Dispatches With Janice

The time is late afternoon on a Saturday and the sun is trying to kill us. The smog is hanging around to catch any survivors of the sun. Today is a bank holiday in Macau, a special administrative region of China that was a Portuguese colony until 1999. We are lost on foot with our rolling luggage, trying to find the bus terminal from the ferry. I trip up the stairs, banging my knee so hard on the cement that I see stars. I crawl back into the aircon of the ferry terminal and sit with my head between my knees before I faint. Hospital systems are not my favorite way to acquaint myself with a new country.

        I recover after a few minutes, thankful for a best friend who makes sure I drink water and who is patient and sympathetic enough to wait until I am fully recovered to poke fun at my dramatic response to an injury that did not even produce a scrape. We eventually find the bus terminal just a city block away from the ferry and blame our stupidity on the heat.

        The two of us check into our hotel, where we request separate beds since Janice tends to wet the bed when she’s drunk, whereas I tend to vomit, and this weekend might get messy. Macau is called the Las Vegas of China and we are here to see if the reputation is worthy.

Janice and I met working for the same organization in Hong Kong but in different offices. We both moved to the city sight unseen and knowing absolutely no one. Janice is from northern England, while I’m from Seattle, which makes us more like favorite cousins. We bonded over both our home cities being known for dreary weather, dark humor, and dive bars. Janice and I had one of those friendships that blossomed naturally one day when we finished a group hike and everyone wanted to go home, but the two of us decided we weren’t done being social and decided to go on an eating adventure to a Vietnamese restaurant. We were both single and alone in a new city and depended on each other for support.

        We get glam and take a taxi to the casinos. We tiptoe around in our heels getting the sense that Macau is the Vegas of China in that there are plenty of gambling opportunities, but Macau is far less sexy than Vegas. At the slot machines, elderly Chinese men sit with a cigarette in their hand like it’s a sixth finger. The showgirls have thick Eastern European accents and don’t pretend to enjoy their work. We are able to find drinks, but no nightclubs or fun bars filled with young singles in their twenties like us. We purchase tickets to the water show, which is the only show in Macau. The show is an excellent dupe of Cirque du Soleil’s O, so we opt for the splash seats, which are grand entertainment and worth the price, and then go back to our hotel room with drinks and 7-11 snacks to make our own fun.

        We lay hungover by the pool the following morning. I’m wearing the old revenge bikini Janice helped me pick out after a boyfriend broke up with me in a text message saying that he couldn’t see himself marrying me. I remember Janice and me sitting in a coffee shop splitting a slice of Lady M cake after our shopping spree and deciding to book flights to the Maldives, since I would need a gorgeous beach to debut my new bikini.

        Macau is more like the Reno of China, if our pool is any evidence. The pool has the aesthetic of a miniature Silver Legacy Resort Casino, but there’s no swim up bar. We can’t go topless and there’s no DJ, which neither of us is missing with these hangover headaches.

We eventually pull ourselves vertical to go be tourists and walk around the Cotai Strip. We take pictures and eat classic foods like egg tarts and buy souvenirs to mail home to our families.

Macau is like Vegas in that one weekend is plenty of time. Janice and I nap on the ferry back home to Hong Kong and trade fashion magazines to read. 

        Janice and I spend another bank holiday across the border from Hong Kong in the beach town of Shenzhen. A man approaches us as soon as we step out of the train terminal, asking if we need a taxi. Neither Janice nor I had looked up taxis in China. Are they marked? Is there Uber or a Chinese equivalent? I shrug at Janice and mention that we do need transportation, and in my nonchalant attitude that causes my mother so much stress, I nod at the man without giving Janice time to talk me out of being a donkey.

        We follow the presumed taxi driver around the corner behind the train station and through another building. Shouldn’t we be going toward the street and not away? Janice and I eye each other. She asks the man where the taxi stand is, but he doesn’t speak English. We are then free to speak about how uncomfortable we feel, but keep following the man up a staircase then into an elevator and through yet another building to a parking garage.

        Why is his taxi parked? He motions for us to wait at the curb and tells us to “stay.” Could we find our way back to the train station?

        “On a scale of one to kidnapping,” Janice asks me, “how many of your danger sensors are going off?” At least there are people around. A scream doesn’t need a translation. An old, unmarked car comes around the corner with all the passenger windows blacked out. The car stops in front of us and our smiling taxi driver motions for us to get in. Janice and I don’t look at each other or speak. We both run. Back toward the elevators, down the stairs, around the corner, hollering directions back and forth at each other until we finally make it back to the train station and out to the road to be in the middle of as many people as possible. Janice could never blend in with her fair skin and bleached blond hair, but at least there are people around, and we’ve always found the Chinese to be decent.

        We spot what looks like a clean red taxi with a handsome young man who might as well be an angel driving a chariot. We show him our hotel address in Mandarin on our printed reservation, since neither of us has a Chinese SIM card yet. He nods, and as we are climbing into the back seat, our kidnapper comes running around the corner screeching in Mandarin and putting up his hands telling our driver to wait. We motion for our driver to Nascar his way into traffic. He ignores us to roll down his window and speak to the old man as Janice and I cling to each other. Our new driver punches a few numbers into his phone calculator, and we gather we will be paying double the fare. Whatever. We figure our safety is worth the price. We nod, and the younger man gives the older man a half of our wad of cash before pulling into traffic like he’s the champion of Formula One.

        The next morning, we walk across the street to the beach where we are ushered through the gate without paying. Janice is descended upon with phones in her face as if she were Taylor Swift in the nosebleed section of an American football game.

        “I didn’t know you were a celebrity here,” I say sideways to her, keeping my eyes alert and scanning the crowd that has begun to form. She is grumpy and pushes through the crowd, shielding her face and saying, “No pictures—I’m not a bloody celebrity—no pictures—I don’t know who these people think I am—no pictures,” like anyone understands. I follow her and gather from body language that the crowd has never seen a busty blonde in real life.

        We set down our towels and swim out into the sea, leaving the crowd to wait for us on the beach. You’d think the people here would have seen more tourists, since we’re so close to Hong Kong, but apparently that’s not the case. We stay in the water until Janice’s shoulders are visibly burned, when we decide to make a run for it all the way back to our hotel.

