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My clock was sounding my internal alarm.  It was time to grab my keys, heft my backpack and place my cellphone into my pocket.  This daily routine is usually shrouded in darkness. 

The curtains are drawn.  I don’t have time to open them.  What is waiting for me outside is a secret.

No, no one is hiding anything.  But, whatever the weather I need to depart regardless.  There is always time to be surprised by the day’s weather.

Swiftly, I pulled open the door to our garage.  Then, the switch for the garage door opener easily depressed under my finger.  As the garage door raised, I was aghast.

The entire neighborhood was encased in a giant cloud, otherwise known as fog.  It’s common here in our town of Daly City.  But, today, it was especially thick.

All of the apartment complexes up on the hill were hidden behind the low-lying fog.  It was moving swiftly, pushed along rapidly by the ocean breezes.  That aspect of a fog is fascinating.

But, the worst part of a foggy day is driving in it.  Impaired vision and limited visibility mean danger.  Already the radio news has reported several accidents. 

People are driving too fast, hoping that the assumption of a clear road is their only route.  But, signal lights burn with dull penetration.   I hear the sound of brakes skidding on pavement. 

Gladly, that vehicle was able to stop in time.  He wasn’t behind me.  I breathed with relief.

Slowly a sign appeared on the side of the road.  It was a speed limit indicator.  55?  No way.  I checked on my speedometer and read 35 mph. 

Haste makes waste is that adage of old.  It is wise advice on a day like today.  Better to arrive a little later than usual to my destination than to never arrive at all.

Visibility and how far we can see through the weather tells us how to slow down.  Someone told me that Daly City is really foggy because of all the Asian families cooking rice.  I laughed then and chuckled now while slowly carefully making my way through the soup.

photo credit: brucefong cellphone photography

Yvonne and I were driving home from work, both weary from our long day.  It was productive and satisfying but we were also very tired.  Neither of us was eager to volunteer our energies to do the cooking.

Instead, we wondered how we could throw something together for a meal.  Silence followed our limited conversation.  It was time to take the bull by the horns.

I turned off of the freeway early.  We headed down a side street or two.  Even though I wasn’t quite sure where the diner was located, I wound down the window and followed my nose, literally!

There it was!  But, traffic was piled up.  Around the block I went scouting for a parking spot.

On a busy street I spotted a rare spot and did my parallel parking magic.  Yvonne waited inside the cab while I disappeared around the corner.  The aroma of the Filipino BBQ was arresting!

Inside the little shop I took my place in line.  Locals were ordering in the local Filipino dialect.  I tried to look confident but only succeeded in looking hungry.

I didn’t even know what to ask for.  Instead, I just pointed.  Whatever looked good and smelled amazing was good enough to me.

Back at the truck Yvonne smiled, “Yum, that smells really good.”  It was like an elixir that perked her up.  That’s the best kind of take out: it cheers, enthuses and injects the evening with fun!

Dinner was served once we rolled into our driveway.  Our debrief of the days events filled our evening.  It was fun and after all of that I volunteered to do the dishes! 

photo credit: brucefong cell phone photography

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