A Girl...

The Kindness of Quince

Over the years I've had two or three people email me to say that this humble blog inspired them to start their own online journal, and in those moments I've always felt equal parts proud and unworthy, because this is hardly how I'd want to leave an impression on the world if that were my goal and yet, gosh, I have made a small ripple in the surface of the vast Internet.

Now that I've gone and made a numbered list of rules about how to blog, however, it seems I may have done my first bit of damage. As I said at the beginning of the last entry, I'm in absolutely no position to tell anyone how to write his or her blog (can you think of a more unfettered and far-reaching form of free speech?), and I probably should have titled it "How to Blog If You Don't Want to Annoy Leah, Who Will Probably Still Read Anyway Because She Has an Addictive Personality and, Besides, Thinks You're Cute." I also should have pointed out that my rules were not "rules," but guidelines. Or even "suggestions" or, say, "things I thought out loud and you happened to overhear."

Anyway, in hopes that I haven't managed to offend and alienate everyone (I seriously adore you all and was in no way judging, not even a little), I'm here this morning before the caffeine's even had a chance to straighten my spine to spread some of the joy that came from random and unexpected acts of kindess yesterday. Welcome to edition 487 of my infamous numbered lists:

1. I've had some trouble in the past working with authors who think that because I'm in my twenties I don't know how to do my job. I understand the apprenhension that must accompany working on a book for ten years only to relinquish it to the hands of some pigtailed chick with plastic toys all over her desk, but I really do wish they wouldn't make their displeasure so obvious when I'm standing right there. After about the second or third time this happened, I resolved to avoid meeting my authors in person until I was finished or nearly finished editing their books, and thus avoid all of the attendant resistance that can come when someone old enough to be my grandfather can't get over the plain fact that I know where commas go better than he does.

Yesterday morning, an author was scheduled to come in to drop off the latest version of a manuscript we've been working on (somewhat contentiously) for months, and I naturally tried all kinds of things to avoid her, save hiding in the bathroom (which totally works, but only when the author is a man and unlikely to pursue me into the ladies' room). Yesterday, however, after a series of reschedulings, this female author happened to be standing in the main office right as I came out of a meeting, and there was really no avoiding her. Luckily, I was not only sporting a sophisticated ponytail instead of the aforementioned Pigtails of Editorial Incompetence, but I was also wearing heels, so la dee dah. I introduced myself, shook her hand, and then steeled myself for what would surely be her expression of shock and horror that this...this girl is the person responsible for her life's work. But no. Unexpected act of kindness #1: The author had put her manuscript in a paper bag, tied it with pink and purple ribbon, and stuck a bouquet of garden-cut flowers in the top. Yellow daisies, a bunch of something small and purple, three big red ruffly blooms, and a white rose just beginning to open.

2. Simon called yesterday afternoon to tell me he'd received a box in the mail at work that contained over one hundred CDs. He'd responded to an ad on Craigslist from someone giving away a collection of rare and valuable reggae CDs to whoever promised to appropriately appreciate them. Simon emailed the guy and confessed that he wasn't really into reggae and probably couldn't appreciate the music like a true fan, but he just wanted to say how random it was that he came across the ad because just the night before he'd dreamt about reggae music, and then he described the dream. I guess it turned out that there weren't any other takers for the CD collection, because Unexpected act of kindness #2: this guy shipped off the CDs to Simon and now we have more reggae music than God, mon. But the weirdest thing about this? Simon sent that email in the summer of 2002.

3. Yesterday evening on my ride home via a crowded BART train, I watched a guy with one crutch get up and Unexpected act of kindness #3: offer his seat to a guy with two crutches. Someone else, in turn, then offered his seat to one-crutch guy. The cockles of my blog-nazi heart were warmed to melting, I tell you, and my faith in the goodness of the human spirit was renewed. How can there be war when this kind of crutch etiquette is being observed, not to mention there is SO MUCH REGGAE MUSIC?

4. Last night while I was doing dishes and Simon was "working" in bed with the TROL, there was a knock at the back door. It was our landlord/neighbor, Chinese Cookie Lady, and she had Unexpected act of kindness #4: a bag full of quince that came off the tree in our backyard. I didn't even know there was a quince tree in the backyard, and even if I did, I certainly wouldn't think to pick any because what does a person do with a dozen ripe quinces, besides make her boyfriend pose with them while she makes lame (although learned) jokes about him being a jackass?*

This is where you come in. What am I supposed to do with a dozen ripe quinces? The only time I've ever ingested a quince product, it was in cubed gelatin form and I can't say it was a pleasant experience, although that might have been a texture thing. So do you have any recipes (preferably tasty, preferably non-gelatinous) that involve quince? And if not, do you have any stupid jokes you want to share? I'm easy today and I owe you one, so don't hold back.

*This only makes sense if you know Simon's real name, so if you do, email me an explanation of this dumb joke and I will award you ten thousand gold stars and FIVE HUNDRED BABIES.