        This time, we find humor in the situation and giggle all the way back, with Janice saying, “No pictures—what do you plan to do with them anyways?! Bloody hell!” We go to a fancier hotel for dinner, where Janice’s blond hair wins us a seat at the chef’s table and a free bottle of champagne. We put our bikinis back on once we’re in the room to take a bath and try to sober up together while we rehash all the fun we’ve had over the past few years.

        Neither of us has a tendency toward nostalgia, but we’ve made a pact to tell each other we love the other after one of our dear mutual friends was stabbed to death just after repatriating to the United States. Maris was in the wrong place on the Vegas Strip at the wrong time, when a man with a chef’s knife had a psychotic break. She traveled and lived more life in thirty years than most, and left nothing on her bucket list for us to complete in her honor. Maris was not shy about affection, so you knew if she loved you, which is one way we’ve vowed to keep her legacy alive.

        Janice spends my thirtieth birthday weekend with me in Taiwan. We land late at night and once again get the transportation wrong. The train to the city has stopped running, so we do our best to navigate the way to our hostel by bus in the dark in a country where English is not useful. There is no one else with whom I’d rather be lost. We get off the bus as close to the city as possible and wander around the streets until 2 a.m., when we finally bump into a police officer who points us in the right direction.

        I call my new boyfriend, who has told me I can be too “rock and roll” at times. He does not see the humor in the situation as I giggle my way through the story. Janice gives me the top bunk. We sleep a few hours, but set our alarms early. Saturday is our only full day in Taiwan, and we are not going to waste a minute on sleep.

       We eat Taiwanese street food all day, from breakfast to the night market, talking about the other destinations we want to experience together: Japan, Philippines, Thailand, South Korea. Janice and I like to plan our next travel adventure while we are still on our current trip. 

        We stuff ourselves into bikinis the next day and set out for the hot springs before our return flight. I am nervous about missing it but don’t mention this to Janice, who seems confident. I wish I could live with less anxiety and more assurance that life often turns out fine.

        We steam ourselves like two little dumplings next to an old Taiwanese man, chatting about booking our next flights to Thailand after we are added to a WhatsApp group for a friend who wants to celebrate his birthday in Bangkok. We’ll all stay in an Airbnb and get absolutely no culture aside from the dingiest peek into the horrific sex habits of rich old white men. Janice and I will be sitting outside a bar in Bangkok while our friends are still inside. She will have gotten 86’d from the bar. Janice’s head will be on the table, but while I will be content to people-watch, I’ll grow more horrified by the minute at the old man sitting at the bar across from us. He will be making a show of cracking jokes to the older women hawking various items to tourists. His hand will be on the thigh of a bored-looking twelve-year-oldish girl who won’t look up from her phone when he kisses her on the mouth. She will follow him out of the bar a few minutes later.

        I’ll be sitting with Janice in our shared room the next day, after she’s been told off by the birthday boy for getting too drunk. In my propensity toward dramatics and extremes, I’ll ask Janice if she has a drinking problem. She will tell me that drinking problems are as American as school shootings and Thanksgiving.

        A colleague in St. Lucia once told me that Americans don’t know how to relax, and this is a reason we are so uptight and violent. She told me this as I was refusing to have a drink at lunch in the middle of the workday. Our colleagues in Hong Kong drink in the office if there’s any occasion to celebrate. I’ve seen my boss fall out of her chair at a company dinner and have to be carried into a taxi. The English consider keeping a cheeky bottle of wine on your work desk an acceptable form of flair.

        Janice and I rinse off at the hot springs and go directly to the airport with wet hair, unaware that this will be our last trip together. Our friendship group will expand, so I’ll fly to Fiji solo for my next trip while Janice flies to Vietnam. My boyfriend and I will become serious and will begin to travel more together. Janice will remain the bacon to my eggs, but our relationship dynamics will ebb and flow. We will have a trip planned together for Jordan that will be canceled by a scary new respiratory disease from China. My boyfriend will become my husband and we’ll leave Hong Kong together. Janice will meet a man in England who solidifies her decision to move home. We may not travel together anymore, but we will still make a point to say “I love you” before hanging up.

Every Day is Fat Tuesday in New Orleans

New Orleans, Louisiana, March 2023

One of my favorite parts of travel is how time ceases to exist, and because the day of the week doesn’t matter, I wake up each morning and don’t know (or care) if it’s a Wednesday, or a Sunday, or whatever. I choose to live like every day is a Saturday while traveling, or while on vacation in New Orleans, every day is Fat Tuesday. 

The two of us—my salsa dancing, Spanish-speaking, never complaining, adventurous eater of a husband and I—approach the city in a car we rented and drove over from San Antonio, Texas. We ditch the vehicle as soon as possible and walk the streets, which is a far superior way to acquaint yourself with a city and its people. At night, the streets of New Orleans offer any indulgence, ones that you may never even have thought to explore. We wander into a corner bodega, dropping hands to squeeze through the aisles one after the other. Eager to eat something almost vulgar, we choose a po’boy with multiple meats, vegetables, shrimp, and sauces, all toasted together with multiple cheeses.  

Po’ boy in hand, we walk through the historic neighborhoods that smell like old beer and Magnolia trees and sea foam. We are staying in a dusty room in one of those Victorian guest houses. The Gingerbread trimmed house was built in the 1800’s and features six rooms that have each been fitted with a private bathroom. The decorator took The Blues room quite literally, painting the walls navy and framing posters of Muddy Waters, Billie Holiday, and Louis Armstrong. There’s an oboe hanging above the decommissioned fireplace next to a trumpet hanging from a rope. 

I wake up hours before the twerkout I booked begins the next morning. There is a shop with beignets and coffee that I want to visit before class while Jaime answers emails. Today must be Tuesday if he’s working. I have time to stroll and sit in the cafe and enjoy the buskers who have set up outside. There’s plenty of cash in my wallet to tip the local musicians. The waitress pulls up a chair to chat for a few minutes—southern hospitality still unsettles this yank—before returning with my coffee and an extra beignet as a snack for Jaime later. I’m feeling the vibes in this city and ready to throw my ass in a circle.

There is too much good food in New Orleans to ever feel hungry, and so if I ever feel like I can eat, then I get to ordering because there are too many dishes to sample within the average trip of four nights/five days. Finding and taking cultural dance classes is something else I love to do when traveling, but it is also strategic in New Orleans. There was a good chance that after an hour of bounce, I could eat. 

