My grandmother apparently believes that the Buddha only watches her in the morning and the evening. In the morning she eats vegetarian (rice porridge, salted greens, fermented blocks of spicy tofu, and sour pickles). In the evenings, she kneels in front of the Buddha and framed photos of our ancestors and counts her bracelet of prayer beads, her hushed voice sounding out syllables of piety, punctuated by the soft click of each bead.
In between the morning and evening, my grandmother eats meat, gossips with the neighbors, and opens up old arguments with my grandfather, who tries to eat his lunch in peace.
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I love this one on two levels - the writing, which is just beautiful (i.e. her hushed voice sounding out syllables of piety, punctuated by the soft click of each bead); and the story (i.e. the grandmother who eats meat, gossips, and opens up old arguments the rest of the day). Everything about this one just shines.
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