On shopping

Racketing through the dusty city-town with young adults, surrounded by and saturated with music that has begun to sound like an asylum full of whining inmates armed with drums and chains, everyone who is actually in my company is lost in their own sphere. Silent beneath the din.

Excess noise, of which there is plenty, pours out the windows, attracting the attention of our companions on the road. I must appear to be extremely patient.

In fact, I am on a mission.

In the capable hands of our driver, we park grandly.

We synchronize our watches.

We enter the mall and disperse.

They head for the shops where they will efficiently and sensibly scour the racks for daring and becoming new clothes.

I must give myself a pep talk for this. Pledging to make a true effort to stay on task, to feel the fabrics, to compare, to make note of the workmanship, to not stray into the maternity section or lingerie where all the impractical things are, to keep conversations with the clerks on the subject of clothing and line and suitability and to refrain from other common interests as may arise.

First off, however, I discover a young girl asleep on the settee in her small shop. She commences to tell me about her late evening, her early morning, her chronic illness, her boyfriend; we proceed to discuss children in general, the heat, personal finances, greed as the ruination.

I leave empty-handed. My concentration is shot, my quest trivialized.

I am hopeless. Defeated. A fashion coward carrying books.

I head for the benches to blend.

Now, however -- not at all to my surprise -- unfolding before me, the artless pageant of just plain people passes my discrete corner.

Wonderful!

Each like a dancer carrying their own internal music, passing me, so beautifully casual, touching with their feet their own reflections on the tiles, chopped and reassembled into impressionistic mirrors, muted, shining up, shining down.

A young man inspects the cologne. He speaks directly to it. Things are looking up.

A very tall one glides by in monstrous, endless, new white shoes like large birds on his feet.

A teenaged girl addresses her mother, gives a quick hug and I am moved to tears.

A general hubbub of sugared popcorn, buzzing florescence, frail coffee, baby uproars, flouncy gestures, highly improper embraces, little household lost and found dramas, glittery light, flash, bop, investment possibilities fills the scene.

No wonder people are getting tired. It is like a siege.

Slowly then the noises hollow out. The luckiest children are the first to leave. The atmosphere cools in their absence.

My gang reappears.

Off we go, out into the other world where storms and heat are painted onto the dome of the dominant sky.

I will return home with my wardrobe unimproved. Victorious, nevertheless, perversely satisfied and I shall offer you a formula for the simplest fare, Rosemary Marinade for poultry or lamb.

Combine in a blender:

1/2 C. olive oil

1/2 C. lemon juice

4 tsp. salt

4 tsp. crushed rosemary leaves

1 tsp. pepper

3-6 cloves fresh garlic

Whiz until emulsified. Add:

1 sprig fresh rosemary

Refrigerate until ready to use. It will separate naturally, so just shake well before using.

Mild white wine vinegar or rice vinegar can be substituted for some or all of the lemon juice.

To barbecue, marinate skinned poultry for about an hour and use the sauce as a baste.

Have your feast outside with the crickets and the smooth air under the starry sky, with your favorite faces lit by candlelight.