Haven Kimmel and a BLT

When Gilroy is too hot and too bright and my thoughts turn to how many Lunesta it would take to sleep for a long, long time, I drive over the mountain to Santa Cruz. It's one of those days when I seem to feel every sound against my skin -- not a good sign. I almost pass by Cafe Delmarette because it looks like to-go only but then I spot the 3 tables pushed against the wall. I walk in and see tiny, tiny white-frosted cakes under a glass dome on the counter. Each cake is decorated with a lopsided strawberry slice and for some reason that lifts my spirits. The woman behind the counter greets me and her open, friendly face reminds me of the Mary Tyler Moore show -- why, I have no idea. "A salad," I say. "Please."

"What kind?," she asks, and when I look stumped she says, "Maybe strawberries and goat cheese on greens? That's really good."

"Okay," I say happily, and then I spot the BLT description on the chalkboard. Niman Ranch bacon, local heirloom tomatoes. Okay. The smiling woman sets to work making lunch for me in the tiny, tiny kitchen, which makes me feel rich and pampered and lucky.

I sit down at the smallest table and take out "She Got Up Off the Couch," which has acted like a shield all summer against sadness and loneliness and grief. I read about Zippy while waiting for my food. I read about the hitchhiker that Zippy's dad lets sleep in a tent in their front yard:

I looked up at him. His clothes still looked clean, and his black hair was shining in the early sun the way Rose's did. That big mustache was something to see. He hitched up his pack and fastened a belt around his waist, then messed up my hair with his open palm, as if my hair needed more trouble.

"I thought of something you have that no one else does," he said, walking backward away from me.

"What's that?" I yelled, even though he was still close.

"Your own hitchhiker," George said, then turned around and walked away.

The nice woman brought over my salad and sandwich. BLT heaven: Really good bread, just the right thickness, and toasted perfectly by someone who clearly understands that a good BLT is about comfort: thick pieces of bacon and just-right slices of yellow tomato that had that picked-this-morning tomato leaf smell. I took a few bites of my sandwich, tasted the summer strawberries and goat cheese salad, and then went back to Zippy:

I knew girls who even had those life-sized decapitated Barbie heads....And Barbie's lips would get painted a cheap, crayony pink, with lumps and streaks, and it was not many hours after Christmas morning that my toiletry-leaning friends discovered that no matter what one did with Barbie's hair it turned out creepy and couldn't be undone. Then there she sat, gathering dust on her cheerful, ruined face and chopped-up vinyl hair and I don't know why my friends didn't just get themselves a talking evil clown doll and be done with it.

I laughed out loud, which caused the guy at the next table, seated about six inches away from me, to look up from his lunch and smile.

"Izz your meal goot?," he said, with some kind of Nordic accent.

"Yes. Very, very good," I answered.

"Yes, me as well," he said, nodding.

We smiled at each other and then went back to our solitary companionable books and lunches. If there is a heaven, it will have tiny cafes with miniature cupcakes, a smiling cook who has rainbow-colored socks peeking above her intimidating black hiking boots, and many, many books by Haven Kimmel.

copyright 2009 Ann Krueger Spivack