Chop Therapy

When I got home and the front door closed, I wanted the world to stay out. In the course of one day I had been jabbed and soaked by the umbrellas of careless pedestrians, been bristled by the rush hour crowds both to and from work and temporarily lost my mobile. I headed to the kitchen to work off some stress, keys still in hand.

First, some onions,yellow and small and naturally my eyes teared as I sliced. I let the teardrops streak down my cheek, some dropping onto the chopping board. With bleary eyes, I put down my knife and pick up the peeler. I strip parsnips and potatoes of their skin. On one particularly large Russet, I get carried away, peeling into the starchy flesh, getting through layers of the day's frustrations.

Next carrots, a whole bunch of them. I began by slicing them into coin-sized rounds, then chopping those in half, then dicing that even more finely. My knife finds the discarded green tops of the carrot bunch and I slay that next.

A few ribs of celery and several cloves of garlic and I have no more room on my cutting board. What was I cooking anyway? A stew or soup? Dinner would be hours in the making.....

Then, I realized, I wasn't even hungry.

My hunger had been worked out in the process, the day's misgivings diced into futility. Whew.

If you actually want to make a vegetable stew, check out this recipe .

A Writer's Posture

The spine curves grossly, the shoulders slouch sloppily The neck is extended and twisted like an gangly ostrich pecking for seeds on the ground. The stomach creases and fold, taking on the back's burden as it gives in and curls over.

Clutched in the creative flow, the physical body is easily forgotten. Yet in that state, body hunched and gnarled, the writing stretches long and wide and graceful.

Only when you snap from the streak does the body make itself known. Then you may realize just how strained is, how clipped the shoulders feel and hear the crack of each cramped vertebra as it unfurls.

The body moans and you coax it with the promiseof a yoga class or a massage. Still, you smile reading over what you've just created, content to sacrifice the body when in an inspired state.

What the Future Holds

Caro, my cheese colleague, is heading back to France next week. I am sad to see her go since she shared my passion for cheese. She could also sell anything to anyone because of her French accent.

We wander into the dim and lounge-like 12th House Restaurant and Bar in Notting Hill. The name has to do with the houses in astrology, the theme behind the restaurant's decor and rumors that the owner is availabe for tarot readings.

It is late when we arrive. The staff are through serving others, it's time to help themselves. The patio garden faintly hums with a few remaining diners, but Caro and I are the only ones in the bar area.

We chat about what work has been, but more importantly, what is next. Surely, our careers are not made of cheese? Perhaps if the owner was around, we would be interested in a psychic reading...... Our server appears.

She doesn't offer a glimpse of the future but instead the bill: it's closing time. She is not pushy, though, even asks Caro her star sign. Then she hands her the appropiate personality card for her sign. She hands me the 'Gemini' card - how did she know?

"Is it true for you?" she asks, glancing at the cards in our hands. Both of us nod. "I'm surprised how easily people agree, even when they arne't into horoscopes. Except Scorpios - they always protest, make a fuss."

With that insight, we head for the door having already stayed too late. I have forgotten to ask how she guessed my sign. As the lock clicks I remember the tatto on the nape of my neck, a Gemini symbol.

I chuckle at my eagerness to be enchanted by the night. My future may not be as mystifying as I make it out to be.

I remember I do have the symbol tattoed