On Magical Realism and Spaghetti and/or Where I’m Calling From.
Mr. Julius Epstein marries Ms. Edna Grace in the early 20th century. One result among many is the birth of a wildly self-involved baby girl. The girl, a hundred years later, stands at exactly five feet, with a hearty chunk of Italian heritage and a name so Jewish that El Al seems confused. She peers back layers of history to discover who married for love. Neurotic, unsatisfied, she endlessly searches for world explanations through food and words. Dictionary.com always open. She peers at you through strange concoctions, resurrections. Looking at the secondary definition. Elsewhere, around the same time, Albert Einstein is quoted: “the only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.” The girl is shoving forkfuls of pasta into her mouth, anticipating challah rising for redemption in her oven. She thinks, perhaps, that everything has always happened. Living in motion, and not in time, she thinks, again, of the things we talk about when we talk about love.