Colors, Vegetables, Rain

Broccoli reminds me of nothing

I was chopping peppers for a salad this afternoon and something about the colors – the pale green, thick orange and bright yellow reminded of the feel of a day, years ago. Eating a burrito. At first, I thought this memory was in Philadelphia, but the more I think about walking around and the way the streets were laid out, I think it was actually Harrisburg. How could chopping colored capsicum remind me of burritos, you ask. I think it was the stark shiny colors, the way the crisp peppers settled next to the wet beauty of a sliced cucumber and an opaque artichoke heart. It reminded me of the bright strand of triangular plastic flags emphatically pointing down to the long row of fillings options, box after box of multi-colored beans, salsas, meats, onions, cheeses. The unusual and least popular options in smaller bowls near the end of the counter; shriveled bacon, raw peppers, tiny spicy tamales, sliced pickles, cucumbers, neon yellow mashed corn salsa.

                The more I thought about it, the more that day shook itself out from the folds of my shaky memory. I was with an intriguing friend and the intriguing friend of my friend. We sat outside under the watchful protection of another thick rainbow of snapping plastic flags and tried to outdo each other in sheer will-based food consumption. Our burritos must have been five pounds apiece. At that time in our lives, we all valued quantity and cheapness of the food over quality and healthiness, and those hefty Mexican food bullets delivered on both counts. Despite our best efforts at unnecessary gluttony, I’m pretty sure we all carried little lumps of tinfoiled leftovers through the streets that day.

Actual size

                Earlier that day, relaxing at the friend-of-a-friend’s house. It was beautiful and impeccable, an old farmhouse built on a scale so foreign to me that I’ll never forget my dim-witted revelation, made after ducking through every low doorway in the place; these friendly, tiny people bought this two hundred year old home because, not in spite of, the scale of the building. The low ceilings were complimented by the short chairs. The mirror, set close over the small bathroom sink, was tilted down because it was aimed toward their comfort zone. I practically had to kneel to check my face in that mirror, and I thought about the height of my kitchen cabinets, the storage space above my closet that I reach into without using a step stool. This (belated) train of thought lent a Lilliputian feel to the day, and later, as I traveled down the streets behind my friends, I looked at the spaces above their heads, feeling enormous, but not really in a self-conscious way.

                I thought about that beautiful house once later on while watching a show about actual little people and noticing the way they had modified their house to suit their needs. Tiny kitchen counters squatted so close to the floor that a person of normal height would have to sit on the ground to prepare a meal. My first thought, as a tall person, was how very inconvenient those modifications must be to their regular-sized children. Then I thought about the house in Harrisburg and realized how inconvenient everything else must be for the little people.

My actual size, and also why I stopped wearing white

                Following along the strange paths of the never-ending rabbit hole of associative memory, I thought about the other times I had spent time with these friends together. I remembered exploring Washington, D.C. in the rain, curiously examining the construction of a sideways-folding futon in her dorm room, meeting many old friends and many new friends-of-friends. Once, we ate at a Japanese restaurant with a motley crew of close friends and new associates, and the colors of a seaweed salad exploded out of the mist that covered the entire rainy day to entertain our table with its brilliant greens, blues, purples and reds. We walked what felt like miles through a raging thunderstorm to seek out an ice cream shop that ‘would change our lives.’ The purveyors of magical treats turned out to be closed by the time we swam that far down the street. I remember running across intersections, battling my broken umbrella, laughing and complaining at the same time. That jaunt ruined my favorite-ever pair of sneakers, non-sporty black Nine Wests that reminded me of sleek supermodels sprinting down New York avenues in couture dresses and sloppy sweatshirts, late for their call times during Fashion Week. I felt small complaining about the loss of the shoes, like a bad sport who would chintz out on an adventure, but I said it anyway. It is rare that I actually care about a piece of clothing, but I do feel like I’ve learned my lesson now. Run through knee-high storm-soaked streets, Elizabeth. The shoes would have worn out before this memory has, no matter what. 

My short friend's shoes were fine.

                We went into a bookstore and everyone picked up a different book. We opened to a random page and each read a line, going in a circle, trying to piece together a story from the lines we had been assigned by chance. Everyone laughed. Years later I bought the book I read from at a library sale. It was horrible. I was jolted by a pleasant recognition whenever I came across one of the lines I used, though. I could pick them out, uselessly, but I can’t remember the lines I write in my head at night without groping for a pencil.

                Later that night, just the three of us again, loping across the college parking lot with one inefficient umbrella, almost immune to the poor weather by then. My clothes were plastered to my skin like a wetsuit, and even when we got inside, my hair dripped down my glasses as if my body had internalized the rhythm of the rain. In the lobby of her dorm we shook ourselves like dogs and I caught a look that passed between them. I wondered if they were together, and if so, why I wasn’t supposed to know. When I starting paying attention, I knew they were together and felt silly for not noticing earlier. I wasn’t jealous, just annoyed at the sizable shift in dynamics so late in the game. That’s not what I remember most about that day, though. The seaweed salad floats in my mind’s eye, captured forever like a bright spiky painting, and the water licks at my calves, the dark gullies eddying around my steps, soaking my pants, ruining my shoes, stalling nearby cars, denying me ice cream.