A post on the Best of Craigslist reminded of how little parts of conversation can be nuggets to hold on to forever, ready to be pulled out whenever needed. I've been pretty darn lucky to have been in the midst of many an interesting conversation recently. A sampling:

"Is it worth your life to destroy a boy band?"

Think about it; it's actually quite tough to answer.

"Which animal did God sacrifice for your bag?"
"Maybe a zebra?"
"No, more likely a goat."

If you've seen my bag you'll get what it means.

"What's your backup plan?"
"Jumbo."

You may get Jumbo if you're from the Peachy state.

"Wouldn't it be priceless if Laura left George for Condi?"

On the current state of political affairs.

"Chingy!"

Damn do I love Chingy. He is a hip hop artist who's getting a lot of radio play at the moment. But forget the music, the name Chingy is what it's all about. Add late night cosmic bowling, black lights, disco ball and all, and Chingy is the shizzle.

Have you ever had an afternoon where you sit at a kitchen table and easily converse with someone as they go about fixing something to eat? And it's sort of cloudy outside with a few snow and rain showers but warm inside and you feel like you could while away every afternoon this way?

An afternoon two days ago took me back to being a kid again and sitting in our blue, orange and white kitchen in Z. while my mum and kaki cooked, talking to them or just playing with Malaika or one of the other pups. I would come home from school after having done extra-curricular activities and would find my mum or kaki or both readying something for our 5 o'clock tea and nasto.

But back Tuesday: Lowell and I went hillwalking (I prefer this phrase to hike) that morning to House Mountain. It was quite cool weatherwise and I felt a chill despite having on three layers. We tried a different trail this time, one that was quite steep, and I started panting 15 minutes into the walk, but I seemed to have set a good pace, so I was glad. We were the only folks on House Mountain; it seemed like that mornng there was ours alone.

On our drive back we saw so many beautiful sycamores and oaks among the farms standing regally against the grey sky, their branches all mangled and foresaken with intricacy and character. Once home, I sat at the table as Lowell prepared some of his fine pizza. As he pattered about kneading the dough and stirring the sauce, we talked about a million and one things, and I sensed the return of that comforting feeling I used to have in Z.

Yes, I'm sure the feeling returns to you when you bake on a rainy day. But if you haven't experienced it lately, you ought to somehow. It took me back to my days of being a kid who happily spent her afternoons sitting in the kitchen rambling on to her mother and aunt.