My dance teacher meets me at a community arts center carrying a bag of biscuits and gravy which I assume is her breakfast later. I had booked a 45-minute private session, though she ends up spending an hour with me since we kept finding ourselves in conversations about things like Beyonce’s backup dancers, or the ideal length of a booty short, and the price point for the group classes she is planning to start. She offers to drop me off after class so I don’t have to pay for an Uber, and when I insist that I could never accept such a kind offer, she walks me out and waits with me until my Uber arrives, giving me a hug before I get into the car like we are old friends. 

Back at the corner bodega after dance class, I get a good look at the staff in the daylight while I wait to order another sandwich. They all look out of context during business hours. The man at the counter is explaining to the couple in line in front of me that Anthony Bourdain used to come in for their muffaletta sandwich, so I decide to order the same. I pay the man at the counter (who gives me two bananas for free) and turn toward the kitchen in the back to wait for my sandwich. The cook who calls my number looks like he has at least one felony. “Hey, what’s up?” I responded to my number. “Whole lotta nada,” he answers as he tears off a long strip of brown paper roll—the kind you’d find in a gas station bathroom to dry your hands—that I understand is to be used as a napkin. 

Jaime and I finish the sandwich as we get ready for a walk past Frenchman Street to the 9th ward. We consider hailing the bicycle pulling a swing set offering rides for novelty’s sake. Instead, we take the long way through public parks and stop into Wiccan shops and small galleries hoping to be hungry again after the muffaletta by the time we reach our destination. The scent of butter and sugar sneaks out of a bakery we pass and I decide that there is a 100% chance that we’ll be stopping for dessert after our second lunch. Jaime needs no convincing after our meal of gumbo and grits, and we tuck into the brightly lit shop. The bread pudding we order is so hot that the scoop of vanilla is already forming a shallow pool in the bowl from the seconds it took to leave the kitchen and arrive at our table. This is how bread pudding should taste. The bread is saturated but not soggy and gives me the feeling that I could go home today feeling like I have accomplished all my eating goals for this trip. The waiter delivers our check and brings the credit card machine to our table. He coaches Jaime by saying, “Wait… okay… now you can tap it,” to which Jaime responds, “That’s what she said.” The waiter laughs like it’s the first time he’s heard the joke. 

Back on foot, I rap out loud Cash Money Records trying to bait Jaime into rapping with me. Taking over for the nine nine and the two thousands I continue solo. He’s Colombian and doesn’t know songs from the United States unless they’re popular at karaoke. We walk from the 9th ward to Bourbon Street hoping to be able to eat again for dinner. We reach Bourbon Street before dark and already find the level of debauchery to outshine the Vegas strip. There is a young man belting ballads into a microphone powered by his car battery. A homeless man is cycling up and down the street with a plastic rat on a leash in an attempt to make tourists jump. Two women sit across the street from their children who are playing paint buckets as drums for tips. Jaime and I don’t stop for a drink. We laugh at the realization that we’re too old for this scene and need a drink on a street that is more civilized. 

We land at The Monteleone for a Sazerac which is an overcorrection from Bourbon Street. Looking for something more common, we order a hurricane at the bar where they were invented. Looking for something a little more local, we leave the French Quarter and find a creole restaurant. I tend to overorder and this time, Jaime doesn’t try to talk sense into me: jambalaya, alligator, red beans and rice, a side of gumbo, and the most glorious slice of lemon pie.  

My eyes open the next morning to the poster of Muddy Waters and the realization that this day is not Tuesday. We are flying home today, but first I visit yet another coffee shop wishing we had more time to go on dinner dates in the city. My heart catches as the thought that I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll have creole food again. It’s not like Mexican or Italian or Chinese food that you can find some version of in virtually any city in the world. New Orleans cuisine is special, and I’ll dream of its flavors until I can make them a reality again. 

Big Juicy Cheeseburger

I bite into this “big juicy cheeseburger” as you liked to call them. I’m sitting with my memories of you in the backyard of my parents’ house on summer break. My stomach has been suspicious of red meat ever since one too many episodes of traveler’s belly: street food, raw meat, any country, any animal, I’ll try anything twice. Anyways, my stomach soon recognized my dad’s cooking, and begged for more of that patty from the local butcher with the sesame bun and fresh, crisp lettuce and tomato, and Kraft single slices, and ketchup and mustard and grilled onions. All the elements that make a “big juicy cheeseburger” are there, but let’s be honest, you loved a cheeseburger no matter if it was home cooked on the grill, from a fancy gourmet restaurant, or from McDonalds. You raved about the contrast of the hot meat against the cool toppings and sweet onions while licking ketchup off your fingers and dabbing your napkin in your water to get that mustard stain before it set.

I’m actually not much of a meat eater in my daily life, but what kind of person denied their grandmother their company over her favorite meal? There were two cans of Diet Coke on the table because we were trying not to overindulge, so we didn’t buy Coke by the liter. This was exactly how you felt about wine, that one glass is okay with your medication but probably not more. Except you took medication for dementia so you’d often forget that you’d already had a glass, so my mom, your daughter, had to hide all the wine in the house. She usually did the same with coffee because otherwise you’d drink pot after pot, but coffee isn’t as dangerous when mixed with your medications, so mom sometimes forgot to put up the coffee and before she knew it, you’d have drank three pots and it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet. You felt the same way about wine and coffee that you did about big juicy cheeseburgers in that the quality didn’t matter much. You’d rather save money and drink the boxed wine which likely harkens back to your childhood growing up during the Great Depression and your refusal to waste, which skipped a generation and now my generation is picking it back up again though for different reasons, but who really cares about the reasoning as long as the right thing is being done? Some people like to berate celebrities for taking up causes just for the media attention, but I say who cares as long as it’s bringing awareness to the cause and what are these complainers doing besides trolling the internet, but I digress before I become one of them.

Activists often irritate nonactivists with their stories because the nonactivists feel guilty about their inaction. I wouldn’t call myself an activist, but I do a lot of volunteer work. Activists are usually more conscious of what they're eating and likely wouldn't be reminiscing about their good deeds over a slaughtered animal that contributed to a sizable hole in the ozone while it was alive. You volunteered twice a week in retirement but must not have considered yourself an activist either because I never saw you opt for chicken if red meat was on the table.  

