There is a woman in my apartment building who only dresses in shades of purple and lavender.  She has smooth, white hair, that she always pulls back into a neat twist and whenever she plans on actually leaving the building, she wears a hat (wool in the winter and straw in the summer) and short gloves.  Of course, her accessories are always in varying hues of aubergine.

This morning, as I was leaving for work, she was sitting on the bench near the back door of the building.  Her shoes were sensible, low-heeled pumps, in a deep, reddish purple.  Her handbag, the short strap of which was tucked into the crook of her arm, was a light lilac.  The predicted 75 degree weather had her wearing her straw hat, and even the frames of her sunglasses were a purple-y pink.

I wonder if she has always dressed like this, declaring when she was 15 that purple was going to be her signature color.  Or was it a trait that she affected when she got older, desiring a way to make dolling herself up an easier proposition.  When her children and grandchild shop for her, do they only buy gifts in shades of purple?  Does she ever long to switch it up and wear bright red or electric blue instead?

As I walked to work this morning, I pondered colors.  My wardrobe is an assortment of black and denim, occasionally punctuated by a pair of red shoes, or rare foray into the world of creams and greens.  I like color, but prefer to make it an accent rather than the whole look.  This is one of the ways I take after my grandma Tutu, she spent her life in blacks and navys, occasionally pulling in a bit of red or animal print and setting the whole thing off with heavy gold jewelry and leather handbags.

When Tutu died, I dressed for her funeral service as if I were her.  I wore a black sweater, with one of her gold pins secured at the point of the V.  I carried her leopard print purse, wore black heels, red lipstick and dark sunglasses.  I wonder if when this woman dies (I am not wishing her gone, just acknowledging that death comes for everyone), people will wear purple for her.

For those of us who grew up with air poppers or microwave popcorn, making popcorn on the stove top is something of a foreign concept.  However, it far tastier than the other stuff and, in the case of microwave popcorn, comes without the crappy chemical toppings.  You can top your stove top popcorn with whatever you’d like.  In this case, we chose the classic butter and salt combination, but I am also partial to a sprinkling of Bragg’s Liquid Aminos or a bit of Parmesan cheese.

Go forth and popcorn!

Last week, I bought a two-week trial membership at a local yoga studio, just to check things out.  I’ve been saying for years that I wanted to be taking yoga classes, but I always was able to find an excuse that kept me away (not enough money, not enough time, the studio is intimidating, it’s not what I’m looking for right now).  I took yoga for several years during high school and for a semester in college, in order to eke out the single last credit that I needed to graduate.

Thanks to an informal buddy system I’ve set up with Roz, I’ve now gone to class three times in the last week.  It’s ranged from fairly doable (my body remembered more than my mind did) to seriously challenging.  I went to a class tonight that was tough.  My the pessimistic side of my brain kept talking at me, saying things like, “What are you doing here?” and “Do you realize you’re the worst in the room?”  But I kept at it, and at the end of the hour and a half, I realized that I had made it and that I hadn’t done too terribly bad.  My body is exhausted now, in that buzzing, exerted sort of way.  Despite that, I feel great, just for having done it.

Another reason to watch Fork You, the kids like it!

Scott and I just can’t stop churning out these web-based products for your enjoyment (we hope you’re amused by us). We’ve now recorded two episodes of a little audio podcast that we’re calling “Newly Cohabitating” and it’s mildly entertaining. Check out Episode 1 and Episode 2.

We’re also filming another Fork You Live at Foster’s Homeware (399 Market Street) this Saturday at 2 pm. This time, we’re making eggs (an egg bake, a frittata and a curried egg salad, to be exact). If you happen to be in the Philadelphia metropolitan area, you should come out (let us know you’re coming here). As with all episodes of Fork You Live, when we’re done filming, you get to taste what we made.

A couple of days ago, my garbage disposal stopped working. This is not the first time that this disposal stopped spinning suddenly. When you have 40+ year old appliances, you come to expect outages now and then. In fact, one of the perks of my apartment building is that there’s an entire staff of guys who are paid to be around and fix things when needed. However, the last time my gb went down, it took Emilio all of three minutes to fix it. And it cost me $20.

So when it stopped working this time, I figured that I would try to fix it myself. I poked around under my sink for awhile and didn’t find much. I called Scott in and made him get down on the kitchen floor for a look (he was so thrilled at this turn of events). Then we turned to the internet, and thanks to a little sleuthing on Scott’s part, we were able to find trouble-shooting instructions for our In-Sink-Erator Badger 1. Apparently these devices have not changed much in the last forty years.

Unfortunately, the repair required a particular tool, called the Self-Service Wrenchette, that was provided with the disposal. I found an allen wrench, but it didn’t do the job. Scott returned to the tool drawer, poked around a little bit and came back to the kitchen, holding a small tool and said, “Your propensity for keeping everything has paid off once again.”

Yep, he was holding the Self-Service Wrenchette that originally came with disposal 42 years ago. However, I can take no credit for this one, as all applause goes to my grandparents, from whom I learned my retention skills.

A few twists and turns, and the garbage disposal was working like new. I discovered an olive pit that had gotten stuck under one of the blades and was holding up the works. Hooray for fixing things yourself!

A couple of days ago, my mom sent an email to my dad, my sister and me that said, “What the 18 minute video when you have time, it’s worth it.” This afternoon, as I was cleaning out my inbox, I came across her email again, and decided to check it out. The link took me here, to the video of Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor’s talk at TED about the experience she had when she, a brain scientist, experienced her own brain hemorrhage and stroke.

