I spent a weekend once in an extraordinary house in San Francisco. The rooms were painted various shades of sherbet: orange, lime, lemon, raspberry. (When we were kids, we pronounced the word "sherbert," and I really resisted the removal of that second "r." Sherbert seems friendlier, somehow - agreeable, devil-may-care. Sherbet strikes me as curt in comparison).
The house was in Noe Valley, on a ridiculously steep hill. From the front, the house looked like a piton wedged into rock; from the back, it was propped up on stilts, just like Baba Yaga's.
I liked the weather in San Francisco. It wasn't hot and it wasn't cold, but you were always aware of the air - as if it were ever on the brink of some grand gesture.
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4 comments:
Haha, I still pronounce it "sherbert."
I am so glad it's not only me! Go sherbert! Sherbet just seems wrong.
like an earthquake.
or Miracle Whip.
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