Stories here on this page talk about meaningful hobbies in our lives.
More than a passing interest, meaningful hobbies are important parts of our lives. We typically pursue them to reduce stress, stimulate our mind or body, or foster relationships. Sometimes we are successful in sticking with our hobbies, sometimes we are not.
By Collin Sebastian
It feels a little bit weird to say this, but I think, just maybe, that I’m a grownup. I have a job; I pay taxes; I can navigate social situations with comparative good sense and grace. I can even cook and do my own laundry - sorry, ladies, I’m spoken for.
Yet it wasn’t until Andy walked into my life that, for the first time since I was probably eight or nine years old, I found myself contemplating the question, “What does it mean to be a grownup?”
I was so nervous when I met him. I remember sitting in the booth of this little diner, my arms fidgeting, thinking to myself how ridiculous the entire situation was. It was Saturday. The night before, I had dinner with an actual billionaire, comfortably navigating my way through discussions ranging from technology to foreign policy to something which I know absolutely nothing about: football.
And yet, there I was in jeans and a cardigan, absolutely terrified…of a teenager.
I had no idea what to expect when I volunteered to be a "Big Brother," I just remember what my life was like when I was a teenager. Suffice to say, it was not a storybook experience. I originally thought my role would be like the cool uncle. I’d take him out, buy him stuff, and send him home having made his day.
Wow, did I misjudge what I’d be doing.
He walked into the diner, I waved, and he sat down. I offered to get him some coffee. He’s 13. He doesn’t like coffee. Why did I not put that together? I hated coffee at 13. Am I that out of touch? Has it been that long since I was his age? I could feel the anxiety building in my head. I was going to be horrible at this.
“What do you feel like doing today?” I asked him.
“I dunno. What are we supposed to do?” he mumbled back, trying his best to make eye contact but clearly feeling as nervous as I was.
“Well, tell me what you’re up to at school.” I replied.
“Baseball’s starting…” he began to answer. My brain pounced: baseball! I grew up playing baseball! I love baseball! I still keep score by hand. I’ve been to over 200 Yankee games! I. Love. Baseball. I’m going to spend the entire day talking to this kid about baseball and we’ll bond!
“… but I don’t know if I can play.” The second half of his answer broke my train of thought.
His mitt was old and torn. The other kids made fun of him because he couldn’t afford a new one. My heart sank. I remember being in the same situation in school, with a blue-collar family surrounded by white-collar kids. My family managed to climb out of it. His hadn’t.
We went to Big Five and I bought him a mitt, a bat, some gloves, and a ball. I looked at the receipt and it struck me that I spent more last night on drinks than I just had on all his gear. I felt ashamed of myself, of my priorities.
We spent the afternoon just playing catch. It’s amazing how naturally a conversation develops when you’re focused on catching a ball instead of the words coming out of your mouth. We’ve spent at least one afternoon each weekend since throwing that same ball around. It seems at times like I’ve learned more about him than I know about my own family. Watching him go through different experiences has given me a new perspective about my own. I’m less frustrated with how I was back then. I have less regret. I realize it’s a process, and that the most important lessons I learned, I learned through making mistakes.
Now, we catch ball games, too. We sit, eat popcorn, and complain about the designated hitter. But above all, we talk – about anything and everything he has on his mind. I’m his sounding board, the funny “soooo old” dude that tells stories that start with, “You know, when I was your age...” I’m the guy he asks questions to and counts on to ask questions back. I’m perhaps the only adult in his life willing to tell him, “I have no idea.” I forgot how important it is for a kid to see vulnerability in adults, how critical it is for them to understand that it’s okay to be lost, to not have all the answers – that the trick to being a grown up isn’t knowing everything, but understanding how to discover what you’re looking for.
It’s funny, but being around this little lost soul, this teenager stumbling his way into becoming an adult – it’s made me more comfortable with not having everything figured out at my age. And the more he seems how little I have things figured out, the more he’s come to understand that he’s much more normal than I thought, and that he can turn the next 20 years of his life into anything he wants them to be.
I always thought the term “Big Brother” was quaint and overly sentimental. I thought it was a marketing ploy to get people emotionally engaged. I can’t tell you how wrong I was, and I can’t explain to you how much meaning the term “Brother” really has. When I first met him, we both had this image of adulthood in our minds, and I think we both learned that actually growing up is something entirely different. This kid, this now-14-year-old aspiring shortstop, has become this amazing force in my life. He keeps me honest. He keeps me open. He reminds that there’s more to life than my job and my status. I can only hope I’m doing the same for him.