The entire video was fascinating, but the thing that has stuck with me the most is the understanding she took away from the experience that we are beings that are made up of energy and that if we could just spend a little more time in our right brains, the place where we’re able to experience the peace and connectedness of this universal energy, that we might be able to make the world a more peaceful and joyful place to be.

I was flipping through pictures on my computer just a little while ago and came across the one you see here. Several years ago, the Portland streets department needed to dig up the sewer on their block and so they ended up getting the mouth of their driveway re-paved. When the curb was still wet, they ran out with a couple of chopsticks and wrote “Let Peace Prevail” into the hardening cement (my father has also written a song with that phrase as its name). The next time I came to visit, I took some pictures of those words.

Re-discovering those image today, after watching that talk and also knowing that today people all across the world are trying to do a little something for the planet by turning their lights off for Earth Hour, seemed somehow serendipitously connected.

I ran home during lunch today, and waiting for me at the front desk of my building was a large, flat package.  Seeing Bud bring it to the counter, my brain raced, trying to figure out what it was.  A very wide, thin book?  Something Scott ordered?  As soon as I caught the return address, I knew.

My grad school diploma.

It’s pretty neat to have my hands on it, and it’s enormous.  I have no clue what I’m going to do with it, as I’m not really the type to frame these things and hang it on the wall.  But it’s quite fun, nonetheless.

Since Scott and I started the process of moving in together, we’ve generated something in the neighborhood of 25 bags of stuff that we no longer needed, wanted or had room for. A lot of it has been mine, as I’ve worked to make room for his stuff among the 42 years of accrued family stuff that can still be found in the corners and closets of the apartment. I love getting rid of stuff, as having more space on shelves and in closets is amazingly liberating. However, in the pasts one of the challenges I’ve encountered when getting rid of stuff is that once I’ve bagged it up, it takes me a long time to actually get it to the Salvation Army or Goodwill.

There’s a little Jewish charity shop across the street from my parking garage called the Ort Resale Shop. It’s been there for years and continues to remain, even though the rest of the block has started to improve slightly. It’s run by volunteers and raises money for Ort’s educational programs. They have fairly short hours, open from 10 am until 5 pm on weekdays, so in the past when I’ve worked, it’s been hard to take stuff to them. However, now that I’m working a block and a half from home, I can easily take a load or two to Ort. And so I’ve taken bag after bag of clothes, kitchen supplies, books, CDs and other random stuff over there in the last three weeks.

We managed to come up with another eight bags of stuff neither of us wanted over the weekend and by Monday morning I was itching to get it out of the apartment. When lunchtime came, I ran home and loaded up my black metal shopping cart and wheeled over. They’ve started to recognize me from my repeated visits and so when I maneuvered inside the store, the man and woman who were working greeted me like I was an old friend.

As I unloaded, the woman asked me, “Honey, why are you getting rid of so much stuff? Are you moving?”

I explained that my boyfriend and I were moving in together and that in order to make it all fit, a few things had to go.

She nodded understandingly and said, “I understand, try before you buy. My generation, we didn’t do that and we all got divorced.”

She repeated, “try before you buy” a couple of times and then the man said, “Aren’t those the greatest?” He was pointing at my shopping cart.

“They are really very handy, especially when you live in Center City,” I agreed.

“Mine broke recently. I was coming home from the Acme and the wheels just feel right off. I had to hail a cab in order to get my groceries home.” He said this and looked utterly dejected, as if he was reliving the experience of having his weekly shopping stuck on the curb with no way to make it budge.

My cart was empty by this point in the conversation. It just happens that I currently have two identical shopping carts, as a friend recently gave me one that she no longer needed.

“Why don’t you take this one? I have another.”

His eyes widened and he said, “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

The woman, who had been watching this scene play out, turned to him and said, “You see Harry, good things do happen. After all the shit you go through, occasionally good things do happen.”

Then she looked at me and said, “Dear, you just made his day.”

Harry looked like he was ready to cry as I handed the shopping cart over to him.

I said, “It’s a little squeaky, I’ve been meaning to give it a squirt of WD-40 for about three years now, but I’ve never managed to get around to it.”

He waved my comment away and said, “I’ll take care of it. Thank you so much.”

He tried to give me something from the store in return, offering to let me take a CD or two for being so generous (I declined the offer, mostly because I was fairly certain that I had donated the entirety of their CD collection). As I left the store, I could hear her continuing to say, “See Harry, good things do happen.”

There is an elderly woman in my apartment building who is always sitting by the back door when I leave for work in the mornings.  I’ve known her since I moved into the building, although I don’t actually know her name.  Six years ago, when we first started chatting in the elevator, she got around with the help of a cane, but was independent and strong.  You could tell that she was a powerful person, but one of such cheerful spirits that you could tell that she was the type that other people used for support and ballast.

In the intervening years, I’ve watched as she has gone from cane, to walker, to walker with a seat (living in a building with a high percentage of elderly people has been an education in their walking accessories) and now finally to a wheel chair.  She now always has an aide with her and seems to have shrunk quite visibly.  However, she is still exuberant and just this morning said to me as I was walking past, “Button up that overcoat dearie, it’s cold out there this morning.”  I smiled and said I would (even thought I was already all zipped up in my winter coat).