Seemingly opposing variables get muddied together, but I want them to stand alone, distinct, clear.
I’m getting vertigo, trying to make sense of incoherencies, those things that are intangibly mutating. I’m repulsed, alarmed by that which is illogical.
It’s unsettling to admit that I only know what feels good, and what doesn’t.
I’m walking downtown, foggy-headed, untethered.
Busy-minded people blur by. I look down at the ground as I walk. I can’t bear to meet people’s eyes, to see the endless parade of the same vacant gaze.
The ground is littered with their filth. Cigarette butts tossed away and stomped underfoot, like all our dirty secrets. Forgotten scraps of paper, napkins kissed with lipstick. Styrofoam pellets that will outlive us all.
Just ahead, a parked motorbike jumps to life, revving its ugly whine. After it pulls away, I pause in front of its former resting place. Spilled oil is smeared all over the sidewalk, from it and many others like it.
I’m surprised to find it beautiful.
Variables align into one clear moment that pierces through the blur.
This feels good.
Through the fog, brilliant moments still make their way in.
They always do.
The glorious, pert toadstools sat in their wooden crate with irresistible allure. Spots of soil coyly speckled their feet, and the caps, taut and proud, gleamed up at me. I had to have them. Cepes, baby brown portobello, shiitake, white button. Delicate, seasonal delights that deserve the utmost care in preparation.
A bunched-up square of kitchen paper swipes off grit. The caps are sliced generously and set aside to meet their buttery fate. The stems, roughly chopped and reserved for tomorrow’s mushroom velouté soup.
I turn my attention to the sidekick: my first attempt at potato gnocchi. 2 boiled potatoes worm their way through my food mill. Tines of a fork distribute a pinch of salt, snowdrifts of parmesan, one beaten egg, and just enough flour to bring the dough together. Pillowy soft and satiny, texture of the dough feels gorgeous under my fingertips. I set a large pot to boil generously salted water.
Next door, butter hisses, and in goes minced garlic to start the symphony of aroma. The sliced caps tumble in with a gentle sprinkling of salt. Their meaty juices release into the pan, the smell is glorious; a steam treatment, good for the pores. Once the liquid dissipates and a rich brown fond develops at the bottom of the pan, stir in a bit of broth. When it simmers, I add a generous glog of cream, a damn good scrape of fresh nutmeg, ground black pepper and coriander seed: the warm earthiness of the spices will make the dish even more savory. Finish with a generous sprinkling of parmesan and stir in baby spinach, set aside to receive my gnocchi.
I roll out my tube of dough, cut into tiny pillows, and run them over the back of a fork. My gnocchi resemble irregular projectiles, but no matter. Dropped into the water, they swim aimlessly for just under a minute, until they puff slightly and bob to the surface. About 15 seconds after each ladleful rises, they are spooned straight into the creamy mushroom sauce. More finely grated parmesan to finish.
At first bite, F and I are in bliss. Soft, tender gnocchi are enrobed in the unctuous, rich sauce. Umami, brown and savory. The earthy warm fragrance of my dish marries with the crisp evening air and musky odor of leaves once again underfoot.
This is the glorious bounty of autumn.
I leave the house while the world is still sleeping.
Blue dawn is just giving way to cool golden daylight. There’s an unseasonable chill in this midsummer air. Even the sheep are still huddled together, snuggling among the low tree branches on their hill. Arriving at the station, I see one other lonely soul waiting on the deserted platform. The orange LED timetable display is blank, dormant.
Shuttered houses snooze, while the first birds are swooping and cackling above our heads.
I wait for the tinny tell-tale vibration of the tracks that signal the train’s arrival. Birds cheep, cars rev into second gear, plastic trash bags rustle. No vibration, no train. The sky darkens, cool air licks up my spine and blows away my grogginess, giving way to worry.
I’ve been pacing, while the minute hand has sliced through half a revolution. A husky wheeze of a bus engine signals behind me. A rosy-faced motherly woman commands the immense steering wheel, and waves me over. Climbing aboard, rosy perfume mingles with the fatigued, stale odor of bus seats who’ve seen better days.
There’s always one passenger who’s got to make friends with the driver; today, it’s a woman who looks just like her, short and plump with hair to match. Her rough smoker’s laugh matches the wheeze of the bus engine, periodically firing off as we gallivant through the countryside.
Bus bounces through impossibly narrow country roads, past steep green hills of grapevines that make way for flat horizons of corn fields. Detours take us through isolated roads, until we reach the point of no return: a road barely large enough for a horse and buggy. A Herculean effort is necessary for our valiant driver to back on up out, and eventually we find the main road.
