small change

bar hopping for sushi

I haven’t been out to restaurants much these last few months, for the obvious reason. But the spouse and I ended up sampling the fares of two sushi restaurants right across the street from each other in San Rafael, CA this past weekend. The first one we ventured to because it was named as the best for some category or other. Perhaps sushi, but it couldn’t have been for Japanese food, because the title for that goes to the marvelous-but-pricey Sushi Ran in Sausalito – my mouth is watering just writing about it. Anyway, we went to check out Sushi To Dai For, early Friday night. and I mean early, like around old-folks early-bird-special early.

The restaurant was already almost full, but we didn’t mind being seated at an awkward table near all the foot traffic and a hot spot for echoes of every sort, from clanging dishes to children's wails Shortly after perusing the menu and getting excited about the prospect of eating black cod, I was informed by our waitress that the cod hasn’t been available for some two weeks. Two weeks? And it’s still on the menu? Hope spawns strange metaphors, all food for thought, but not for that other appetite.

Maybe because I was expecting too much from this experience what I got wasn’t exactly to “dai” for. It was good, that is true. The food that is. But the noise and the drafty place where we sat just didn’t make me want to go back. The biggest turn-off for me was that when I asked for match tea, I got a blank stare from our server. She didn’t seem to have a clue about it and suggested green tea. I accepted the offer, but got some hot water with a trace of green taste in it.

The spouse and I agreed to try the restaurant across the street, which first thought might have been our destination that night, the Umi Sushi and Grill, which seemed nearly empty when we walked past it on our way to the hopping scene at Sushi To Dai For.

And, the next night we did. The food was good, but what made it excellent was the service and the sense that you were truly a guest of people who cared not just about your satisfaction, but also about their relationship to the food they prepare. The owner-chef is a surfer in his time off – and this is obvious from the restaurant’s décor. His wife makes the best sesame ice cream, which I sampled at the end of the meal with my matcha tea, served ceremonial style.

Not that we have the funds to spare on dining out, but I am going back to try some of the other tempting items from the menu, with matcha tea, of course.

the digital bond

This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I was watching the Today show, as is my habit, and there was a segment on "digital moms." Some of the usual suspects, such as Heather Armstrong of Dooce fame was there to share the joys and pitfalls of living large online, which was all and well. What got me, though, was the unbridled enthusiasm of the crowd from CafeMom that extolled the virtues of being connected 24/7. Twittering during labor was mentioned a few times, and that's exciting, I suppose, but what it neither exciting nor very cool, at least in my eyes, was the video of the mom with the infant at her breast, the infant gazing at her, and she, busy typing away at her laptop with ne free hand, and her eyes riveted on the screen.

I wondered if her infant could appreciate his mom's joy of connecting, considering that he had no social network of his own just yet. You know, the mother's gaze, which was redirected at a screen, filled with the words of others whose gaze was equally unavailable. But yes, there was that feeling of support from everywhere, far and wide, even if up close, there is no one to mirror the pure joy of it.

I would have Twittered this, but alas, it's a thought that took more than 140 characters to describe. As for really talking about it, forget it! With time gone to the vocalization practices of birds and the hordes of friends scattered across loosely interescting digital social hubs, who has the inclination, let alone the focus, to follow an idea down a deep foxhole, past the kind of roots that can keep trees in place for eons?

always the bridesmaid

The yoga teacher, subbing for our regular teacher, who is in India, told me that it was fun to have me in her class these weeks. She said: “You are such a good student.” I was so flattered at first – until I asked myself the proverbial one-hand clapping question:  if I am a good student, that is, good at doing student-like things, does that mean that I am also good at practicing yoga, that is that my practice of yoga is, well, yoga?

And you can see where this line of questioning goes. Certainly not straight and over the horizon, but coiling around itself in a frozen here and now, circle after circle, until the mind becomes like a stressed string, ready to bounce and swing wildly at the slightest touch. Not the mind of a yogi, or even of a good student of yoga!

listless

The list was standard issue for a Tuesday. There was to be little variation in the routine that included plenty of exercise for both body and mind. The morning went well, with items ticked off the list. Even the pride and satisfaction, professional witnesses to this ceremony meant to mark, if not a life well lived, at least a life of chores done, were in their routine form.

Then, shortly after thunder hit, something went amiss. Blame it on the weather. Or blame it on last week’s worries, but it became obvious that pride and satisfaction were both done for the day – as was the list.

What remained of the day was certainly not on the list. All at once, I became listless…

And so my core had forgo some conditioning, and a number of Spanish verbs will have to wait their turn to be conjugated by me, while I enjoyed doing nothing, except some knitting, along with generous cups of tea and some food.