3rd—My hand has seldom lifted anything weightier than a comb to adjust my hair flowing down my neck.
The “silver” knife (large and sharp enough to fight the Russians) dropped and cracked a bit of the rim of the big plate.
My hand tired.
My uncle and I were seated at a round table in a celebrated American restaurant, the “Western Sea House.”
It was my first occasion to face an orderly heavy Meriken table d’hote.
Its fertile taste was oily, the oppressive smell emetic.
Must I make friends with it?
I am afraid my small stomach is only fitted for a bowl of rice and a few cuts of raw fish.
There is nothing more light, more inviting, than Japanese fare. It is like a sweet Summer villa with many a sliding shoji from which you smile into the breeze and sing to the stars.
Lightness is my choice.