St Patrick’s Day Brunch

There is nothing worse than bringing 16 homemade muffins to a brunch and walking away with 8.

This is what happened today at a St. Patrick’s Day gathering that I attended in South Boston. There was delicious spread: green pancakes, spinach strata, sausage links, bacon strips, yogurt and fancy granola.  Plates of frosted sugar cookies shaped like shamrocks. When it was time to go everyone was stuffed and satisfied. My muffin tin was almost completely full.

I politely packed it up, left half on the table for the hosts, placed the leftovers in a container and stored the container in a brown paper bag. It's not that they were bad, I told myself. There was just a lot of food. 

I headed towards Broadway, nearing the crowds of drunks and parade floats. Then, straight ahead I spotted an old high school acquaintance, James, walking toward me. I called his name. He looked up, smiled, and continued in my direction.

We endured the initial surprise of seeing someone who was once and is no longer ingrained your everyday life. We were years away from the white-tiled school hallways, the metal lockers, spirit weeks and cafeteria lines. And yet, we were together again; exchanging how-are-you’s and what-are-you-doing-here’s as if nothing has changed.

Just before we walked away, he looked at the paper bag dangling at my side and asked, “Hey, what are you carrying?”

“Sweet potato walnut muffins,” I said. I took out the red Tupperware container and pulled off the lid.

“Did you make them yourself?” He asked.

“Yes. Would you like one?”

“I would!” he said. “I really, really would.”

We laughed. He ate the whole thing in two bites and his four friends to tried one as well.

We said goodbye and walked away, my tupperware container nearly empty, as if James was the one I had made them for all along. 

Snow haikus

Snow fell on Boston again this Friday. This time, no one mentioned it.  The kids went to school and everyone else shoveled off their cars and drove to work.

I met a fellow Loyola alum for lunch at Nix’s Mate, a restaurant in the Hilton on Broad Street, where they keep the wine glasses out at lunchtime. He confirmed that the Tuna Tartare Eggy Sandwich was the best sandwich he’s eaten, ever. Spicy tuna; tartare; fried egg; buttered wheat bread, toasted.

I got it. (Wouldn’t you?) It was delicious.  The perfect way to end the week.

Yesterday I went to a class at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education in Harvard Square. We talked about the words we like and the words we hate, and then we strung them together in surprising ways. And I kept looking outside at the people walking on the brick sidewalks, the blue sky and the snow melting into a stream.

At the end of the class, we each wrote a haiku. Here’s mine:

Snow piles on the street

corners. The gleaming product

of storms cleared away.

If you let it, structure can be a gateway to freedom.

Have a wonderful week.