Ultimately, I’ve stopped trying to be his "Big Brother. I’m just his brother, and we’re figuring all this life stuff out together. I’m starting to think that’s what being grown up is really all about, and I realize how much more baseball means to me now than it ever had before.
By Shifra Whiteman
I grew up in a very musical household where music always surrounded us in various ways. Whether or not any of us were actually musically talanted is yet to be determined.
My mother certainly has the genes for it. A Yiddish singer, she co-produced and recorded her own CD of Yiddish children's songs about animals, and as a child, I vividly recall falling asleep to her lullabys and hearing her practicing scales in the shower in the mornings. She also used to play the violin until I was born and stole her attention. My father was a very short kid in high school and, to compensate for his lack of height, chose to play the upright bass. My darling dad was not blessed with the gift of rhythym, so his bass was the giant instrument - living most of its life in a corner next to our bookcases - that came out once in a blue moon until he finally sold it to a friend when I was 11. My grandmother played the piano and tried to teach me, until I quit because she would get upset that my small, five year-old fingers couldn't reach from one end of the instrument to the other.
My family loves music, whether it's 1980s Soviet musicals, Klezmer, German pop from the '30s or ABBA in Spanish (that's right, we have a vinyl of ABBA in Spanish). With all of the notes, versus, and chords in our lives, my parents must have forgotten to sign both my sister and me up for music classes. We used to sing in an all Yiddish children's chourus, but that was the extent of it. My sister used to say she wanted to learn the trumpet, to which we all responded, "You ARE a trumpet!" but our lack of formal training didn't really bother us that much. Instead, my parents enrolled us in ballet and we focused on our artistic talants. I ended up going to high school and college for art and my sister followed.
It wasn't until I graduated from college that I started yearning to learn something new. I had just moved to the frozen tundra that is Chicago and worked as a freelance textile designer and teacher. I would come home from work, thaw out on my couch, watch TV or hang out with my roommates, but I had the desire to find a new and exciting challenge for myself. I made up my mind and decided to learn how to play an instrument. Now, I had a dilema: What did I want to play? Where would I find the money to pay for lessons? How much do instruments cost? I was absolutely clueless.
I finally chose the ukulele. Why? Simple! It has four strings and I found a great deal for a cheap blue uke and case for $25. If I fell in love with it, I could invest more time and money; if I didn't, it wasn't the end of the world and I didn't break the bank. The day it came in the mail I ripped the box open with no idea what to do or even an idea of how it should sound. Thankfully, I had a musically-inclined friend in town who tuned my baby up and taught me the C chord. Over the next few days, I dove into the world of ukulele YouTube videos, practiced incessantly, and drove my roommates crazy. I named my shiny new instrument Tobias (yes, that IS an Arrested Development joke) and I played the same two songs over and over and over and over again.
Once the Chicago winter thawed and the temperature rose, I took Tobias with me everywhere. I would play him outside, pretending to know what I was doing and just practicing anywhere I could, but eventually Tobias broke because, let's be honest, he was $25. I decided to upgrade. I had fallen in love with the instrument, I dabbled with it all the time, and even though I was very limited in what I could play, I enjoyed the challenge of learning something new. My new (and much better quality) uke is a beautiful wooden Lanikai Ukulele that I named "Hermano" (you guessed it - another Arrested Development joke) and he is a beauty and a dream to play. My fantastic boyfriend got me proper lessons at Chicago's Old Town School of Folk Music that introduced me to the world of Hawaiian culture and helped me to actually begin understanding music.
What I realize now is that picking up an instrument helped me learn to become a student again. The drudge of work life is hard, even when work is something you love. It really is wonderful having someone teach you a new skill, cover a new topic, show you a new perspective or introduce you to a new hobby. I am now happy to report that this is my third year playing the ukulele and I love every minute of it. I am proud to say that I have aquired this new skill and that I am still a student in so many ways, which is lucky for me, because there is so much more to learn.
Maybe I'll pick up the banjo next?
By Betsy Uhler
One of my earliest memories is begging my mom to let me quit dance class.
I was six years old, and my younger sister and I had been taking ballet lessons for almost a year. As my mother held the phone in her hand to make the call to the studio, I stood very close by to make sure that business was taken care of. As she was dialing the number, she looked down at me and asked,
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!” I yelled. I had never been so sure of anything in my six long years on Earth.
