Mixed Salad, Best Mixed

As summer sizzles, even in smoking hot London Town where temps topped 31 C yesterday---without the availability of air-conditioning I can attest the theater like Horrible Histories with a 5-year-old grandson in my lap was a challenge, salad comes to mind. And as any salad junkie--like me--knows, mixed is best.
In catching up, tickets for Harris Theater this and Groupon that, I found an NPR story about how diversity in the gut bacteria is best. You betcha!

So remember that when you hear about the unimaginative who want to live in a land of vanilla, where everyone looks just like them, thinks just like them and is boring just like them. How dull. For like the salads of my youth, its a world of all iceberg and some bottled-rubbish from the store as dressing. Dull as dishwater.

Give me life as a mix-it-up with people vastly different from me. After all, why would I want to chat with anyone who thinks like me--I know what me thinks.

Like the chap, or mate on the SouthWest Train from London to Esher who when I asked to share his seat on that sizzling day as I sweated in a most unladylike way said, "Sure Luv." Lordy Miss Scarlett, a 60 something woman can still be greeted with that in the UK even after the B-Liar Years (Blair). No Cockneys left in London Town, true. Can't afford the turf.

Or the dry wit of the woman even older than I, who responded with a perfectly straight-face to the jar my husband inadvertently toppled in the grocery--"Oh my, now I wonder, whoever could have done THAT." It was a joke, but it took us both a tic to get it was. Desert dry being her humor.

So to the Chick-A-fil types who want to remain unchallenged by anything that might make them think, I say, I likes me salads like my life, mixed up of various flavors and savors, colors and others. Don't be a bloody fool and live in a land of dull.

There's so much out there, come on in. The world is wacky and wonky and barmy.

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    Candace Drimmer

    I was an accidental expatriate; love and marriage led me to it. One day I was a bandy-legged kid sitting atop my dogwood tree looking out of my small backyard world in 1950s New Jersey, wanting to move somewhere--anywhere, different. Next thing I knew my father had accepted a job in Houston TX. I was ecstatic, it was a foreign land in 1961 America. After high school graduation, my parents’ gave me a matched set of fawn-colored hardsided American Tourister luggage. Taking the hint, I went to college; well four colleges in five years--it was the 60s after all. Meeting a young hirsute anti-war, soon-to-be-Peace Corps volunteer, I fell in love. After finishing up college coursework for my degree, but before I even walking a graduation stage, I grabbed the paper airline ticket my boyfriend had sent me, my brand-new passport, and was off to the airport and Lima, Peru.

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