Dear A.A.,
I wanted to write you fanciful stories, and write about the experiences of my life.
And my siblings’.
And my parents’, and children’s.
I wanted to write all about my dreams, how they shift and curve and funhouse-reflect my waking life woes and worries.
I wanted to do that, but I don’t know how.
Instead I will write and tell you about going to finally register my (5 years out of date) car with my (three-years’) new state of residence, and then finding parking, and getting a Buddha bowl instead of my usual Massaman curry.
I will tell you about the edamame beans, how they come hot on a cold bowl, still in their tough and fibrous pods. How you just squeeze them, and the side will split, and a beautiful wet spring-green colored bean tumbles out onto the rice and avocado and carrot shreds.
It was good with peanut sauce. Not as good as Massaman, but good. And good with a Sapporo beer, which I pronounce with an accent — although, probably the wrong one — and which the server pronounced with a simple American accent, which sounds accentless to us.
Love,
J.M.
We Owls 