I don’t remember exactly why I hated dance class, but I distinctly recall the relief I felt once I was assured I’d never have to put on that pink leotard ever again.
My sister quit too and that was that.
About six years later, my family was walking through our neighborhood when we passed a dance studio I hadn’t noticed before. My sister and I peered through the window at the rows of girls plié-ing at the barre and we just knew. This time we wanted to dance. This time it was our decision. And this time there would be no quitting.
When we went in to sign up, the teacher asked how old I was (12) and how old my sister was (9), and told my mother that there might be a chance for my sister to have a career in ballet, but it was too late for me – I was too old to have any hope of a future in dance. We signed up anyway, and we kept dancing. We started taking classes once a week, then twice, three times, then up to six times per week.
We joined the studio’s pre-professional company and performed in recitals and Nutcrackers, working our way up from toy soldiers to candy canes to snowflakes. Performances were always my favorite events of the year – I immediately loved everything about being part of a production, from the rehearsal process, to getting ready backstage, to stepping out onto the stage from the wings.
When I started college, I chose a minor in Dance and took ballet and modern technique classes, as well as Dance Theory and Dance History. I joined the student dance company, IC Unbound, as a dancer, choreographer and executive board member. Being part of the student dance company helped me make new friends, expand my training, and find an outlet for my love of performing.
When I moved to Los Angeles after graduation, I started taking classes and joined a contemporary ballet company. In the fall of 2007, a friend and I founded LA Unbound, our own west coast version of the company we had loved so much in college. For me, this was the perfect opportunity for continuing to perform without the stress of trying to make dancing my full-time career. As an added bonus, I feel honored to be able to provide a non-competitive atmosphere for performers and choreographers to collaborate and create together. In addition to dancing and choreographing, I serve as Director of the company, which has become the largest recreational dance company in Los Angeles.
Last weekend, almost 20 years after I decided to start dancing again, LA Unbound had auditions for its 13th show. As I looked around the studio, it was hard to believe we were working with 34 choreographers and over 140 dancers. I walked around saying hello to everyone I already knew – many of these people have become my closest friends in Los Angeles – and welcomed the dancers who were new to the company.
“This show sounds really fun,” one dancer told me. “I just moved to LA and I think this will be a great way to meet people and have a chance to perform.”
“I’m so excited,” mentioned a long-time dancer in the company, and first-time choreographer. “My parents already have their plane tickets to come out for the show.”
Sorting through all the registration paperwork, I knew that there would be many emails, phone calls, meetings, and rehearsals in my immediate future, and I was looking forward to all of it. Three and a half months from that day, all the dancers and choreographers in the studio, combined with their ideas, talents, and passion, would come together into one large production to be enjoyed by hundreds of friends and family members. Sharing my passion with so many excited and enthusiastic collaborators makes all of the hard work worth it.
As the dancers stretched and warmed up throughout the studio, I got ready to make some pre-audition announcements. “Hello everyone, and thank you for joining us today. I hope you’re ready! Here we go again…”
By Nikki Yeager
My first foray into foreign languages was during 7th grade when I decided that French sounded more exotic than Spanish, and would therefore be the more interesting language to learn. Over the next four years, I became a member of the foreign language club and aced nearly all my exams. Yet at no point did any of it come naturally. Somehow, I still couldn’t speak a word of French without immense effort and there wasn’t a moment of the learning process I actually enjoyed.
Years later, I found myself face-to-face with a native French speaker who uttered one of the most basic phrases: “Bonjour, comment tu t'appelles?” Hello, what is your name?
My brain completely froze. At the precise moment when I finally had the chance to practice my French skills in real life, I couldn't pull forth the proper response. Although I knew enough to understand exactly what the woman said, I could only force out one answer. “Bien, merci, et tu?” Good, thanks. And you?
Clearly, an answer that made no sense.
I blamed my incompetency on my homogenous hometown and lack of foreign language exposure. I blamed it on a deep inability to mask my accent and maybe, just maybe, some sort of foreign language learning disability. How was it that after four years of classes, I couldn’t speak a word in its appropriate place?
Needless to say, it was not part of my plan to marry into an entirely foreign language speaking family. The first few times I met my in-laws, I was convinced they were mumbling random strings of guttural sounds in my direction: there was no way that what they were saying could possibly be considered coherent words in any language.
