Japanese Texas Style

          Tonight John and I went to Bonsai, the new Japanese restaurant about two miles from our house. I’d been there before, for lunch with the Wonderful Women of Unity and liked it. But then we’d sat at the teppan table and enjoyed watching the chef cook our meals in front of us, complete with juggling raw eggs on the blade of his huge knife and bursts of fire.

          Tonight was a completely different experience. We sat at a table, side by side on the banquette.  At the table in front of us was a young couple with an infant, a toddler and a little boy running around the table with red lights on his sneakers.  To our right were three-generations: grand parents, parents and tiny youngsters.  The rest of the tables were occupied with couples in their seventies, or fifty-ish couples of extra large size.

          Through a pretty window etched with the image of a Japanese maiden, we could see flames from the teppan tables erupt. Straight ahead we could see into the kitchen. Diagonally to our right was the long sushi bar. As people left the restaurant they could bang a big gong or taiko drum. So, with the sounds of crying babies, screeching children, doting grandparents, gongs, drums and chatter, we ordered our meal.

          I chose seaweed salad and tempura appetizer. John selected chicken-steak combo.  He had chardonnay. I had pinot grigio.  It took a long time to get our drinks and even longer to get our dinner. I didn’t particularly mind, as I was enjoying observing the large man in his black cowboy hat and blue jeans, as he got up to go to the restroom, leaving his wife to text on her smart phone.  The couple to the left of us seemed in their mid-seventies. They had ordered a whole bottle of red wine.

          Since it was taking a while for my seaweed salad to come, the young male waiter offered me free soup.  A moment after our soups arrived, a waitress brought my seaweed salad in a martini glass with shredded carrots underneath.

          John’s dinner arrived and was overcooked. I pilfered some of his chicken. Finally, after a very long wait my tempura arrived, way too hot to eat.  I scooted next to John and put my arm around his shoulder. You’d think, that because he works at home we’d be touching all the time. But this is not the case. He gets up in the morning when I’m out with the dog. By the time I’m back he’s made his coffee and ensconced himself in his office.  I get only glimpses of him when he’s passing by my office.

          Today he disappeared. I thought he’d taken a drive and was glad, thinking he needed to get out of the house. After all, I’d been out every day this week: senior writing class, my class at Tom Daniels Elementary, my class at Club Ed, two yoga classes.  I planned to spend the morning typing up the article on Augie and Bonnie Bering, who I interviewed last Tuesday, and welcomed being in the house alone. I could do laundry and juggle cats: on Saturday Jane gets upset by the trash trucks so wants to come in; but Audrey was already in my office. I’d have to wait till she woke up, transfer her to the bedroom, so Jane could be in the office. . .     Well, John had not gone for a drive. He’d  gone to buy planters and soil.  Because we’ve sold the truck, he had to make several trips. He ended up with sixteen 18-gallon blue plastic tubs and numerous bags of potting soil.

          I snuck into his office and got his camera and took a photo of him without his knowing.  I chuckled to myself.  I’d thought his gardening days were behind him. I often wonder if the new owners of our house have torn town “Fort Knox” or will use the planters we left. Oh, how I loved my Japanese Eggplant, basil, tomatoes, potatoes, zucchini, peas, beans. . . but that life is gone. Or is it?

          Later I found John in the kitchen looking at packets of seeds and on his work table in the garage, small tomato plants.  At the restaurant we toasted and I said, “Here’s to your new garden!”  as out glasses clinked.

          When dinner arrived he said, “I’m not planting carrots,” and I remembered the sweet carrots he grew at our house in YLP, almost nineteen years ago.  Nineteen years!

          I’m rambling.  I wanted to say that I wore my new thrift store top ($1.50) and Bangladeshi gray jeans ($12). I think it’s okay to buy things made in Bangladesh. Remember George Harrison’s concert for Bangladesh?

          Over the coming weeks I hope to hear back from the Kroc Center (after school program), the Nature Center (spring break camp), and Fredericksburg School District (summer camp). As I cast my seeds, so John will plant his. Only by doing will we see what grows.