I now eat a burger once a year in your honor remembering the last summer we had together and how we went to get our nails done and how you’d ask me to blow dry your hair which I was more than happy to do. I liked to take care of you for a change in reparation for when I was eighteen and moved in and you never asked any questions. You just gave me a room and made me dinner in the crockpot and asked if I was old enough for a glass of wine yet. I didn’t mind that our conversations never went beyond what was polite because sometimes you need someone who you can just hang out with where it never gets too heavy and you can both decompress together in front of a baseball game on TV and a crossword puzzle and talk about what’s in the fridge that you can throw into the crockpot for dinner. My other grandma was a home economics teacher so I guess I inherited your lack of cooking skills. My husband brought a crockpot to our marriage and it’s the reason he enjoys my cooking. Throw all you’ve got into something and it will turn out at least okay but oftentimes it will be great. I’ve just made up that metaphor for life but I think you would agree.

You died from CoVid during the first wave so now I plan to eat a cheeseburger once a year in your honor, sometimes in a fancy restaurant and sometimes at Five Guys. Maybe I’ll also do the other things you liked to do like go for a power walk and then get a mani/pedi so even in the afterlife you’re giving me reason to treat myself and indulge a little without the guilt, including ordering dessert with that cheeseburger because it’s what you would have done. 

I am halfway through my “big juicy cheeseburger”  in my parents’ backyard when I start on my tater tots which I greatly miss living outside the US and have already decided to go for a second serving because I only get tater tots once a year when I'm home in the summer. The foods I miss and crave when I’m away from home are odd since it’s not like I even rated tater tots when I had complete access to them. If I’m guilty of taking simple tots for granted, imagine what I take for granted that actually matters.  Like my husband who is going away to work for an indefinite amount of time who eats the last of everything in the fridge and is the reason we can’t keep any snacks in the house so I must cook or trudge out even if I want just a half a sandwich. I’ll feel tired and become irritable and resentful when I remember the reason I’m tired is because he was snoring in my ear all night, but instead of starting a fight with a sassy remark, I’ll instead go over and kiss his forehead because he will be gone soon and I feel guilty for imagining him dead over such small infractions.

I try to be more patient in my professional life with my boss who takes her employees for granted. I try to imagine the horrific abuse she must have suffered to be so nasty to her subordinates thinking it’s okay to one day be smiling and acting like chums and then later that same day to be screaming and telling you to apply lipstick because you look homeless. She must work endless hours and not have the time to take herself to therapy to overcome the neglect and manipulation that one can only learn by years of observation. I choose to turn the other cheek even though I’m an atheist and work extra hard to put out double the amount of good that she puts hate into the world. Coming to the end of my cheeseburger, I try not to think about the end of my vacation when I will have to return to my abusive boss and focus instead on the shrieks of my nieces running through the sprinkler. 

The scent of the apple pie came from the cooling rack just above my head on the window sill. You smiled at me and asked me to go fetch the newspaper because you wanted to read it before the day was over. I smiled back and jumped up to go fetch the paper even though you’ve already read it multiple times today. You forgot about the newspaper by the time I sat back down and asked if I wanted to split a burger, but at the same time dad came out with vanilla ice cream asking who wants pie. I panic for a moment but realize that I don’t have to choose and that I should eat both because my family’s love language is food. 

No Hurry No Worry: Tips For Traveling Fiji

Disclaimer: These tips were compiled in February of 2020, before I could find Wuhan, China on a map and wasn’t fazed by drinking from the same coconut as four other people.

Transportation:

Pre-booking a taxi from the airport is unnecessary—flights are frequently behind schedule and your taxi will have to wait for two hours until you arrive. Besides, there are always taxis waiting at the airport. Your taxi man won’t be too irritated, and all will be forgiven and forgotten once you give him a sizable tip. He will even grow to like you over the week when you call him again and again, and he won’t even mind waiting when you want to stay at the white sand beach for an extra hour. He will tell you that Fiji’s motto is “No hurry no worry.” You will hashtag that motto on all your captions. 

You will meet a Fijian-born man who immigrated to Canada but is visiting family with his partner. The couple will offer to take you to a market via the local bus. Some will call you crazy to get on a bus in a developing country with two men, but you will think it crazier to pass up the opportunity. Tell your friends not to worry because the two men are gay and Canadian so your chances of survival will be high. You can buy bus tickets at the local cell phone shop then stand on the main road where buses pass by regularly. The buses don’t run on any time schedule, but you can flag any of them down as long as they are going in your direction. No buses run after dark.

Food:

Your taxi man will invite you to his home for lunch with him and his wife. However, he won’t be available to come pick you up, and you won’t even consider walking that far in the heat of the Fijian sun. Instead, at your little beachside hotel, you will order the traditional dish of kokoda for lunch. Kokoda is raw fish marinated in citrus, spices, and coconut milk. It will be served to you in half a coconut shell, which will be absolutely delightful. 

Every time you walk by a little bakery, you must stop for the Fijian equivalent of banana bread and a slice of cassava cake. Some people do not enjoy traveling alone, but in Fiji, you will rarely be without someone who wants to chat. Breakfast and lunch might provide some quiet time, but dinners will never be taken alone. For example, two college girls will approach you at the bar where you’ll bond over your careers and talk about your respective relationships with men. You’ll meet them for a few dinners over the course of the week. You will also have a few dinners with the Canadian couple who showed you the market and know the best Indian restaurants in town. A local man will invite himself to join you for dinner one night, and while you really won’t mind his company nor his ukulele, you already have a good man waiting for you back home. 

Buy bags of Fijian candies at a market to last you a few months.

Activities:

Go from the beach to the hammock and back again, drinking so many fresh coconuts that you lose count. Fijian hot spring sounds counterintuitive, but it will be surprisingly refreshing, especially if you opt for the mud bath first. The mud is collected in big pots from the bottom of the springs and set out in the grass for you. Strip down to your bathing suit and rub it all over your body. Stand there until it dries, feeling a little ridiculous. Then, wash it off in the springs. Though it is technically a tourist destination, residents also enjoy the mud baths as a cheap alternative to a doctor for achy bones and sore muscles. There is the option of visiting Hindu temples, which are beautiful, but the floors are concrete. And hot. And you must go barefoot. Enter at your own risk. You won’t be allowed to take photos either because something about capturing souls in a photo something something. Polynesian dance shows mostly include Tahitian dance and the hula because, says one of the dancers, Fijian dance is boring.   

