dripping

"Mind if I sit a while with you, Uncle?"

The old man squinted up at me from his seat against the cliff face, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. "Water?"

I dropped my dust-caked canteen into his lap, easing myself down next to him as he pulled off the cap and guzzled greedily. Water trickled out the corner of his mouth, coursing down his chin to splash on the scorched rock at our feet. I settled back against the cliff, letting the heat from the rock diffuse the knots in my shoulders. A gust of wind whistled down the dark, narrow crack in the cliff face next to us and chilled me to the bone in spite of the desert heat pressing upon me from all sides.

He stopped for air, and I could hear his shallow panting. "What are you doing out here, Uncle? This is no place for an old man."

"I am waiting. For her." He pointed out across the sand, and I turned, peering into the distance. A roiling grey-green cloud sat just above the heat haze along the horizon. "She is a thing of beauty, is she not? I am going to race her, one last time." He gestured toward the crack in the cliff.

I watched, aghast, as the leviathan raced toward us across the hot desert. I turned to look up the long, narrow chimney. "It's too late, old man. You'll never make it!" I yelled over the roar of the oncoming storm.

He cackled. "No! It is too soon! We wait! We wait until it starts dripping. Until the very edge of her is overhead." Fat droplets of water started to splat down about us as he spoke. "Here she comes! Climb for your life, boy!" Swinging into the crack, he braced himself against the smooth walls and started to scuttle up, faster than I could have imagined he would be.

I scrambled after him. "Wait! Uncle! Have you ever won before?"

A gleeful chortle ricocheted down the chute. "Never! Down she comes and washes me out, time after time. But not today! Today I will win her at last!"

soup

Now the most important step to making a really great soup is preparing the stock. Seaweed and some salt make a great, savory stock. We'll just bring some water to boil, and then stir in the seaweed, salting generously. Now set that on the back burner to simmer, while we prepare the vegetables. We'll need some sweet spring carrots, small golden potatoes, and, of course, celery, all cut into medium sized chunks. By now the stock should be just about ready, giving off a nice, fragrant steam. We'll add in the stew beef, and then the vegetables, and then cook on medium heat until the potatoes are just done. You can test this by sticking them with a butter knife. If the potato slips back off the knife, it is done. And there you have it, a hearty homemade beef and vegetable soup, great for winter days or convalescents!

"Sandy! Sandy! Time for din-- ugh, that's gross. How many times have I told you not to play with mud?! It's dirty!"

"I was making soup! For Mama!"

leotard

"Come along, Leo, we'll be late for Emmy's lesson!" Leo dragged his paws all the way to the car. Emmy was already in the back, bouncing up and down on the seat in her fluffy pink tutu. 

"Come on, Leo! Gonna be late! Gonna be late!" Emmy giggled, banging the window with her ballet slippers. Leo sneered at her and slunk into the front seat, frowning sullenly as their mother started the car and backed out into the street. He slouched even further when they passed a group of kids from school playing football on the sidewalk. They drove the two short blocks to the studio, with Emmy babbling and blowing bubbles against the windows the whole way.

Emmy's friend Rachel was at the front door with her mother and a cluster of ballet moms. Leo grumbled to himself as his mom stopped to talk, nodding to him to take his sister inside while she caught up on the latest gossip with the ladies. He walked Rachel in to her class, helping her slip on her ballet shoes before she bounced off to join the gaggle of little cubs in matching pink tutus. Turning to duck out the door, his eyes caught on a taller, slimmer figure in a demure wraparound skirt.

"Alright girls, warm ups, and then we'll try something a little fun, like this!" Leo's breath caught as she twirled on one hindpaw, her tail draped elegantly across one forepaw and her other leg extended in a graceful arabesque. His legs kept moving on their own, and next thing he knew, he'd tripped over the metal ballet barres next to the door, bringing them crashing down about him. The dancer came to an abrupt halt, peering toward him as the class burst out into giggles.

Emmy stuck her tongue out at him. "You're a Leo-tard!"

chomp

I am, apparently, the tastiest human being in Hong Kong. My grandma says it's because I wear shorts, but that's just the old-fashioned talking. Plenty of other people wear shorts, but I am still the only one sporting angry red mosquito bites all over my legs. (Twenty-five on my right leg, twelve on my left. I counted) And anyway, I can't wear jeans, I am already dying in shorts and a tank top, while the locals thronging around me in the streets walk by in jeans and cardigans like it's not 97 degrees out with 90 percent relative humidity.

The streets are so crowded my hand sometimes swings into someone else's, and I find myself accidentally holding hands with random people for just an instant as we brush past each other. I feel sticky everywhere, which just makes the itching even harder to bear. I long to stop and scratch, but it's too crowded, and I don't want people looking at me funny. It's no use anyway, people walking by give me the up and down, stopping short when they see my red polka dot legs. If only they knew, I am delicious. I am the one to chomp. Apparently.