Tonight I’m baking pizza with my iPod on shuffle. Bits and pieces of my past come flying at me as it jumps from Joni Mitchell (Oberlin days) to Khaled (Rai or Algerian music from France) to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony’s scherzo. It’s almost more flash-backing than I can handle while patting out gluten-free dough.
Sipping Pinot Grigio (by far not my favorite wine, but just refreshing),making homemade pizza, trying to keep it Italian? Never. I’ve lived all over the world; London, France, spent time in Ireland and Holland. Visited Prague and Vienna and the horrifying Nazi camp at Terezin.
And here I am back in Iowa, fighting a late-spring cold (yep, that was not asthma running, just some crud), thinking about what weird twists and turns my life has taken, and wondering where I am now.
Iowa. I spent my day digging, planting vegetables I never would have eaten as a child: round purple eggplants, robust red peppers, spaghetti squash, oregano, rosemary, parsley, yellow squash. Very haphazard and trial and error, but I’m sure I’ll be eating well this summer.
Iowa, a place to grow. You bet!