Apparently that language they were shouting had a name: русский. Or, Russian.
For the sake of making a good impression, I begged my husband to teach me a single word for the next family gathering: simply, “Hello.” Which - as luck would have it - is the most difficult word to pronounce for an American girl who has a terribly grating Midwestern accent: Здравствуйте (zdras-VOY-tye). Three syllables and a whole slew of consonants crammed together. The less formal option привет (pre-vyet) - comparable to “Hey" - sounded like “Priv-et” coming out of my mouth and sounded so ridiculously wrong that my husband had to brace himself against a wall, doubled over in laughter at my absurd attempt at pronunciation.
Still, I struggled on for the first year of our relationship, never being able to pronounce more than a few words. That is, until one day when I noticed a sign written in Russian on a walk through my husband's neighborhood: аптека.
“What does that say?”
The sign read: аптека (ap-tee-yeka), which means "pharmacy" in English. My husband calmly described the different letters and the sounds they made with little faith of my ever retaining what he said.
But after that moment, things changed. I started noticing аптека written everywhere. Something clicked when the language became visual. A hobby was born in a very unlikely person.
I learned the entire alphabet in one train ride from Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn to Union Square, Manhattan. That's all it took to suddenly start reading Russian. Sure, I had no idea what I was reading, but I could sound out just about anything. Words like Здравствуйте became startlingly easy to pronounce. I started carrying a Russian language book with me and scouring the pages for new vocabulary while waiting for meetings or riding the subway. My apartment overflowed with flash cards of words that my husband could barely read himself. I bought children’s books written in the language at a rate that threatened to cripple my checking account. During meetings, I now make my notes in Russian, interlacing English words when my vocabulary fails me (which is often).
Now, I can finally understand, if not intelligibly respond to, my in-laws during Russian conversations.
Four years of being immersed in the language and I’m still hilariously bad at forming sentences that are both comprehensible and grammatically correct, but I'm steadily improving. And instead of merely going through the motions like I did for As on French tests, I spend my time trying to actually think in Russian, which has made a huge difference.
I continue studying the language every day with the hope of singing lullabies to my future children and finishing a Dostoyevsky novel in his native tongue. But more than anything, my hobby has allowed me to see the world differently. I was even able to read about the Jewish population while visiting Odessa…in Russian. I’ve been able to build relationships that I could have never managed without it, and can understand my husband’s past, and present, in a way I never did before.
There is nothing in the world that could mean more to me than that.
By Josh Kodish
Friday: a day every teacher looks forward to. The well-deserved reward for a long week on your feet doing the unglamorous, often thankless, always demanding task of educating young minds. Actually, if it were as noble as that sentence makes it sound, maybe I wouldn't feel as mentally and physically exhausted by the time the last bell of the week finally sounds and the last student finally walks out.
And, so... Friday. An evening to come home, collapse, do nothing. Or, you could even do something, as long as it's not work, and as long as you are in bed early and sleep-in late. Yet, what do I do on most Friday nights? I start working again as soon as I get home, and stay up all night, straight through until 6am Saturday morning... baking.
No, not meth. Nor am I on meth. In a way, that would make more sense than the truth of the situation. In truth, I am baking bread. Slow rising, all natural, sourdough bread. The ancient staff of life that has sustained generations. The food staple that I personally (sorry, gluten haters) could never live without. The hobby that is taking over my life!
Looking back, I can see that my baking destiny was inevitable. This is not a new obsession, as I was teethed (literally) on bagels and brought up with a deep love of all kinds of bread; from Wonder to rye, from hot dog buns to sourdough baguettes, from tortillas to naan. If it's bread, wrapped in bread, contains bread, or is a baked good of any kind, I am there. I am a carb-aholic from way back. I love it all, and, over the years, have dabbled in baking it all. My dad always dabbled, too. There were baking videos made of me "assisting" in the kitchen when I was eight-years-old. It's also a big part of my culture. The foundation of Jewish cuisine seems to be carbs built on a layer of carbs held in place by more carbs. The Jewish deli is in my DNA.
In the last few years, however, this long-held obsession grew like a well-proofed dough in a hot oven (see what I did there?), rising to the point of bursting at the seams. No longer was I happy merely as a consumer and occasional amateur baker. I needed something more serious, something nerdier. So, I started a starter. A stinky, bubbly, goopy sourdough starter I named Morty. Yes, I gave him a name and fed him regularly like a child. Yes, I wrote about him in the online dating profile that (strangely, luckily) attracted my now wife. I started to think of myself as, if not quite a father, at least a professional nurturer. Every few days I would take Morty out, feed him, encourage him, watch him grow, and use him to make old-world style crusty country loaves.
