8am. The mist on 23rd Avenue is so thick I can only see the trees one at a time. Though it's not raining, I'm in my rubber boots. I carry a wicker basket under my left arm, which holds potatoes, eggs, my homemade salsa verde, my sharpest knife.
I'm heading up to make breakfast for Tamar and me. We've been trying to make study dates for weeks, but our schedules are wildly incompatible. This is the first one we've been able to come up with. The deal: I make breakfast, while she studies/teaches me whatever she's learning in nursing school. As I dice potatoes for hash browns, she tells me about the aftercare of tonsillectomies, and how strep throat can cause heart problems, if undiagnosed.
Joel comes in, sniffing hungrily. There's enough for three; we sit down together with bowls of eggs and potatoes. Tamar holds her bible-sized textbook in her lap and continues between bites. Joel opens his laptop and intersperses our conversation with news about the local elections, and what various kibbutzniks think of the latest programming idea. I chime in with medical anecdotes from my childhood, and plans for the week.
The kitchen smells like garlic and potatoes and olive oil. The big window is steamed up, and by the time Shaul thumps into the kitchen for yogurt, it feels like we've been sitting there a long time.
2 comments:
i like this.
I had a wonderful breakfast date recently too. I think it is much underrated.
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