Culture:

Kava is a crop of the Pacific Islands that is central to the culture. The root is ground into a powder and mixed with water for consumption. Vanuatu is known for its mind-altering kava while Fijian kava is on the weak end of the spectrum. The United States FDA doesn’t even consider it a drug, so you can buy some of the root to take home to grandma. It tastes earthy, like weak coffee that has sat on your desk all day. After you’ve finished dinner, a member of the mataqiriqiri (band) will invite you to come sit with them and drink kava while they sing and play their instruments. This situation is technically called a kava ceremony, but there are very few formalities observed. Clap once and say “bula,” a greeting, when it is your turn to drink kava from the communal coconut shell. Drink the entire shell at once, then clap three times and say “vinaka,” which means thank you. Your tongue will tingle almost immediately, followed by a visceral relaxation and the urge to call everyone cousin, if they’re your age, or uncle/aunty, if they’re older. You will have a glorious sleep the night after your first kava ceremony and wake up with no hangover. 

Three Bored Yetis

Chitwan Jungle, Nepal 

The three of us sit in the dining room looking at our phones. We had finished eating. Dinner was a buffet. Our median age is thirty. The younger two scroll through Instagram; I scroll through Facebook. The dining room is empty so we quietly play a Queen Spotify station since we all watched Bohemian Rhapsody on the plane.

“Kat, you bring cards?”

“Like a deck of playing cards? Nah…”

Three hours prior, we were all doing different things. Chirag was walking by the river taking pictures when he’d spotted alligators sunning themselves on the bank. He made sure to maintain a healthy distance while he took photos with his iPhone 10, which was the newest model at the time. He’d forward these to us as a sort of pittance for his presence on what was supposed to be a girls trip.

Kat was wandering through the village looking for postcards and souvenirs to buy. With a local tea in one hand, her other was free to feel the trinkets, pick them up to inspect, and then set them back down again. She found a funny figurine of two rhinos copulating to buy for a friend as an inside joke. She didn’t find any postcards to her liking. 

I was on the phone with my boyfriend back home. He listened to my accounts of Nepal’s natural beauty, which was a real contrast to the garbage everywhere. He tried not to imagine the gag inducing smell of the bathrooms in the developing country which smelled faintly of sewage in most places. Thousands of miles away, we both pace their respective rooms. In Nepal, I pace the wooden floors in my socks. 

That was earlier. Now, Kat and Chirag, and I are seated around the dinner table.

“You guys wanna play that game where you name a celebrity and guess if they’re good in bed?”

“I’ll start; I love this game. Ed Sheeran.”

“Good. He’s probably really giving in bed since he’s not super attractive.”

None of us are ready for bed so Chirag orders a local beer, and we continue to listen to Spotify which helps us pick celebrities to judge. Later, Chirag will get up to get more rice pudding from the buffet, and I will step outside to call my boyfriend again. I’ll sit next to a tourist from mainland China who is smoking. I’ll be half tempted to ask for a cigarette but at my age I can’t risk the wrinkles. Cigarettes make me nostalgic for my youth. A dirty martini and a cigarette was my favorite meal in those days. I sit a little closer to the Chinese tourist to get a better whiff. But this is later. Meanwhile, the three of us sit around checking our phones. 

“Anybody have a pen and paper? We could play Pictionary.”

“We’re not that bored yet.”

“Nobody wants to share my beer?”

“Give me just a taste.”

Kat and I are friends. Kat is English and I’m American, but we met at orientation in Hong Kong for our jobs and became fast friends. We booked this trip together. I had told my boyfriend that he couldn’t come, but when Kat asked if she could bring a platonic male friend, Chirag, I extended an invitation to my boyfriend. It was too late for my boyfriend to take the time off work, but Chirag had already booked his tickets.  

“Those pictures came through.”

“They are beautiful. You’re really earning your place here.”

“I can’t believe you got that close to those alligators.”

“Me neither. They better get a lot of likes. More beer?”

The pictures did get a lot of likes. Mostly for myself, who gave Chirag no credit. Kat didn’t credit Chirag either. Chirag got the least amount of likes for his own photos. He took pictures of more than just alligators. There were pictures of rhinos and black bears; all the major jungle animals except the Bengal tiger. Guides who had worked in the jungle their entire careers were lucky enough to spot a Bengal once, maybe twice.

The pictures of Kathmandu got the most likes but it was our least favorite place. We only spent one full day there and that was enough. This gorgeous jungle has been our favorite so far.

Kat was the first to meet Chirag. She met him through a Meetup group for expats. They’d known each other almost a year. The friendship won’t last and Kat will later be mortified she invited him on what was supposed to be a girls vacation. Her friendship with Chirag began to unravel even before the trip. It won’t last even a second year. 

Ed Sheeran’s voice sings over Spotify. Chirag changes the channel. Chirag and Kat are surprised by the poverty in Nepal. I have seen worse.     

Our hotel doesn’t have heat. We were going to hike all day to it, but were rained out so we spent the same amount of time in the car driving to it instead because of the horrendous traffic. Kat and I also came down with fits of diarrhea so the car had to pull over often and fast. We are both feeling better, for now. I will have diarrhea for a week after leaving the country and will need antibiotics. Kat’s digestion will never be the same. 

“Remember when you were young and bored and you’d play that game MASH?”

“Right? I never thought to put down as options no husband, no kids, no house.”

“And a job that makes me enough money to travel.”

Chirag finishes his beer and is about to go back to his room to watch a football tournament. Kat turns off Spotify and puts on her beanie. Her finger joints ache from the cold.

We push back our chairs which echo a little so someone from the kitchen hears us and pops out to say goodnight. All of us are desperate for the heat of the blankets in our rooms. Chirag is in one room, Kat and I next door. I had double checked the sleeping arrangements. It’s just past 9pm but there is no sign of life anywhere in the courtyard of the hotel. Has everyone gone to sleep already? The outline of the Himalayas are lit by the stars.

“See you in the morning,” Chirag almost whispers. I echo his statement. Kat nods. Kat and I shut our door and talk about what we’ll do with the rest of their night as if we have options.

Another Terrorist Attack

Colombo, Sri Lanka

Laura is near hysterics and shouting something at me about a bombing as I climb into the passenger seat of our hired sedan. Anna is sitting silently next to her in the back seat with both hands over her mouth. Our driver is shushing Laura with one hand and turning up the news on the car radio with the other to better hear the reporter who is speaking Sinhala.

“There’s been another bombing.”

