In Spain they’re called tapas, in Greece, mezes, or mezethes. On the West Coast, where I live, the restaurants call them small plates. They are little helpings of interesting foods. You pick and choose from a varied menu. Eat only one if you’re not hungry. Or try several. These small plates are not appetizers but are complete in themselves. Generally they accompany a beverage—fino sherry in Spain, ouzo in Greece, wine, cocktails or designer water in the U.S.
I call my small plates "Miniatures" and they, too, can be sampled separately or grouped.
Miniature takes on life
Sometimes I think of life as a series of rooms filled with a tangled, more or less random conglomeration of activities, places, people, thoughts, feelings, learning, and the occasional gem. Rummaging through my museum of a life for the gems, I have written them in a short form I call “Miniatures.”
Some remind readers of rooms in their lives.
Here's a miniature I wrote in response to the feeling of being overwhelmed as I approached the holiday season. I had children at home, was working in a high tech company, and wife to a man in a seasonally demanding profession. I imagined this peaceful scene on the freeway, commuting jto another state, and wrote it years later. It's one of a pair. Christmas—Reality is in the book, Tea Pie, Love and Reality. Both fantasy and reality are part of my life and I wouldn't do without either.
Christmas—Fantasy
I slip a silver key into the white front door, arriving at my penthouse apartment just as city lights begin their nightly challenge to the darkness. I slip from a long ermine coat and toss it onto a chair near the door. I’m wearing a slender white suit, a heavy silver pin. My rings and earrings are platinum and diamonds.
There is no entrance hall, I’m directly in the living room where thick white wool carpet stretches into the quietness. I have entered a world of whites. On my left, richly-textured cream sofas face floor to ceiling windows framed by soft white sheers. Outside, dime-size snowflakes begin to fall, straight down over the office buildings, spires, and streets below.
Between the sofas and the window is the tree, table-top and white, gleaming with silver balls, silver garlands, tiny clear lights.
I move to the left of the room where, on a white marble counter edging a small bar area, sit two martini glasses, frosted from the refrigerator, and a silver pitcher. A heavy silver tray holds the small tableau.
The man in a black tux, waiting for me, smiles, pours clear liquid, adds two olives, smiles again, and offers a glass. I note the impact the one black note in a symphony of white.
With only the silver-spangled tree for light we sit together in silence on the sofa. We sip and watch white snow cover the city.
December 13, 2003
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