One gray, rainy Friday in November, in the middle of cleaning out my upstairs hall closet, I had a small epiphany as I tossed out a handful of red Christmas candles—now faded to a mottled, oily pink.

“I am powerless over scented wax, and my shelves have become unmanageable.”

We arrived on a warm mid-October afternoon in Dubrovnik, the “Pearl of the Adriatic.” As we stepped off the bus at Ploče Gate, the scent of pines and salt air wafted over us with the warm breeze. My mind was suddenly filled with images—memories of somewhere I’d never been before.

When I was a boy, the city pool was where we played Marco Polo—the only game where you could win by listening instead of seeing. One kid, eyes shut tight, would call “Marco,” and the rest of us, scattered and laughing, would answer “Polo,” voices bouncing off water and sky. You learned to tell who was who by sound alone—the pitch of a giggle, the splash that gave away your cousin’s location.

My first encounter with a bidet was in 1985. I was a teenager at the time and my mother and I were on a two-week trip to Spain sponsored by my high school Spanish club. We had just checked into our hotel room in Madrid after a long overnight flight from Chicago.

It all began with our annual plumbing inspection. We probably spend more for it than we should, but the plumbers at the company we use are always courteous, punctual, and get the work done correctly the first time.

THE SECOND THURSDAY CIRCLE OF GRACE

Cooking with Grace:

Recipes for the Spiritually Overdone

Vol. 1, Issue 7 • Mimeographed with Love

and Cooking Sherry

If Janice Higdon asks me to “return thanks” at these monthly luncheons one more time, I swear I’m going to start attending the Unitarian Universalist church over on West Maple. When you’ve spent a lifetime watching people spoon Miracle Whip onto pineapple rings while repressing generational trauma, at some point you decide enough is enough.

The first time I recall someone saying that to me, it wasn’t an accusation so much as a diagnosis.