Ever since then, I have only fallen deeper down the rabbit hole of artisan baking as I try to perfect my craft. Morty has been alive for over three years now, and for the past two years (thanks to my wife's inspiration and urging to follow my passion... again, crazy lucky) I have been staying up every Friday night mixing, shaping, and baking about 28-32 loaves to sell at the local farmers market on Saturday morning. I might get about an hour of sleep before I have to go to the market, and the house will be a flour-dusted mess in my wake. An entire room in our not-large duplex is occupied by a 20 qt. mixer and professional, stainless steel kitchen prep tables. When I am not baking (and not at the day job... ok, sometimes even at the day job), I am daydreaming about it, blogging about it, or reading about it. I am officially part of the online artisan bread-nerd community.
Is it passion or psychosis that compels me to do it? My wife might be tolerating it now, but will she like having her house turned into a bakery every week from now on, until death do us part? Will this hobby grow out of the house and lead me into a new career? Is there actually much difference between passion and psychosis?
These are the questions I'm asking myself as I try to make a baking business plan for the future. I don't have the answers. But, there is one thing I have learned from my time as a semi-professional hobbyist. There is nothing so fulfilling as making something with your own two hands and then knowing that other people appreciate your work and benefit from it in some way. And if they pay you for it, so much the better! It is a very direct, uncomplicated pleasure, unique in a world of complications. It is very special and humbling to know that my bread is part of someone's meal, someone's family.
Knowing the bread, born of my long night's labor, will be enjoyed by others keeps me going on the Friday nights when a part of me would rather be on the couch doing nothing. I feel like I am finally catching on to this wisdom that craftsmen and women must have known for thousands of years. More than that, I need to bake in order to refocus and restore my creative energies; in order to work the stress of the week away. In other words, as soon as my hands hit dough, a smile hits my face.
By Amy Kaufman Burk
Until age 7, reading was my secret.
Within the community of my ‘60s artsy elementary school, reading before 2nd grade was considered hazardous, a threat to free-flowing creativity. The teachers loudly praised Willy’s talent with a paintbrush, Marsha’s coordination in dance, Jeff’s gift at charades, Lorelei’s ability to sing. I wasn’t about to advertise my embarrassingly persistent craving for books.
Today there seems to be an unofficial Race To Read, with parents of preschoolers urging their toddlers to sound out Dr. Seuss. But decades ago, in my private grammar school, filled with film industry offspring, academic learning was viewed as a potential block to the artistic process.
My “unhealthy enjoyment” of math had already raised red flags in first grade. So I wrote my own math books at home, and stashed the worksheets in my T-shirt drawer. I had no difficulty hiding my admiration for the balance of numbers on either side of the equal sign, my awe at the concept of infinity. I liked math and I respected math; but I wasn’t in love.
Reading was different. I needed to read. I grew up in a home with tens of thousands of books, and I tried (and failed) to read all of them. I raided my parents’ shelves for their cache of children’s literature. I tread the paths of The Secret Garden, explored The South with Huck Finn, smiled through The World of Pooh.
Finally, I reached age 7, the magic number: I could officially learn to read at school. My teacher wrote on the chalkboard — “Cat” “Hat” “Bat” “Rat.” I reminded myself to reign it in. If I sat quietly, then maybe in a month, I could visit the school’s library. Maybe, if I got really lucky, my teacher wouldn’t get mad if I checked out a chapter book. Nobody had to know I’d been reading for years.
Then Hope raised her hand. “How do you spell ‘girl’?” Before I remembered, I heard myself answer, “G-I-R-L.” The class stared.
“How long have you been reading?” my teacher asked quietly.
My lower lip trembled, and I couldn’t speak, imagining the worst possible punishment: she’d forbid me from reading. But my teacher was kind. In spite of her concern that my creative potential had been compromised – a concern that would follow me through graduation – she hugged my shoulders. “It’s okay,” she calmed me. “These things happen sometimes.” I melted into her arms. I was flawed, but forgiven.
