International Luncheon

My son, who'd read and reread Rosemary Wells' "Yoko" book--a cat, named Yoko, who is Japanese takes sushi to school. Kids make fun, prompts teacher to create International Luncheon, sushi is eaten and liked. All's well in this particular school of cats and dogs--was reliving the book's story since he had requested Korean sushi as our contribution to the luncheon. We also added Korean dumplings my mother has made by some Korean woman, she's enslaved in Philadelphia. My mother arrived the day before, such a luxury for us that she could hop on a train and land in Penn Station, just a mere hour or so later. This trip was to coincide with her spending the night with our son, allowing my husband and me a night away.

The day of the luncheon arrived with much anticipation for my son. My mother and I pan-fried the dumplings, rolled the Korean sushi, and carted everything to school in large foil roasting pans. There were two Jewish dishes, a few Eastern European dishes, a West Indian curry, and of course, the requisite Irish dish of boiled beef. Someone, who could claim an Italian heritage, brought in pizza, which got devoured by all the kids, of course. My son was happy and proud to have his Korean grandmother there, all bedecked in her fur, meeting his classmates' parents. We sampled a few of the dishes, noticing the dumplings were disappearing rapidly, the sushi almost nearly all gone.

My son ran over with the classroom copy of the "Yoko" book. I had already connected why he was so excited about this luncheon, but the confirmation was all the more poignant. This day, the last before Christmas, is busy with people standing on every corner with a suitcase next to their feet, their arm raised desperately hoping to hail a cab to the airport to Penn Station, all heading home for the holiday. The roadways are especially congested, making getting from one part of the city to the other a challenge. We, so delirious to be here, aren't grousing about any of this yet. I'm sure that will come in a year or two when we start whining like every other New Yorker about those pesky tourists, making our daily lives extra difficult. Never mind that our economy lives off of the tourists.

It's nearly impossible to imagine our lives a year ago, exiled in LA, so desperately helpless about how we'd gotten ourselves stuck there, of all places. Or, that was the way I was feeling. If nine months can bring about such radical changes, well, it does give one pause about what could be around the next corner--hopefully, all, or at least some of it more positive than not.