My mother's 12th night party consisted of

foccacio and chevre and olive oil and garlic

dried tomatoes and scallions and Sufi poetry and truffles (some almond, some peppermint)

discussions of law school and hardboiled eggs

oven timers, glowing embers, the Packers' chances against Dallas, and more hardboiled eggs

Brazilian music, Gregorian chants, Scandinavian saxophonists, and an embarassing list of baby nicknames I once had, including "Baby Buns"

the woman next door who looks like my very first serious girlfriend, smug fire-warmed cats, food torpor and warmed coffee

Bovine Growth Hormone in the kitchen with Karen, the seven wonders of the ancient world with Matt, the seven deadly sins with Anoosh, and a beer with almost no bite

"we planned her birthday to be right around Christmas, and she's never forgiven us"

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