Over the next month, she fed me Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House On The Prairie series. I forged ahead with Nancy Drew and her astonishing life, stumbling into a new mystery every day of the week – all with enviable blonde hair, two ever-present girlfriends who were unfailingly content in her shadow, and an uber-hunky boyfriend who worshipped her and then conveniently disappeared from the text until his presence was required for a date, a prom, or a moment of adoration. From the girl-sleuth, I launched into A Wrinkle In Time, The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes, and the list continues to this day.
I emerged from hiding. I could finally publicly admit my fascination with a curious phenomenon: black print on white paper could take me by the heart, or by the throat, and pull me into an intensely emotional journey, cover to cover.
As an adult, when I began to write my novel, I was told that with the advent of texting, instant messaging, Snapchat, and All-Things-Tech, many teenagers were no longer interested in books.
I accept that as a challenge.
If I’m going to call myself a writer, then I’m responsible for creating a novel that compels people to read. It’s my job to write each sentence in a way that propels the reader into the next sentence. I wrote my book for adults and teens, for book lovers, and for those who have never made it through a novel. I hope all types of readers and potential readers will give my book a chance. If you provide an open mind, then I’ll provide the story. Once you read the first paragraph, you can choose to try the second paragraph, or you can put it away forever. If I don’t catch your interest, the fault is mine, not yours.
Maybe you won’t like the book; maybe you will. Or maybe you’ll fall in love, and step into a lifetime of literary journeys. What have you got to lose? The downside is a bit of your time; the upside is infinite.
Amy Kaufman Burk published her first novel, Hollywood High: Achieve The Honorable, in support of the LGBTQIA community, and as a voice against bullying. www.hollywoodhighbook.com
By Elisa Adams
I am an Albanian-American: first generation on my father's side and second on my mom's. Since I was a young girl, I used to watch my grandmother, Nana, make baklava. I loved those times. When the bakalava pan came out, I knew I was in for a treat: at least three hours of undivided attention with my Nana, where we would talk and talk while she put together the baklava.
We would go shopping for the ingredients together, and as she didn't drive, I was her personal chauffeur. Our grocery list was simple: filo dough, butter, walnuts, sugar, and lemon juice. With the exception of making the filo dough (which is the most time-consuming part of the process), she did almost everything by hand.
Back at home, she would very carefully put each ingredient out on the table. She defrosted the filo dough and covered it with a moist towel so as keep it from drying out, and then got the butter melting on a very reduced flame in which the sugar water and lemon juice mixture went.
While that was all in process, Nana would gather her necessary equipment for the mashing of the nuts: the part I loved the most of all.
She would get her wooden mortar and pestle and two dish towels, one for her lap and one to use as a cover so the nuts wouldn't jump out. There would be a bowl for the crushed nuts and a bowl for the uncrushed ones. It took about two hours to go through one pound, and during that time we would have the most glorious conversations. We would catch up on all the activities and exciting news, talk about our lives, and have her offer her quiet, non-judgmental advice. Over the years, discussions ranged from why one of my friends wouldn't play with me at the playground to how to deal with the frustrations of marriage. She was my rock. We shared a deeper connection than I did with my own parents. Needless to say, I cherished this time with her. It was ours, an uninterrupted, glorious heart-to-heart connection.
Since my Nana died, I have continuted the tradition of making baklava, and when I was 22, my mom's dear friend asked me to come spend the weekend with her in NY and teach her how to make baklava. I was so excited! I really loved her, and this would be a wonderful opportunity to relive our great times together and be together alone...and uninterrupted.
I began as Nana and I did: defrosting the filo dough, readying the butter and making the syrup mixture. And then the time came that I was waiting for....walnut crushing and conversation! I asked Cynthia for her mortar and pestle.
She replied, "My what?"
"Your mortar and pestle, you know what we use to crush the nuts..."
"Oh!" She said, "I have a Cuisinart."
"What is that?" I asked.
"It's this marvelous invention: you put the nuts in and it will crush them in just a few seconds."
She quickly took the nuts from my hand, tossed them into the Cuisinart and turned it on. Before I could count to 20, they were done. She looked over at me and said, "See, isn't it great?"
I was sitting down now, with my head and in my hands and sobbing spontaneously and uncontrollably. Between the tears I sputtered, "This...is...my...favorite time...I usually...get to...catch up...with you...and talk...Now that...is ...G-O-N-E!"
Modernization has changed many things for the better. In this instance, it failed. I still have my Nana's mortar and pestle and from time to time, when I want to share that special, uninterrupted time with someone, I take it out and crush the nuts the old fashioned way.
