Blues musicians, newsboy caps, long hair and tattoos. Bar stools and comfy cushions. String instruments I've never seen before. Shrugging shoulders and eyes closed, he feels the music––sings about a lasting love, a little boy sitting on his mother's knee. Yard sale tables and chairs, collaged and painted and glossed over from three different homes. Chinese lanterns, apple picking baskets, and a blue and green water pail. I sip "Elvis Alive" in a jar, pick apart my "Adventurer" filling bowl like I would a pomegranate. I love color in my food. I love the red beets that dye the corn pink, the avocados sliced like cantaloupe, the bright steamed kale, the curly cue legume sprouts like green baby heads with a single curl in their hair.
After a stressful week of school, all I need is good food and a quirky place––Life Alive. It's a small vegetarian restaurant in downtown Lowell, and it never fails to leave me fulfilled––both mentally and physically. It's a place where I just want to write, but never know where to start. I think I need to pick a corner to write about every time I go. There's too much to capture all at once. Life Alive is someplace you go on a date, or after a workout, or just out on a Friday night by yourself with eyebrows red from waxing while you wait to pick up your younger brother at a party. It's someplace you want to dress up in gauchos and tie-dye T-shirts and bandanas. And the best part? Every table has a ceramic pitcher of water, like the bread baskets most restaurants serve. I like the ceramic pitchers better.
