Walking down the street in NYC, I notice a woman putting red lipstick on while looking at her reflection in her handheld mirror. She’s homeless, living out of the bags that encircle her. Oblivious to her surroundings, she holds the lipstick in her hand and, with determination, she starts moving it around and around her lips, causing the definition to disappear. After pausing to carefully check her image in her mirror, she continues applying the red color.
The motion feels eerily familiar. I remember taking my mother’s red lipstick and, while looking in her mirror, I tried to mimic the movement I’d watched her do so often. I rubbed the red around my lips and felt it soften as it glided over itself. The sensation was exciting, full of wonder and mystery that I longed to be a part of. I looked in the mirror at my reflection and tried to imagine what I would look like all grown up.
My attention goes back to the woman on the street and I wonder if she too is looking in her mirror, trying to imagine herself at a different time.
I smile, grateful for the memory she brought back and for the connection we had through an act of femininity.
Comments will be approved before showing up.
I was with my mother in her room at her new abode.
As I sat facing her, I began to read last week’s post, Cooking through a Child’s Eyes, about the time we baked a marble cake together. I wondered if she remembered the event that. . .
The first time I saw magic happen in the kitchen I was six years old and wanted to help my mother cook. I’d follow her every step and move, clinging like her shadow, struggling to see what she was doing. Inevitably, she’d turn around and trip over me. It wasn’t optimum for either of us, so when she told me we were going to bake a special cake and I could help … “there is a surprise at the end,” she promised…
I beamed with joy…
Cooking is full of mystifying moments that are…
The last time I took a train that had a dining car was right after I graduated from high school.
Walking into the dining car, I was flooded with memories of childhood trips. It looked exactly as I remembered: the tables were set with clean white tablecloths, cloth napkins, china, silverware, and gleaming glasses—just like in an old movie.
I was excited and hungry for French food. My first taste was . . .