Deuce

I relish my Sunday mornings. Usually first one to be up and running, I have an established routine: Wake up, make a cup of coffee, pick up the newspaper, go to the porch (alternated by the cozy living room couch in winters), de-tangle each section, place in order: Week In Review, Styles, Main section, Business, Metro, and Sports, and finally, lull into the day...

I am a girl with a penchant for routines, and a desire for a dash of sudden bursts of spontaneity. Pepper in some self-reflections and revelations along the way, and you got me, growing up...

This morning, my routine was disrupted by Wimbledon. Not so spontaneously, but in a nice, surprising way. Starting at 9:00 AM, hubby and I were glued to Channel 4, watching Nadal and Federer swing at each other. A self-proclaimed "occasional tennis fan", (Please, don't tell my Dad, he'd be crushed to know that I don't watch every major Open- not even the finals) I found myself at 4:30 PM, still in our couch, admiring Federer's grace (and his long fingers- seeing the resemblance to my very own!!!), and Nadal's child-like insistence on winning over his much better-skilled opponent. (All in this time, I've also managed to bake "Pecan-Honey Buns" straight out of next month's Food & Wine issue- an on-and-off 3.5 hour ordeal, with criminally sticky results!)

Watching the ball go from one end of the court to the next, a flood of memories surrounded me: younger me passing Ankara afternoons at a tennis club admiring my Dad play; sultry summer evenings in the town of Kusadasi, at the then-only 5-star hotel, huddled onto chintzy couches by the pool-side bar's TV, mesmerized by Ivan Lendl, instead of taking another dip in the pool; a teenager me, looking out from my bedroom window, over the river to Queens at the white HRC bubbles, imagining John McEnroe playing right at that minute; and, later, a younger adult me, perched on my blue sofa bed in my Brooklyn Heights brownstone, absent mindedly staring at the US Open- and Andre Agassi- in the heat of early-September of New York City...

Then a flood of questions: How come I never took my love for tennis onto the courts? Why did I never follow up my Dad's insistence that I take lessons? What is it about playing tennis that I find so intimidating? I think this is the part of the afternoon, where I laid the pecan-honey bun dough to rest.

I felt today turned from watching the longest Wimbledon match ever-played to seeing myself in a different light: I notice that I am upset that I never had the stamina to learn the techniques, the patience to fail, and the persistence to improve my skills. I see that tennis had been about never trying, and then always about quitting. Am I still this girl? The quitter? No, sir, no! Not me!

A sense of urgency overwhelmed me. I took out my (very) old tennis raquet and dusted it clean. After dinner, I promised myself to look up our local town recreational department's summer calendar to sign up for a course. And, yes, Beginners, please, I would like to savor re-learning the sport.

Hey- I think I am growing up!

The Invisible Hand

Where is it? I am looking at all corners, in the hidden white skirt of the dress- and I cannot find it. I swear it had been there. I tilt the photograph as if the light would do some magical trick on my eyes, and make the hand reappear in the place where the mind placed it.

I hold it at eye-level, look across the photo ink. No, it's not there. I check the empty spaces the waist left between the arms- they're filled with the white fluff of the hand-knitted dress. White pompoms. Watermelon cap sleeves. I check the darkened edges of the right hand resting on the right knee- do I see a shadow? If I tilted it a little bit to the left? A tad to the right? Maybe...

Reality: the hand is no where to be found. It is gone. And I am lost.

I am waiting for my hubby's call to see what train he's taking. I put the picture back in the frame. Back out of my mind. I cannot possibly write about a hand that I cannot see, I cannot find. The picture goes back into its silver engraved frame.

4 days later...

It had to be there. I pick up the frame, release the black clasps against the faux-velvet backing. I am determined. The hand has to be there. It's got to be.

I bring the photograph to a better lit spot, our dining room table. I set it against our blue place mats. I sit and stare. Somewhere, only George Michael is heard: "Don't let the sun go down on me..." I notice I am biting my lower lip, sinking my teeth deep enough to feel a tinge of pain. I leave the photograph. Walk over to get a glass of Puntalta- made from 100% Graciano grapes. My new fave. In my Riedel stemless glass. Even better.

I stare away from the photograph. The radio moves onto Pat Benatar. I close my eyes in pure disbelief. I am never wrong. How can I be so disillusioned about the hand in the picture? All these years, I thought the hand was holding me gently by my left side- with its gracious liver spots, the hand supporting me sitting up straight and tall and confident. I don't want to admit that I am mistaken- I could swear it was there. I cannot be wrong.

I take another full sip. I look at me when I was exactly a year old- that's more than 32 years ago. Sitting on some chair in some studio in Istanbul. My head looks big- I think it still is: I can barely get my Cape Cod sweatshirt on without some heavy-duty tucking & pulling! My left ear almost stands out. I am looking at a distant point, smiling. Perhaps, at the owner of the hand?

