Hot Nights, Hot Meals

If this is global warming, I need more ice. According to my car, it was 102 degrees outside today when I boarded my land craft back homeward from Golden Gate Park, where I was meeting with one of my clients.

Yikes. A heat wave. I couldn't help notice that most of the boys and girls in this city had shed 75% or so of their clothing while venturing outdoors and why not? We've gone from a coolish, fog-ridden, windy peninsula to a tropical paradise, without the tropics.

My housemates staged a big party yesterday and it went far into the night. Nobody wore more than a T-shirt or skirt and nobody was shivering. My 13-year-old son was extremely restless, wandering outside over and over; when I asked if he needed something he just said, "No," but seemed frustrated.

Heat, we have to remember, is a major physical stimulus to us humans. We all come from Africa, from the Savannah, and we all are hard-wired to change our behavior when the temperature rises.

My sense is that we recognize, in our survival mode, that hot weather means edible plants are growing, and indeed, last night and tonight, those tender green onions I planted some time ago are beginning to look rather yummy.

We also sense that water may be becoming scarce. It evaporates in heat like this. I found myself buying bottles of water in a store today and wondering why, until I got back in touch with my animal side, the part that seeks survival over all else.

And then there is that most sensitive of subjects -- sex. On this, even if I had an opinion, I would probably not express it. But let's just say that when the shorts and skirts grow shorter, the halter tops come out, and the smooth skin of youth is shown in all of its loveliness, and male animal ought to be forgiven for recognizing what any female animal should be forgiven for instinctively recognizing: This is the mating season.

Not for me. I am an elder. I may see it all, but I react to nothing. In this heat, I pray that no stroke or attack flattens me as the dance of life occurs all around me. Of course, I can see it. I hear the music and I appreciate the mighty impulses involved. But I am a mere observer now, wishing everyone else well.

My rich beef stew, so carefully cultivated in my brand new pressure cooker, bought by those who love me as a birthday present, beckons. Beyond the beef, and the stock, are onions, garlic, baby bok chow, carrots, potatoes, cauliflower, a bit of red wine, soy sauce, spices, and white flour, some milk, and a few other ingredients, all of which aromatically infuse my flat, competing with the languid thick air that bathes our city, and drives our minds to frenzies.

Competing successfully. I might add. While others mate, or seek to mate, I eat. All is well.

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