We are having a dinner party. I woke up at 6 a.m. today. Saturday. Dinner party. Dinner party. Dinner party. Guests at 7 p.m. Yesterday I bought two new chairs because we don't have enough at the dining table. I bought new placemats, new bowls, new plates.
Where do I go for the best fish? I hate it when the bones surprise you. My mother told me once that you could die that way: letting a bone slip. Cut you from the inside, she said.
Who knows if this is true. She said many things.
"Mixing batter makes your breasts grow. The more you mix, the bigger you become."
"Take noodles on your birthday. They will give long life."
"Your father did not eat until we got married. He also did not like to take a bath."
It is Saturday morning in San Francisco. The clouds are low; behind them, somewhere, is the Golden Gate Bridge. Tonight we are having a dinner party. The guests will come up the stairs. There will be wine and good jokes and bad jokes and good laughter. I must make the grocery list. Where to get fish? I must clear the table. I must set up the new chairs.
Obsession. The word is the same in English and French.
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