Our driver translates for us in barely more than a whisper, though the reporter is nearly screaming. The driver’s hand that had been quieting Laura is now holding up his forehead. The chaos coming over the radio is in stark contrast to the sound of palm trees in the light breeze that surrounds us. Our street is empty unlike St. Anthony’s Shrine which has just been bombed with over one hundred Easter Sunday worshippers inside.

An old man approaches our car carrying a small bag of bread. I imagine he has just picked up his breakfast and is going back home to eat, but he must have heard the commotion and pokes his head through my window and into our car to listen to the radio. He has a short conversation with our driver in Sinhala before shaking his head in sadness as he walks away. 

Laura, Anna, and I are colleagues-cum-best friends on vacation together for a week in Sri Lanka. We were loading the car for a day at the beach when we heard about the attack.

Our driver is ready to leave a few minutes later—I guess we’re all desensitized to violence. He lived through Sri Lanka’s twenty-five-year civil war that only just ended in 2009. Anna, Laura, and I are from the United States where mass shootings are a part of our culture.

We are staying two hours south of the attacks, which seems to be far enough from the danger. Nothing can be done to help at the moment, so we continue our day as planned. Our driver whispers a blessing at the steering wheel and then puts his hands together in prayer where he rests his forehead for a few seconds before turning on the car. 

My eyes moisten with tears behind my sunglasses while the trees zoom by in one long streak of green; this is the closest I’ve ever been to terrorism, and my emotions are stirring. I take my sadness as proof that I can still have a visceral reaction for the victims of violent attacks and feel relieved.

 At any given moment in our world today, people are suffering unthinkable acts of horror, and while you can’t close your heart and mind to them completely, you can’t leave yourself wide open either. My tears are proof that my heart and mind aren’t stuck only slightly ajar; they can be opened further. 

Our driver takes phone call after phone call. Except for the urgent conversations that he is having over the phone, the car is silent. The three of us keep quiet out of respect—we have spent the past two days with him and feel genuine concern. He picked us up at the airport when we arrived and we’ve been with him ever since.

“My family is safe,” he finally announces. We had all been too afraid to ask. 

Another bomb goes off before we reach the beach. I promise myself that I’ll look into giving blood before we leave.

Our driver drops us off at a pristine beach with ideal waves for surfing. What I see is glorious ocean. For miles. White foam, surfers, bodyboarders. None of us can find Wi-Fi, but none of us really care. We swim, we snorkel, we flirt with the lifeguard.  

It’s now late in the afternoon. A phone call interrupts our beach nap: it’s our driver, and he’s panicked. “I’m coming to pick you up now. There have been more bombings, and they’re targeting tourists. The whole country is on curfew.”

We’re jerked back to reality. People have been getting slaughtered while we’ve been trying to minimize our tan lines on the beach. An entire city has been devastated while I sip on my coconut. This is often my modus operandi: there is a tragedy, I vow to do something, I get distracted, and then I forget.

We are waiting for our driver as I imagine how the sandy beaches of Sri Lanka must make the country look outlined in white from space. Sri Lanka probably looks like a green eye from up there. Our driver has green eyes.

I meet the gaze of our driver as I jump into the front seat. His green eyes are bloodshot. By way of explanation, he says he hasn’t heard from his friend who was working at Shangri-La Hotel when one of the bombs exploded.

We stop at a grocery store on the way home from the beach for supplies in case we get stuck in our hotel for a few days. The entire store looks like an episode of Supermarket Sweep: Terrorism Edition. The aisles are crowded, and shopping baskets are piled high with provisions. Shoppers waste no time being friendly, so I quickly devise a strategy to win: we should focus on filling snacks that can be easily transported. We are scheduled to leave for the mountains tomorrow where we will spend the remainder of the week and I don’t want to waste food by leaving it behind. First, grab a gallon jug of water. Then, find protein: nuts, beef jerky, and peanut butter crackers. Last, get money ready for checkout because nobody is going to wait for me to figure out which coins and bills are which denominations. I curse myself for not keeping a clean wallet; there are at least three currencies in there.

I hear Sinhala all around me. Then I hear Anna.

“I’m hungry. I don’t want just snacks. Do you think the driver would stop for a roti if we asked?”

“Absolutely not. We are not stopping for anything. I’m not going to be caught after curfew in a developing country in the middle of a violent crisis. We are going back to the hotel and we are staying there. I’ll grab you extra cup o’ noodles, and you can thank me later.”

Laura turns from Anna to face me and rolls her eyes. Anna would usually argue, but we are all quiet on the drive back to the hotel.

The government has shut down social media and much of the internet for two major reasons: the first is to keep fake news from circulating, the second is to make communication more difficult for the terrorists, as not all have been taken into custody yet.

We hurry to contact our families once back at the hotel and find we can only communicate through iPhone apps. I tell my mom over FaceTime audio, “Don’t worry, we were about two hours away. We are planning on going to the mountains tomorrow, anyway. Yes, we will still go in the morning if it’s safe to travel. There are only small villages in the mountains, so we will be much safer. The news is saying that the hospitals need blood. Do you think I should go give blood? You’re right, hospitals could be targets too. Okay, I promise I won’t go. Needles do make me faint. Never mind, I already promised I wouldn’t go.” 

As we watch the news again for more developments the next morning, the screen shows lines of people waiting to donate blood at hospitals. The driver says we are safe to drive to the mountains today as long as we are inside by curfew, which relieves the gals and me. We’ve already talked and agreed we wouldn’t be upset if he had to quit to go be with his family—we’re seasoned travelers and would figure something out—however, he’s been reliable and has made us feel safe, so we’re happy he will continue with us.

There is no discussion of changing our flights. We probably don’t need the discussion, as we all feel the same way: we still want to see Sri Lanka. The terrorists didn’t scare us away, staying is a small act of defiance.

A Sri Lankan woman named Dharisha, whom I’d met a few weeks ago at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner back home, texts me to see if I am safe. She hasn’t even found all of her own family yet, but she still has space in her heart for me. 

The remainder of the week is spent basking in the glory that is the mountains of Sri Lanka. Every hue of green indexed by mankind can be found in the vast jungles.

I decide to make a donation to the Sri Lankan Red Cross when I get home.

Dharisha had told me not to take the train from the mountains back to Colombo when we left. It is still running, but the only passenger is the conductor. Our driver agrees to take us back to the city to catch our flight, but he will take us the long and winding way to avoid any potential danger. Five hours into driving those curving roads, I become car sick. Our driver pulls over and I vomit on the side of the road.

