Contact CU Independent Opinion Columnist/Grapevine Contributor Dani Pinkus at Danielle.Pinkus@colorado.edu.
Why is tonight unlike other nights? Well, it’s not every night one encounters a clip of kindness. May my Sunday experience brighten up your life and bring you a better tomorrow.
It’s Sunday. Grocery day. I absolutely, positively obliterated the marketing game at my local Trader Joe’s, right here in Boulder, Colorado. My Uber arrived right on schedule. Miriam welcomed me into her place of work, her car. Conversation came naturally to us both. She asked about my time spent in the grocery store, and then went a level deeper to ask about my relationship with milk.
I broke the news of my lactose intolerance. She unsympathetically continued to express to me her love of milk, and how Longmont Farms actually delivers fresh milk in a jar right to her doorstep for a harmless $2.99. Not your average Uber trip.
I arrived home safely — thanks Miriam — and set my groceries on the kitchen counter. As I unpacked, I also began cooking dinner. I grilled some veggies, made some mini polenta pizzas and prepped for my hearts of palm salad. Should I start my own cooking show? Maybe. The dinner process was going really well. My hunger was on par with the amount of food I had allotted for that fateful Sunday. Veggies were ready in no time, and I poured them on my plate. Pizzas, same deal.
Salad — the bowl of joy I saved for last. I picked up my glass jar containing hearts of palm, which, for those of you who don’t know, is a vegetable harvested from the inner part of the stem of the cabbage palm tree. The lid of the jar would simply not budge.
It’s fine — my roommates are really good at this stuff. From door to door I begged, pleaded and cheered on my roommates as they shook in angry vigor to open my jar of hearts. Fail, after fail, after fail. I was told it couldn’t be done.
I was feeling painfully discouraged. I was at a loss. My salad was naked. I was so alone.
And then it hit me. The neighbors!
Two sets of humble gents live above my house. Why not make a friend in the process of my already interrupted dinner? I climbed the stairs behind my home. The thrill was real. Could it be done? Could it not be done? This was my final hope.
Behind the door of apartment number 2 sat three severely sweaty men. Just back from their intramural ultimate frisbee game, this trio, who I came to know as “The Blue Ballers,” were handed their destiny.
I told them about my meal. I told them about my missing ingredient. I told them about my humiliating failures of roommates (love you guys). I handed them my jar of hearts.
Blue Baller to Blue Baller, my jar of hearts was passed around. One, two, SNAP! The jar erupted in a victorious opening, a light splash of palm juice gracing my neighbor’s carpet. All of us smiled with satisfaction and an obvious kindle to a new friendship. It was in the spirit of good will, a post-ultimate frisbee energy and a genuine clip of kindness that my jar of hearts burst open.
So what did I learn this Sunday that I am relaying to you now? First, anything is possible if you believe. Second, trust thy neighbor. Third, treat thy neighbor like thy brother. Fourth, neighbors are friends, not food, but they can help you open your food. Fifth, The Blue Ballers are a totally underrated, infamous gang of ultimate frisbee players. Sixth, ultimate frisbee is the test of ultimate strength. And lucky number seven, hearts of palm complement baby arugula salads with balsamic vinaigrette.
Leave your scars. Come back for more. You are who you think you are.
