer and I did not have to give up my daily milk fixes. You can not imagine the sense of relief that I felt. While I am truly grateful for being cancer free and for not having to give up milk, I believe that I am at least equally grateful for being reminded that my exaggerated fears don't often have a basis in reality. Of course the problem is that my brain is leaky and what I learn I quickly forget. Oh well, such is life.

The Sensibility of Rats

So when I was young I thought that if I could just get into my mid-twenties that all would be well. I would have the perfect job, the perfect wife, the perfect house, and a truly carefree life full of adventure, parties, and people that loved me. After all, that appeared to be the life that the adults around me were living. I thought of this freedom as a given, my birthright in a sense. Needless to say, it did not quite work out that way.

By the time I was twenty-five I had given up on the possibility that I would have anything that approached a normal happy life, let alone the life that I had idealized as a child. It was clear to me that others were to blame for the unhappiness and unease that I felt, for my failure to attain those things in life that should so rightfully have been mine. I blamed my parents whose self-centered antics had left real marks on my psyche. I blamed the women who came in and out of my life for not being strong enough, pure enough, or kind enough to fully appreciate the purity and depth of my love for them. I blamed everyone around me for the way that I felt, in complete denial of the fact that I was actually the source of all of my troubles. I was miserable and made everyone who loved or wanted to love me miserable as well.

Even into my late-thirties I just could not see the role that I played in my own life. I could not understand that I was wholly responsible for my thoughts and actions, for my peace of mind (or lack thereof), for my failures and for my successes. I was to blame for not recognizing the humanness of my parents and for not forgiving them for their inevitable human frailties. I was to blame for periodically creating those intolerable situations, full of raging jealousy and incessant demands, that drove even the best women away.

Today I live much of the life that I dreamed of as a child. Minnie and I have a relationship that is as close to perfect as is humanly possible. We have the love and respect of dear friends and of the members of our family. Both our health and are finances are good. Most importantly, I now understand that even without all of these things that my life can be full of joy if I simply allow myself to understand it to be so.

How did this happen you may ask? I believe that it was an act of God coupled with a bit of willingness on my part to honestly examine my life and make some simple changes. These changes have reformed the way that I see the world and think about life and my relationship to it. I now know that it was my thinking (and the actions that stemmed from it) that had all along been the source of my troubles, the roadblock that had kept me from finding my place in this seemingly upside down world.

It would be dishonest of me at this point not to disclose that I do fall back into my old way of thinking on a fairly regular basis. What is amazing to me is my willingness at those times to let myself stay in such a dishonest and frankly miserable place. I remember seeing somewhere a description of some sort of psychological lab test in which rats in a cage were given the option to press one of two buttons. When the pressed the red button a jolt of electricity was sent through the metallic floor of the cage that they were in. When they pressed the blue button a cookie fell out of a hole on the side of the cage. As you can imagine, it did not take long for these rats to learn that it is always better to push the blue button and get the cookie than to push the other button and get shocked.

What I have found is that it is not always so simple for me to choose to mash the cookie button. Frankly, I find it difficult at times to resist pressing the red button, knowing full well that my choice will inevitably create painful consequences for me and those around me. Go figure the workings of a reformed, yet still uncured mind. Nevertheless, what seems important to me is the fact that I now have some choice in the matter of whether I will be happy or not, whether I will push the red or blue button. For this I am and will always be immensely grateful.

Cold Days in Hades

So I find myself in the uncomfortable position of rooting for the New York Yankees tonight when they play the Boston Red Sox. Please understand that I have never wished anything but plagues and poxes on those pinstriped goons from the north. I mean this as no slight to those residents of the great state of New York whom I know love their goons as much as I do mine. I simply have learned over the years that given the chance, that damn team from New York will come back from 20-0 in the bottom of the ninth to beat my beloved Texas Rangers. For this reason, and this reason alone, I find the New York Yankee's mere existence utterly unacceptable.

I have to say that Minnie is a real trooper during baseball season. I know that she does not really want to hear me babble away every night about baseball, but because it is important to me she patiently listens while I explain where "our" teams stand today. It is not that she is not a fan of the game, which she generally is. It is more that she does not consider following baseball to be as high of a priority as making sure that the bills are paid or that groceries are in the house.

The only time that Minnie's patience with my baseball craziness clearly wears thin is when I am forced by situations beyond my control to whoop, holler, cuss, or otherwise elevate my voice in the direction of a television, a radio, or my iPhone. I have found that this has the potential to rattle my lovely wife. Because I have learned over time that it is best not to rattle Minnie I do my best not to explode from the couch in baseball ecstasy or rage, though sometimes it seems that it would be easier for me to will my heart to stop beating than for me not to react to a great pitch, catch, or score.