The three of us are in the airport waiting for our scheduled flight out of the country. A week has passed since the Easter Sunday bombings annihilated over 250 souls. Their body parts will have to be fit back together by cross-referencing DNA samples.

Stranded travelers are everywhere in the airport. They are sitting, standing, sleeping on the floor, crying, and waiting in lines. Nobody is smiling. Everybody is stiff and on edge; the tension and frustration are palpable.

A woman wearing a red vest with a British Red Cross patch stops us as we walk in to ask if we need help. When we walk around the corner, another woman asks us if we need help, though this woman is with the Danish Red Cross. 

Soldiers with guns step over sleeping people—I don’t know what kind of guns, big guns. I text my ex-military brother a few photos. 

         Assault rifle

         AR-15

         AK-47

         Submachine gun

The terrorists tried to blow Colombo off the map. They have caused a cataract in the green eye of Sri Lanka.

It is easy to be jejune and think that with my monetary donation to the Red Cross and the promotion of tolerance on my social media handles, I have done my part to help treat the cataract. But what will this accomplish? Because before Sri Lanka, it was Nigeria, and before Nigeria, it was New Zealand, and before New Zealand, it was someplace else.

But how do you live with the guilt of knowing that, through nothing but luck, you haven’t experienced such evil? Our hearts and minds have learned that if we don’t open too far then we don’t have to go through the trauma of processing. We do the little that we can and then think about something else, knowing that life will go on if we’re far enough removed.

I’ll have an existential crisis if I allow myself to linger on these thoughts for too long, but amidst all the death in this godforsaken world, there are still people like Dharisha and people willing to line up to give their own blood. For me, it has to be enough to know that.

Mango Season

Like most people, I thought that the Caribbean islands had no seasons. We were all wrong. The Caribbean has two seasons: mango season and not mango season. There are also many different types of mango, and while I’m sure they all have scientific names, St. Lucians all refer to them by their predominant colors. I was lucky to have both a red-mango and a green-mango tree in my front yard.

Mangoes were a good way to make friends as they provided an easy excuse to visit your neighbor. “Hey! I have more mangoes than I can eat. You want some?” The neighbor would usually give you a parting gift as you were leaving their house.

“Do you eat the flesh?” my neighbor asked me one day after I had brought her a basket of mangoes and stayed for a chat. I guess light-skinned Americans have a reputation for being vegetarian. She went to the kitchen and came back with a few packs of deli turkey meat for me. This was a real treat, as many people slaughtered their animals for meat, and I missed those cheap sandwiches I ate during my first entry-level job made of white bread, thin sliced deli meat, and off brand Kraft cheese singles.

My neighbor was a retired teacher from the school where I was volunteering for the year as a third grade teacher, so we had become friendly acquaintances. As I walked up the hill to her house, I noticed political signs hung from verandas or protruded from front lawns much like one might see in The United States. Lucian elections were coming up. My neighbor had made a sign to display in the front window of her home. It said “Vote or create reading;” I had no idea what this meant. She also had a decorative plaque in her front room that read “Hard work never killed anyone, but why take the chance?” I think this may have been the national motto. 

I didn’t think I liked mangoes much. I’m from Seattle where mangoes come cubed in the frozen-food section so they taste like mango flavored chalk. The flavor of a mango that has been picked fresh off the tree is far more delicious, but the effort I was expending to slice into it, cut around the pit, and then barely manage to remove three percent of the flesh wasn’t worth the near-dismemberment of a hand. 

My neighbor taught me how to properly eat a mango. She handed me a yellow mango and took one for herself. She rubbed it on her shirt to clean it and gestured that I should do the same. She bit the tip of the mango and peeled it liked a banana—but with her teeth. I did the same, but with far too much aggression, and ended up knocking my front teeth together as I took the initial bite. We ate the mango flesh together in her yard, standing with our feet apart so that the juice wouldn’t drip onto our shoes. 

“What kind of mango is this?” I asked.

“Yellow mango.”

“I mean like... its official name . . .”“Mango Julie and they are the best here in Micoud.” Every village in St. Lucia has a type of mango they claim they grow better than anyone else.

This particular species of mango was sweeter than the others I’d tried. It tasted like it had been crossbred with a pineapple at some point. The meat was lush and didn’t leave strings stuck between your teeth.

“Can you tell me about your other mangoes trees?”

“My girl, I will teach you many things about the bush. Men want a good wife who know about the bush. Come.”

The sun was directly overhead, and I had the sweat to prove it. My neighbor took a cutlass for herself and handed one to me. This was completely unnecessary, as I had no idea how to manage one. We followed no trail as we walked through a grove of papaya trees which I assumed was part of her property. The smell of a dead dog wafted on the breeze, and I tried to bury my nose in my old, thin Gap tank top. 

We passed her three water tanks, which were full from the morning rain. In St. Lucia, having three water tanks is the equivalent to having a three-car garage in the United States.

The damn mosquitos swarmed any part of my body that I was not swatting actively. They buzzed in anticipation, landing on me so gently that I didn’t notice until my skin began to swell and I felt an insatiable need to itch. I swear to God if I catch chikungunya. . . 

We continued past the papaya trees and walked into the jungle which boasted some of the island’s finest produce: bananas, ginger, cinnamon bark, and, of course, a rich variety of mangoes. A family lived just beyond the tree line. The small, square house was very basic with a roof that looked like it wouldn’t survive hurricane season. I could see that there was an outdoor shower, as well as a laundry line that had been tied between two cacao trees. The woman sitting on the front stoop waved to my neighbor and spoke to her in Patois. I did not understand what they were saying.

We resumed our trek, still following no particular path. “Mango Long,” my neighbor said, handing me a skinnier, longer version of the Mango Julie. I peeled the mango as I had been taught, this time without knocking my teeth together. The flesh, which was firm and fibrous, became stuck in my teeth. It was not as juicy as the Mango Julie and had a milder taste. We wiped our hands on our pants and continued.

A mosquito tickled my ankle bone. I swear to God if I catch dengue fever...

After an hour, I started to burn despite putting on sunscreen, and I was getting a dull headache. Another mosquito bite . . . I was afraid that I’d catch Zika.

I was lost there in the jungle, but my neighbor knew our location at all times.

When my lesson in the bush was over, I returned to my house. My backpack had been filled with fruits and various leaves that could be boiled to make tea. I pulled my fresh clothes off the line and went inside to take a bucket bath.

