If we can't arrange our own happiness, it's a conceit beyond vulgarity to arrange the happiness of those who come after us. Was the child happy while he lived? That is a proper question, the only question. The death of a child has no more meaning than the death of armies, of nations. Where is the unity, the meaning, of nature's highest creation? Surely those millions of little streams of accident and wilfulness have their correction in the vast underground river which, without a doubt, is carrying us to the place where we're expected! But there is no such place, that's why it's called utopia. We note the haphazard chaos of history by the day, by the hour, but there is something wrong with the picture. We persuade ourselves that the universe is modestly employed in unfolding our destination. Where is the song when it's been sung? The dance when it's been danced? It's only we humans who want to own the future, too. Life's bounty is in its flow, later is too late. We don't value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. It pours the whole of itself into the each moment. Nature doesn't disdain what lives only for a day. Butterflies with eyes on their wings, parrots in candy-colored plumage.“Because children grow up, we think a child's purpose is to grow up. It hurts now, to think of that little girl, her innocent wonder: flashlight in hand, turning the glossy pages and marveling at the wild and wonderful creatures. She would hide under the covers reading, in the small, silent hours of the morning while her parents slept in the next room. She'd collected vividly illustrated books about them. She remembers begging her mother to spare the moths that fluttered out from wardrobes, the gauzy spider's webs that clung to the ceiling. She was fascinated by insects as a child. The word swims up from the depths of her brain: a damselfly. Keeps you feel nostalgic about old memories or recollect your mothers love and old village. The dragonfly-like creature with the iridescent wings. Childhood memory of a Kerala girl with her mother on a rainy day. She shuts her eyes, opening them again when she feels something brush her hand. She stays like that for a long time, listening to the birds, the water, the insects. She can't remember what it's called: smaller than a dragonfly, with delicate mother-of-pearl wings. I even saved up a whole month's worth of allowance when I was in seventh grade so I could make 'Buela a special birthday dinner of filet mignon.” Sausages that I watched Italian abuelitas in South Philly make by hand. Fish we'd never heard of that I had to get from a special market down by Penn's Landing. When other kids were saving up their lunch money to buy the latest Jordans, I was saving up mine so I could buy the best ingredients. But 'Buela let me expand to the different things I saw on TV. I remember way back during school days, I used to hate waking up in the morning (which I still do) and dress up to go to school, recalling all the previous day's homework that was forced upon us all. I started playing around with the staples of the house: rice, beans, plantains, and chicken. Sweet School Memories That Made Your Childhood Last Forever. This self-appointed class is the only one I've ever studied well for. I have long lists of ideas for recipes that I can modify or make my own. Like, actual notes in the Notes app on my phone. When other kids were watching Saturday morning cartoons or music videos on YouTube, I was watching Iron Chef, The Great British Baking Show, and old Anthony Bourdain shows and taking notes. “Since my earliest memory, I imagined I would be a chef one day.
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