A favorite book to read to my kids when they were little was the 1947 classic Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown. It’s short and sweet for when every bone in your body knows it’s time for that kid with way too much energy for nine o’clock at night to give it up already. Even if you talk about every object on each page you can still accommodate “read it again” requests.
A little background on the book:
130 words, and 15.3% of those are “goodnight.”
Goodnight Moon is in the public domain. This means the copyright on the words expired, and the text can be used in other works, like this blog, without special permission. The illustrations are not public domain, and since I can’t draw or work InDesign or Photoshop (I mean, they’ve got more buttons than my microwave, and we all know how that turns out), I won’t be using any of those.
Goodnight Moon was banned by a fussy librarian at the New York Public Library for being “too sentimental.” I’m glad I’ll never meet this fussy librarian. The librarians in my life are not fussy about sentiment. (The librarian who sees me and Writing Buddy nearly every Thursday is not even fussy about drinks at the worktable. Or crackling protein bar wrappers. Or the sometimes-too-loud laughter that erupts from writers being ridiculous.)
In the spirit of supporting banned books and in honor of Ms. Brown’s brevity, I shall use her story as *loose* inspiration to detail the latest impromptu mini-trip with my Travel Buddy.
A little background on the Buddy:
Remember Let the Song Play Through and White Van Willies? Same friend. This crazy human is also Little Miss CK’s Mawmaw.
I live for those one-liners that inevitably happen on these trips. I latch on like a dog with a bone, teasing and repeating it mercilessly until I’m told it’s too much. To shut up.
To hush.
After she provided one such perfect bobble of words, Travel Buddy says with a roll of her eyes (much like CK flips her braids at me; I think this may be a genetic quirk), “This’ll make the blog.”
She says it with snark.
Why yes, yes it will.
A little background on the setting:
We’re tired. She’s not had much sleep. I’ve not had much sleep. We’ve bargain-shopped our way to the big city and found ourselves at Yak and Yeti Himalayan restaurant.
I want to try a new-to-me place. This also happens to be new-to-me cuisine—I’ve never had food from any region of India. Ever. And I’m pushing a half-century old.
And they had a Yeti on the logo. I mean, it was meant to be… (I’m fairly certain they don’t serve Yeti because those cryptids are on the Endangered Species List.)
So I’m in a new restaurant with my novice palate, and everyone knows I’ll never cook anything off the beaten path. Cooking on the path is hard enough.
And I’ve got this buzzing, living-only-once vibe, sparked by Miss CK and that neon ice cream a while back. (Or it’s a midlife crisis; vibes and crises are hard for me to parse out.) New decisions, new visions. The whole nine yards.
I may as well go all in. YOLO! Get something completely different.
Like yak.
Yak Momo, to be specific. Meatballs rolled with veggies, stuffed in a pastry, and deep fried.
I’ll refer to the dish as yak balls.
Because I think it’s fun and it’s my blog, so…
I’ll let your minds pull up whatever images from that description you want. And if you need help, just google yak momo. Go wild and click “images.”
I know where my mind went.
I know where Travel Buddy’s mind went when the waitress slid a party-sized platter of yak balls in front of me. Eyebrows went up and certain comments were uttered. That’s how I know where her mind went.
And now you have the origin of the second half of the blog title.
The blog-inspiring bobble:
I process the new-to-me aromas wafting up from the plate. I hesitate, processing how badly I want to explore this living-only-once thing. Or whether or not to acknowledge the severity of this midlife crisis deal.
Travel Buddy, eyeing my lunch choice with one eyebrow still raised, declares, “We better pray over this.”
She offers up the blessing. I wait with my head bowed for the “Amen” so I can dig into my yak balls.
But she bobbles the landing.
Instead of “Amen," she says, “Goodnight.”
My head jerks up. I think she’s joking.
But by the look of surprise on her face, the landing surprises her too. No amen. No conclusion. No, “We’re done here, Jesus, you take the wheel.”
Just a sorry little goodnight.
And…there’s the blog in one word. Well, three. Three words.
So, here we go, in the *exceptionally loose* style of Goodnight Moon (I’m so, so, sorry, Ms. Margaret Wise Brown):