Running water is a real luxury in St. Lucia, and one that I couldn’t always afford on my volunteer stipend. Bucket baths are taken by keeping a large bucket of water in your shower area, and spooning the water from it onto your body with a smaller bucket until you are wet. You soap the necessary parts, and then rinse yourself. The process saves an incredible amount of water.  

After my bucket bath, I made lemongrass tea, which is good for relieving headaches. I also peeled a mango tin kwem, which is good for making the skin and teeth look bright and beautiful. I ate it and then sucked the remains off the pit while sitting on my veranda and watching the sun set.

Two Rhinos in Love

Most couples have pet names for each other like “babe” or “honey.” We affectionately call each other, “rhino.” The rhinoceros is a solitary creature but once in a while, something magical happens and two rhinos will fall in love and form a “crash” or what humans refer to as a family. And that is why we are here today, because two rhinos have fallen in love. 

I fell in love with your magic. Your beautiful combination of passion and creativity. I fell in love with you on the dance floor where you move with the grace of a gazelle. I love you for your huge heart, which defies anatomy since it manages to sit in your chest yet it is truly massive like a rhino’s heart. You are fiercely loyal and patient and romantic. I love that you can make us both laugh even when life isn’t so funny.

It has been hard to find the humor in life during the past year of national protests and then an international pandemic, but we continue to find solace in each other and have managed to grow as both partners and individuals. 

I promise to continue supporting your growth, ambitions, and dreams. I promise to remain committed and to do my best giving you a life with no regret. I promise every day to try and be the best wife I can be. 

In the words of Dave Matthews, “Oh baby, crash into me.” I look forward to the future of being your family.

Zika

Do you want to hear a joke? The United States Peace Corps. 

   When a Zika-type virus was going around my village, we were all convinced we had it. This is because we all lived like heathens—except for the two hours everyone (myself excluded) spent in church every Sunday morning—so, they thought God was punishing them.

I thought I had it, because all my symptoms aligned with what was known about the virus. My muscles ached, and my headache included pain behind the eyes. The thing is, the entire country of St. Lucia could send only five samples per week to Trinidad to be tested, because doing so was expensive. So, the two confirmed cases were the first two positive results sent back from Trinidad.

   I decided to call the Peace Corps medical officer to ask if there was any way I could be tested for the virus. Surely, they could divert a mere fraction of the 500 million USD for Zika, which Obama had just diverted from Ebola, to one test for me. The medical officer’s voicemail informed me that she was off the island to compete on The Price Is Right and advised me to kindly phone the local on-call doctor, which I did.

   He asked about my symptoms, including whether I had a fever. I told him I would check, but I didn’t know how to use the thermometers that had been provided in our medical kits. These kits were issued by the US government to each volunteer and included basic supplies like band aids, over the counter medications (all of which were expired), as well as oral rehydration salts that were, more often than not, used to treat hangovers. The thermometers were probably the type used on the first Lewis and Clark expedition. The doctor didn’t know how to use them either. After sticking the thermometer in a few different places, I gathered that my temperature was normal.

   “Okay. That’s fine. You don’t have a temperature, so you don’t have Zika. According to the Center for Disease Control website . . .” He proceeded to read me the information on the website. I followed along as he read, since I already had the website open in front of me. I asked whether he could do any additional tests. My rash was spreading, my joints hurt, and my eyes were bloodshot.

    “Do you use bug spray?”

   “Yes. Literally twenty-four hours a day. I put it on as soon as I get out of the shower.”

   “You put it directly onto your skin? Is that allowed?”

   “Uh, yeah? It’s the Deet issued in our medical kits.”

   “Oh! The one with the spraying nozzle. That’s a new technology. I guess you can put it on your skin. Well, don’t worry. According to the CDC website, only twenty percent of people catch Zika, so if you have ten people, only two will catch it. And then, it will go away on its own.”

   “Yes, but aren’t there long-term repercussions?”

   “No. Because once you get it, you become immune and will never get it again.”

   “I mean, will this affect me in the future if I ever become pregnant?”

   “I’m not sure what you mean. Compared to dengue and chikungunya, Zika is the least severe. Dengue is the worst, then chikungunya, then Zika. I hope I made you feel better about all of this. I’m sure you are fine. Goodbye!”

   Click!

I swatted at a mosquito flying by and thought, Peace Corps—making simple shit hard since 1961.

A Breakup Letter to My Rice Cooker

My Dearest Zojirushi NS-ZCC10 Neuro Rice Cooker,

         The past month has been one of the best of my life, but I can no longer continue our relationship. This decision is not because I have stopped loving you. It is because as my love for you increases, so does my weight.

         Never will I forget the day I saw you on the shelf at the duty-free store in Baywalk Mall. I was new to the island of St. Lucia and looking for a little comfort in the form of food. You were beautiful: white, shiny, new, and within my budget. With all of their buttons and gadgets, all the other rice cookers seemed too complicated. You were simple and exactly what I was looking for in an appliance.

         You were faithful and dependable, and I loved you for it. You took me from the dark ages, when I slaved over a stove top. I could set you and forget you while I went on with my day.

         You were the perfect comfort food during the election of forty five. You were there for me in a stir-fry. You were there for me in a breakfast bowl. You were there for me in a jambalaya.

         I wouldn’t always add precisely the right amount of water when cooking, but it didn’t matter; you were always there to help fix my mistakes without judgment. I will miss the anticipation of hearing your timer ding and the steam that came tumbling out of your lid. I will miss the way you cook each grain of rice to perfection so I never had to scrape charred remains off the bottom of the pot.

         My best friend, Jasmine, and my Uncle Ben both loved you and will be sad to see you go. Thank you for treating them so well during our time together.

         However, these traits that I loved about you also gave  me pause. How were you able to make perfect rice each time? I’m inclined to believe that you are a witch or a sorcerer. You put a spell on me, and now, I eat only rice. Why eat anything else?! Who cares if I eat anything else?! My thighs, I tell you! My thighs care, which are now half an inch thicker than the day you came home with me.

         You are my past, but you cannot be my future. It is hard to imagine my life without you, and I will miss you. But I need to get my ham hocks under control, and I need to be alone to do it.

         Please don’t try to stay in touch. I can’t remain friends with you, because the temptation to fall into our old habits would be too great. It’s best for us to move on, which I’m sure you will do quickly since you are a quality cooker with a reasonable resale value. I will remember you fondly.

Snap, Crackle, Pop!

Kimberly