I am not so giggly in this picture- you cannot see my dimples. Yet, the double-chin is visible. There's some light reflecting off my eyes. No sign of teeth. Mouth clenched close. A white turtleneck layered under the white woolen dress. Wool always itches my skin. My hands resting on my knees. You cannot tell that I have long fingers. The right hand has dimples on it- so pudgy and still. Index finger bent in half, the others spread out. Black and white studio photo. A classic.

Maybe I pushed myself thinking there was a hand in this photo. Maybe I always wanted it to be there. Holding me up, encouraging me, supporting me- even in this silly studio shot. Those liver spotted hands: roughened by calluses; weathered by years; saddened by recent turn of events.

The hands that tended a picture-perfect rose garden, labored over coffee made just-right. The hands that I reached at 4 a.m. asking for food- caramelized flan, fried eggplant, chocolate pudding,...- and received. Same hands that gently walked out of the room after an afternoon nap. Same hands that solved crossword puzzles, mixed a mean gin & tonic, and fixed buttons.

Now, I cannot see the evidence. Where did it go?

Tomatoes at Trader Joe's

I didn't know about the tomato scare until a friend- fully pregnant- told me about her husband's warning on how she should limit her tomato intake. "No way!" I had said, "That's a total crime- life without tomatoes is like a tortilla without potatoes, or a ring without a band, or... Why are we being told what we can or cannot eat ALL THE TIME!!" You gotta be kiddin' me!!

I made my way to Trader's Joe in Hartsdale last Sunday morning to get some 'stuff' to prepare breakfast- after all, my cousin was over and we had nothing in the fridge to feed her other than some wine, vodka and frozen vegetables.

After snagging a shady spot in the vast parking lot, I was welcomed by stacks of watermelon and charcoal bags through the automatic gates of air-conditioned heaven. Baby, I was home!

Straight to the produce section, I stood in front of the bins and bins full of tomatoes- "Field of Tomatoes", my mind wandered: vine ripened, plum, roma, yellow, green, large, medium, small, x-tra small, minuscule, baby, grand, beefsteak,... How can tomatoes have salmonella? I reached for the Baby Romas- lined up so perfectly against the vine, tightly held up together, reminding me of contestants at a beauty pageant. So perfectly huddled together.

I held up the container in my hand, checking out the expiration date, if such things really existed. How can tomatoes expire, I questioned, when they get mushy, you make sauce out of them. I guess- though- everything in today's world have expiry dates- even we do! We first expire from a being a child, then expire from being a teenager, then expire from the ID-check at bars, then expire from motherhood, expire from work, sometimes expire from favor, and expire from wrinkle-freedom, expire from old age, and expire from the world... And we're conditioned to think this is just reality- whose I don't know- but I refuse. We don't have expiry dates just as tomatoes shouldn't.

I brought the container close to my nose- yes, I smell my tomatoes- as I do with all other fruits and vegetables before I buy them. These smelled of the 5-year-old me, picking out my very own tomatoes from my grandparent's veggie garden- barefooted, with braids in my hair, matching hair clips, a Mothercare sundress... Without the complications of SPF 15, SPF 30, SPF 45, zinc oxide, lather, reapply, wait, re-apply,... Pure, unaware, happy me. Picking up ripened tomatoes, bringing them close to my nose, inhaling the heady perfume of summer. Intoxicated by complete smell of tomatoes. Nothing else. The end of a hose nearby, washing and eating tomatoes. No salt, no basil, no buffalo mozzarella, no fresh cracked pepper, no olive oil, no balsamic vinegar needed. Uncomplicated tomatoes, uncomplicated me.

These are good tomatoes I said as my nose's job was done. Container still in my hand, my eyes wandered over to where I found them- I wondered if I should pick another container. Would they be better? I mean these were good, but would the others be more perfect? Was I getting the "best" batch of tomatoes available this morning? "C'mon, get over yourself," I thought to myself. Since when did you become a perfectionist? "Oh yeah," another voice rebelled in my head, "You always want the best of possible choices: best hairdresser, best nail salon, best technician, best pizza, best moisturizer, best this, best that! Who are you kidding?" That was right. Who was I kidding? Why would I ever settle for less than the best tomatoes?

Closer examination. I read the label: "Hydroponically grown." Huh? Since when did they start growing tomatoes in water? Not the least bit ashamed of my ignorance. Don't tomatoes get their earthly goodness from... ummm, earth? I chuckled to myself imagining of having this conversation at a high-tea gathering in a fancy southern colonial house with kids running around in country-club-perfect outfits: "Oh, dear, I only buy hydroponically grown tomatoes. The ones that come from earth, uh, so passe! They key is in the hydroponics of it!" A small high-pitched laugh. All the others around me joining me in my laughter, clicking their tea cups, staring at the symmetrically cut cucumber sandwiches. In a Oompa-Loompa fashion, "We've been buying hydroponic tomatoes for-EVER!" they say.

Where did that come from- I really cannot tell- but I should definitely be expired before such a day comes!

Hydroponic, schmydroponic, who cares?! They looked like tomatoes should, smelled the way they should- and hopefully, tasted like they should. I placed the tomato container in my shopping cart, and moved over to the eggs.

Here we go again...