This morning is a delight. The air is still. It is sunny and 60°. Many of the branches on the trees in the backyard are bare. Fallen leaves cover the driveway and the deck. Earlier, the dogs romped a bit in the yard then came in for their morning naps. They are such creatures of habit.

The trash and recyclables are out by the car. It is dump day. I remember my father always went to the dump on Sunday mornings, almost ceremonial trips. He loved the dump. If I had brought home a friend for the weekend, my father always offered them an invitation to go with him to the dump. Formal clothing was optional. Back then the dump was filled with tall piles of trash. Seagulls flew in circles around the piles. They were raucous. They screeched and squawked. They were a highlight.

My breakfast eggs in Ghana were fried in groundnut, peanut oil. They were delicious and had a wonderfully nutty taste which raised the common fried egg to a new level of flavor. When I came home, I found the taste of my eggs to be common, boring, so I went and bought a bottle of peanut oil, Planter’s oil with Mr. Peanut on the front, and I cooked my eggs in it. I was back in egg nirvana.

Before Ghana, I had never tasted plantain, okra, pawpaw aka papaya, mangoes or garden eggs aka baby eggplants. I didn’t even know most of them existed. I did not like mangoes. I found them messy and that giant pit impeded the eating. They, to me, had a weird smell, like furniture polish. I threw away most of my first mango. Later, I gave one another try. I liked it. Either I had changed or the mango had. I’m thinking my palate had expanded while the mango stayed the same. Every day for lunch I had cut up fruit, mango was a star.

Last week I stayed home the whole week. This week I will reenter the world. On my dance card I have my usual uke practice and lesson, and I have two concerts. I get paid this week so I’ll also grocery shop. Henry will go to the vets to have his ears checked. It will be a busy week.

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