A Berkeley kind of day: first, manning the desk at the Berkeley Food Pantry, praying that a sweet overweight man who had a heart attack three weeks ago didn't have one on the premises hauling his food out the door. Then battling a client on the phone who insisted she was allowed to come for food 2-3 times a month, not just once. People snapped up small bottles of donated dry shampoo. The only child visitor was a one-year old with a pacifier who eyed me warily and wore what looked like a camouflage onesie but was really all-over giraffes. A young woman with multiple piercings came in as a new client, pregnant, living in a shelter with her daughter.
A bracing contrast to this: For dinner Jerry and I went to Chez Panisse upstairs and had a sublime, understated but utterly delicious dinner for my birthday. The people to the right of us talked languidly about their last trip to rural France. They were replaced by two youngish men who ordered an expensive bottle of wine and a big plate of oysters. One had been in Milan last week for a three-day business meeting. Jerry and I didn't talk much because I was too busy listening and eating: gem lettuce with creme fraiche, halibut, and rhubarb crisp with a ball of very rich vanilla ice cream. It did not pass me by how fortunate I am to be able to have a celebratory dinner like this. No, it did not.
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