Jo's Kitchen

"This is a posh dinner, isn't it?" Jo asked, while rolling up a piece of smoked salmon drizzled in lemon juice.

"Absolutely," I replied.

And it was. Jo and I now have a tradition, wherein we gather together in the part of her kitchen just below her garden, where we can stare up at any number of green things, sit and chat about my experience in London, and eat posh food. We swing toward Middle Eastern fare, mostly. Last time it was figs and falafel, this time it was prosciutto, tiny tomatoes, warm pita, taramosolata, hummus and some broccoli thrown in for good measure. We have fun, Jo and I, carrying on what seems like fifteen conversations at once, all of them dizzyingly intriguing and none of them ever resolved. It seems we pick right up where we left off during our next meeting.

Jo is my best friend in London. Still, she's an intriguing character - definitely something of an acquired taste. A 65 year old modern day hippie who seems at one moment like she's been hit by a cyclone and the next, as if she could give an entire dissertation on any random intellectual topic you pulled out of a hat. She's brilliant, and the most astounding part is you certainly wouldn't know it by looking at her. Her hair is sort of like a frizzy grey mop on her head. Her glasses, which dangle from a chain on her neck, are most at home on the very tip of her nose, and she can never find her keys or her cell phone, or anything, really. She walks in a bit of a shuffle, sort of like a human caterpillar stuck in a puddle of molasses, waiting for her head to catch up with her feet. But if you stick with her, if you adjust your own frenetic gait to hers, you'll learn more about the earth, about people and about public transportation than you could have ever expected. I love the way she speaks, in a high pitched warble, sort of like a more subdued version of Julia Child. She knows everyone in every town, is incredibly passionate about local politics, farmers markets and her own civic responsibilities. She's not above knocking on the doors of the lower end of society, and asking them in her ever so cheerful tone, why they haven't voted in the local election. Everyone she passes on the street, on the bus or in the store, is immediately questioned about their allegiance to produce. "Did you know about the Finchely Road Farmers Market?" she asks a woman on the W5 bus, half making conversation, half interrogating her. She then goes into a spiel about its exact location and hours and why she simply must go. I'm amazed by her passion and even more by her staunch commitment to her beliefs. Even if I don't believe in them myself, her spitfire ways are more than inspiring. I'm learning a lot from my friend.