Last week I was in San Francisco briefly, and squeezed in some time with two of the swellest, loveliest people in the world: my niece E and her husband N. E wasn’t able to join us for dinner, so N and I met in Berkeley and enjoyed a delicious dinner at a Himalayan restaurant. No, the title of this post is NOT quoting from the yummy noises we made while eating.
After dinner, we went back to their apartment to wait for E to come home, where N did homework while I began performing CPR on my resume (it pulled through and is now making its way across the greater metropolitan area.) It was a timelessly quiet evening, with the sounds of N sketching at his easel, the tippity tap of my fingers on the keyboard, the grinding of the gears in my head, and a steady stream of jazz coming from the stereo. At one point, I asked N what the music was. “Duke Ellington.”
I immediately asked if N had ever heard Ellington’s version of the The Nutcracker Suite. He had not. I know, this is not seasonally appropriate music, given that we’re in the abstemious season of Lent, and not the comparatively lush season of Advent. But sometimes, in service of the greater good, boundaries have to be crossed. N and E, this is for you, with thanks for a delightful evening, and abiding gratitude for the fact of your existence, as individuals and as an embodiment of what love can look like.
Uh. Uh. Ah-ah uh uh UH!