I always vowed that, when I turned the corner into old age, I would not spend the rest of my life going to art shows but rather try to enjoy other things, like conducting Maher's 9th, off the CD player, with a toothbrush in my bathrobe or grabbing a handful of wild sage, which has persisted in my garden through a warm upstate winter, and tossing it into the ratatouille meandering on the stove.
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