Dangerous Compassions

competitive religion

“Are you going to turn Quaker?” I asked Ming.  “Do you need another religion?”

He looked at me from over the newspapery newsletter he held in his hands.

“If you had three religions, and I only had two religions, you would be winning,” I said.

“I would be what?” he asked, turning pages.

“You would be winning,” I said.  “In the religion competition.”

Later I was trying to learn about inflammation.  I was trying to understand–is this a vague hippie thing, or a real thing, or what?

Don’t get me wrong–I love hippies.  Hippies are my people.  But asking hippies for health advice can be dangerous, you have to admit.

I was looking online–wow, that was dangerous too.  One thing I read was listing foods for an anti-inflammatory diet, and one of the foods was pasta, which I’m supposed to cook till al dente.  I’m like–“What?  You’re saying pasta is better for me, if I cook it less?  Who are these people?  Why should I believe anything they say?!”

So I was telling Ming that, and he said I could swing the other way, and I was like–“I don’t want to listen to a bunch of hicks either!  They’re going to be all–Eat beef!  It’ll heal you!”  Then I was laughing a lot.  “Eat lard!  Eat a jar of lard!”

Probably the laughing is what will heal me.  I was telling Ming, hippies giving you nutritional advice would tell you to strap a crystal in your belly button.  Ming didn’t smile.  I accused him of having crystals in his belly button.

In my imagination it’s a pretty amethyst, held in by a strap of hemp.

R was pulling weeds–I noticed the weeds were rocket.  I went outside and told him, it’s like a mustard.  Like a wild arugula.  He ate a leaf.  I ate one too–it was tasty.  It wasn’t bitter.  It wasn’t too peppery.  It was good.

This year, rocket is growing everywhere–a green carpet by the laundry room with airy yellow flowers.  Ming said, “You’re a rocket scientist.”  I said no.

I would be a salad scientist.  Salad is complicated.  What is salad?  People think it’s “healthy.”  But I think it’s any cold food, that’s not a sandwich or dessert, that has bits of foods mixed together.  Maybe in a dressing.  And dressing can be the worst thing in the world.

Maybe I should get a Master’s degree in salad.  If I wanted to be a rocket scientist, I would need a PhD in salad.  Well, I don’t want to be in school that long.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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