So back to the uncomfortable position that I find myself in today. Those who follow the game understand that I am not so much hoping that those goons from New York win so much as I hope that Boston loses. If anyone is to blame, and they are, it is those damn Los Angeles Angels who appear to be unbeatable in the American League West this year. If my Texas Rangers can not catch the Angels their best chance to make it to the post season is for them to win the American League Wild Card race. This will require that they win more games in the next six weeks than do the Boston Red Sox or the Tampa Bay Rays. Needless to say, I will be on pins and needles until the end of September, frustrated with my team one day and ecstatic for them the next. But honestly, that is one of the many things that I love about the game. But just don't ask me to root for those damn Angels, until of course they play Boston next month.

Annie

So on my way to my doctor's office this morning I passed by the old apartment complex on the east side that I lived at when I first moved to Austin. "Ahh," I thought, "that is where I taught Annie to retrieve tennis balls."

I had forgotten where I was for a moment, mainly because I was still not so silently cursing the taxi driver who had just made a U-Turn directly in front of me, nearly causing me to broadside him and his unsuspecting passenger. (On a side note, I wonder if anyone else ever thinks about intentionally ramming other drivers when they do stupid things like that? I am not talking about actually accelerating into them, but more like just not slamming on my brakes to avoid hitting them. I have that reaction all the time but never act on it. I usually end up just cussing them, then getting frustrated with myself for not being more loving and tolerant. Crazy isn't it?)

Anyway, when the cloud of craziness was lifted I saw where I was. "Ahh," I thought, "that is where I taught Annie to retrieve tennis balls." Love and tolerance returned to me and I smiled. Dogs generally have that affect on me.

My time living at that apartment complex was strange and depressing for me, for reasons that I do not need to go into here. Suffice it to say that I was a full-time law student who would rather have been teaching history, oppressed by the wild antics of an abusive alcoholic wife whom I no longer recognized. What I remember as the bright side of that period was that I was able to live with two great dogs, both of whom have since passed on to a place where chewing on furniture and eating out of trash cans is unquestionably acceptable behavior.

Annie was a long-haired tan dog that closely resembled Higgins, the dog of movie fame more commonly known by the stage name Benji. Annie was the sweetest, most loving, trusting, most eager to please dog that I had ever known. For many years she was actually my best friend, and I could not have asked for a better friend. All of my free time was spent with her, hiking, swimming, chasing balls (me throwing, her chasing), or just lying together on the couch. Through it all she stood by my side, smiling eagerly and lovingly at me with her panting mouth and bright brown eyes, encouraging my closed heart to open up, at least if just for that moment.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read "I want to be the person that my dog thinks I am." Implicit in this statement is the recognition of a dog's capacity to feel and demonstrate something that approaches unconditional love. The unconditional love that Annie showed to me was truly a stabilizing force during that uncertain period of my life. Annie has been gone for more than a year now but I often get teary eyed thinking about her. I will always be grateful to God for creating a creature that was capable of such natural generosity.

Roasted Marsala Chickpeas

So I bought some Roasted Marsala Chickpeas a couple of weeks ago. They were packaged nicely, looked tasty, and by all indications were going to be fantastic. I could not wait to open them and give them a try. When I finally got to put a handful into my mouth I was pleased by the crunch, and then, from some ugly place in my childhood, I noticed the flavor. "What the heck" I thought, "these things suck."

Well I am not the kind of person to give up easily so I kept eating them. (While it is true that I am this stubborn, it is probably more accurate to say that I kept eating them because I hate to waste anything, even if it means that I have to suffer in the process). Much to my surprise I began to enjoy the taste of those little red legumes. In fact, I have found it hard over the past few days to keep from eating them. I now consider them to be one of the many things that I truly love.

(On a side note I have always wanted to love mushrooms as well, but with no success to this point. I have to admit that they look really good to me, and I know that since so many people rave about them that they must possess some redeeming quality. But for whatever reason every time that I put one of these spore-bearing fruiting bodies of a fungus into my mouth I come close to being sick. One of these days I will just give up on them completely. I think that sushi may be in this category as well, though the coolness factor of eating raw fish keeps me coming back for more.)

So where is the lesson in all of this for me? I think that I have known for a long time that it is important for me to keep trying new things, otherwise I might miss out on discovering some great little gem that will bring pleasure to my life. But now I think that I know as well that it is important for me to try things a second time if I don't love them at first. I understand that this involves a bit of dice rolling, but it is worth having to eat a few mushrooms to be able to uncover the beauty of Roasted Marsala Chickpeas and the joy that comes to me from eating them.