Chance = Change

             Years ago, with the ardent belief that my body needed strenuous internal cleansing, I went to a nutritionist who put me on all sorts of juices fasts:  Cranberry juice and mineral water for my liver, watermelon juice and mineral water for my kidneys, orange/grapefruit/lemon juice and mineral water for my entire lymphatic system.

 I was a walking, sloshing, California fruit orchard for weeks at a time. And I kept the bottled mineral water industry afloat, not to mention my bladder. 

The benefits of course were lovely- an anorexic’s dream - since I was eating no solid food except little carrot sticks and whole stalks of celery, but lips that touched cheeseburgers never touched mine.

One of the more ingenious tortures she devised was a total non-dairy regimen for an entire year, if you can imagine it: Nothing from any animal that produced any milk whatsoever was allowed in my mouth and for an entire 12-month period of time. I didn’t go near a single container of milk, cream, yogurt, ice cream, cottage cheese (any cheese!), half-n-half, whipping cream, condensed milk, sherbet, pudding, mayonnaise, horseradish sauce, creamery salad dressing, margarine or butter.  The American Dairy Association and I parted company. I even tried to go nowhere near a cow or goat, which wasn’t very difficult, since I was quite an urban gal at the time. The only goats that crossed my path were the old men who leered at me on the subway.

Then, one day, the year had passed, and, finding myself in a show in Boston, I went with the gang to a famous hole-in-the-wall seafood joint where the clam chowder was legendary, and for the first time in 365 days ordered what everyone else did. I felt somehow evil doing so, but did it nonetheless: my year in the desert had passed. And I remember the first taste of that creamy, buttery, thick and gorgeously seasoned soup like it was yesterday: it was heavenly. Indescribably so.

My taste buds – so grateful they wept – woke up with a gentle start, as if the sleep had done them good, as they celebrated with a slow stretch, a deep intake of sweet sensations that greeted them:  the flavors, the smooth textures, the complex tastes that layered one upon another: the comfort of it all. It was as if , in the moments I savored that little bowl of chowder, I re- discovered land and realized what my legs were for.

Which is exactly the same thing that happened to me when I went to my first San Francisco Symphony concert 3 weeks ago: an evening of Khachaturian and Prokofiev, with one of the most delightful violin solos ever devised.

Well, not exactly the same thing, since it wasn’t my taste buds that woke up, but rather my ears, but, bodily gratitude being the point, let’s not quibble:  I actually did salivate that evening, as well.

I’ve recently moved to this glorious city from NYC, but en route spent three years in a small town tucked away in a corner of SW Virginia.  It is a wonderful place, this small town, and its mountains are glorious, the people the best on earth. Its blue-grass musicians are unrivaled anywhere: it is their music, the music of that region. You need an “old time music” player, you go there and you will find the best our country has to offer.  But a large pool of symphonic players? Not yet. They’re working on it, and their efforts need to be supported, but for three years I went to concerts waiting for the cream to come to the table.

Which is why, when I walked into the very beautiful Davies Hall and felt the buzz of the crowds around me, a crowd clearly schooled in what to expect, I felt like I was entering that little hole-in-the-wall seafood joint from years ago, only the décor was much better. And once again, the soup did not disappoint.

As I entered the soaring auditorium (I remembered its root: audio), my soul began to lift in that old familiar way, and as if in a religious place, my head naturally lifted upward, so I could see what was there, survey the boxes and loges ringing the hall.  I realize now: that is what important architecture does. It organizes your experience of the place you’re entering, and the organization of Davies is sublime.

Then, I saw the stage stretched before me, and my mouth broke into a natural smile it had not felt in years.  I could sense the evening would be a great one. And in that, I didn’t even suspect how right I was.

I could write another thousand words on what the magnificent music, wonderfully played by all, did to me that night.  Suffice it to say – for now – that I began to weep with joy early on, and my husband had to give me his handkerchief once I’d gone through all the tissues in my little purse.  I’ve always believed that a good performance of any kind should leave you moist in some way, and I was a damp mess by the end of that evening.  

The difficult and sumptuous music was terrifically played, the audience was appreciative and alive, the soloists breath-taking in their skill, and my heart soared so high for the entire time that I felt giddy by evening’s end. I walked out into the lobby afterward, honored to be part of this great city, and my husband (a great fan of symphonic music) went home and ordered so many tickets to future concerts, we will be quite fat with music once we’re done. 

Our cream-free fast is over: we will now consume all can.

I might even sneak in a pint of gourmet ice cream next time, and sit furtively  licking it as I listen, like the old contented cat I have become.