Frozen Sushi

My daughter has been asked to be part of her Elementary school's track and field team. They are being bused to the Zone Championships at Swanguard Stadium. She's the second fastest girl in her class, third in her grade.

Betty and I congratulated her. Betty mentioned that when she was in school she was always among the last to be picked in sports, but first when it came to the spelling bee. She had joined the volleyball team in grade eight only to become the team assistant. Team assistant?, I asked her, What exactly did you do as assistant? With downcast eyes Betty said quietly, Nothing.

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Forgot to mention a great "photographic" moment I espied on Fraser Street over the weekend. A young man with a baseball cap and an elderly gent in a wheelchair were seated at the window table of a Chinese-Western cafe sharing a plate of french fries. It was dark inside, the cushioned restaurant benches and melamine-topped tables mostly empty. The two did not exchange words, maybe none were needed. They sat in the quiet enjoyment of dipping and eating the fries with their fingers—one set of hands young, quick, ready to take on the world, the other veined, discolored, ready to be taken by the world.

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The in-laws told us to go by their place after work yesterday to pick up some sushi, a maki dynamite roll, it turns out. A frozen dynamite roll. Trust me, rice doesn't freeze/thaw well. What was somebody thinking?