First Person Singular by Wendy Braitman

Inaugural poem

“What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light.”

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Fannie Merritt Farmer

Fannie Merritt Farmer is on my mind this week. 112 years ago, she published her first book, The Boston Cooking-School Cookbook, and it catapulted her to fame. It also made her rich. When a publisher wasn’t willing to take a risk on an unknown, she ponied up the initial printing costs and retained the copyright. With over 4 million copies sold, it is one of the best-selling cookbooks of all time. Continue reading »

A Saturday Night, Out

I used to need courage to go to a movie alone on a weekend. If there was a film I wanted to see and friends weren’t available, I refused to succumb to the shame of sitting alone when everyone else was paired off. I made myself go. But it wasn’t easy. Each time, I had to psych myself up. Continue reading »

Happiness is contagious

I’m determined to be happy because it’s good for my friends

The Pullout

Until I claimed it, the pullout sofa had rarely functioned as a bed. It was planted in the middle of Jen’s living room/eating area, upholstered in a beige cotton that easily picked up dirt. The sheets didn’t match. They were leftovers from sets that had once been complete. Jen handed me a sleeping pill. “Just take half and make sure you’re already in bed,” she warned. “You’ll be out like a light.” I unfolded the sofa, draped the sheets over the flimsy mattress, crawled under a pilling electric blanket, with its guts removed. I made sure I was settled, as settled as I could be given all that had happened, swallowed the drug whole and switched off the light. I waited impatiently for peace.

Just days before, I had been living it up with John in Frankfurt, Rome and Lisbon. I was not in love when he first offered me his hand, but his insistence was intoxicating, and at 37, it was a relief to be wanted. We became domestic after just a couple of dates, and then barely weeks later I uprooted from San Francisco to travel with him. Within a month, we moved to Europe. Away from family and friends, familiar neighborhoods and lingo, we were each other’s everything. John cooked me pork chops, and gave me haircuts. We shared a suitcase.

With my head propped up on the sofa cushion, I couldn’t help but see the day glow numbers on the VCR clock. 11:15, 1:45, 4:30, 6AM. Twenty-four hours earlier, John and I had flown in from Portugal to the sublet apartment we kept in San Francisco nestled high in a eucalyptus grove. I breathed in on the drive up, and was reminded of a recent spa visit. There wasn’t much furniture, but the wall-to-wall white carpeting was lush, and it felt good to roll around on it. The front room had an expansive view of downtown. I would miss this place. Everything was fine when we went to bed, as far as I knew. In a few weeks, we would be off again. Back to Rome, shooting his film. Just enough time to share a handful of meals with dear friends and re-pack.

Soon after we awoke, an argument rose out of nowhere, some minutiae about receipts. It grew as large as our city view. John was talking crazy. His words didn’t make sense. Something about going on to Rome without me. “It’s over?” I huddled in between the wood console and the frame of our bedroom door. I was gasping for air. We had never fought like this. What if he meant it? Where would I go? My life in San Francisco had been closed up for years. Who would welcome me back?

John was deranged then, and after, too. He never never cared that he left me drifting. At least I had the pullout, though it had seen better days. For the time being, we were a good fit.

Photo: Martin Parr, 1991, Magnum Photos

Unwedded Bliss

We are often mistaken for married and I come clean right away: “Oh, no. He’s not my husband.” But on those few occasions when it’s easier to let it slide, I linger in the feeling of being ordinary. Continue reading »