The passenger next to me is glued to his smartphone. I recognize him as a train employee, on his way to work like the rest of us. His globby fingers daintily poke at the touchscreen, and he’s still wearing yesterday’s 5-o’clock shadow. I keep sneaking glances at him, just another guy on the Saturday morning bus. He seems so much smaller than the man whose gaze I avoid while he suspiciously scrutinizes my train pass.
The bus finally hauls its tired mass into the station. I left home nearly 2 hours ago. My legs are a blur, propelling me through the familiar streets rendered foreign in Saturday morning light.
The streets are dingier in the gray light. I pass by a man, roughened and beaten down by life, shuffling stiffly along, hollow mouth agape, framed by a dirty beard and long-neglected hair. The sight of him inspires disgust, then hot shame.
Past the post office, whose sidewalk reeks permanently of urine, sprinkled with crumbles of doubtful origin… Are there THAT many large dogs left to freely defecate on this same sidewalk? Doubtful.
A man strolls along, engrossed in the glow of his smartphone, which emanates suspiciously pornographic sounds.
Just before arriving at work, I catch a whiff of shair. Why is that rank-ass smell following me today?
Rip the door open at work, and there’s nobody but my coworker chirping, “Good morning! Your student called and said she’s gonna be late for class…”
I crouch into a squat and collapse into laughter. Sweet relief mixes with exhaustion and sudden buoyancy. Everything’s okay, and I can finally take a moment to laugh at the thoroughly bizarre start to my day.
Just me and F, cruising down the highway. Car full of music, snacks, and overnight bags; my socked feet rest on the dashboard.
I’m spying on the families in neighboring cars, making fun of them all.
Identical families in identical vehicles running off to identical rental properties to have identical vacations. Dads with polo shirts and reflective sunglasses driving the family vehicle, while Mom rides shotgun, staring hypnotically ahead at the infinite road stripes. Uninterested kids melting from boredom in the backseat. An occasional disgruntled mother-in-law is sandwiched between her mouthbreathing grandkids in the backseat, boring a hole into the back of her disappointment of a son-in-law’s skull with her iron gaze. A family’s worth of bicycles jimmy-rigged to the back of the vehicle, impeding their rear view.
Cutting off drivers on the highway to hurry to some banal destination, just to eat overpriced rubbery seafood and subpar waffles, and sit on a lackluster beach while your kids lament about missing their carbon-copy friends. Take a few washed-out, blurry photos that end up sitting in a shoebox to collect dust until after the funeral.
In other words, livin’ the middle class dream.
“Are we gonna be like that someday?”
His right hand moves from the wheel to my knee and tenderly squeezes, eyes straight ahead. “Maybe.” Suddenly, a clueless errant driver weaves into our lane. F’s face hardens as he grips the wheel and hits the brakes to avoid them, all while muttering uncouth things in French. (Roughly translated, it’d be something like: “These unfortunate gentlemen are ill-informed about the art of driving; ’tis an act better left to those more capable of doing it.”)
I make a silly face at the driver as we pass them by, and I burst into laughter at their confused expression.
No, we’ll never be like them…
We arrive at Scampi, our friends’ home near the beach. When we pull up to the house, we’re greeted by Mama and Papa, holding bright-eyed Baby 3. Babies 1 and 2 run outside to greet us, in a dust storm of blonde hair, blue eyes, joyous shrieks, and general excitement at receiving visitors. Papa is happy to see F, to increase the testosterone-to-estrogen ratio in the house, and Mama is happy to chitchat with me in English. Fresh beverages fizz and glasses clink to herald our arrival. We catch up with our friends while Baby 3 coos and giggles, and Babies 1 and 2 twitter about in a show-and-tell flurry of sparkly princess stickers and bold finger paintings.
Dinnertime approaches, and our tummies growl. The men stride into the backyard to start the fire for our barbecue.
I hold a hand to my empty stomach and look out at F.
Someday, we know there’ll be something more in here.
A wild strawberry plucked from a vine in the garden, savored as I pass through on my way to work.
A finger of amber rum in the afternoon out on my terrace, with my feet up on the table.
A midnight homemade kebab and fries, a decadent treat. We sing “cheers” as we toast our meaty, saucy sandwiches together, and dip crisp fresh fries into mayonnaise and ketchup. Sinfully, deviously improper. The naughtiness of a midnight pig-out session, once in a blue moon. Not good for the heart, but good for the soul.
The pleasure on our friends’ faces as they taste my cooking; it was well worth adding that extra pat of butter, for a luxurious creamy texture.
A warm bowl of my butternut squash soup on a brisk morning, dusted with a pinch of cumin, fleur de sel, snipped fresh chives. Finishing with a dollop of cream gives an unctuous touch to a hearty lunch, creating an appetizing presentation.
The finishing touch: a gesture for pure pleasure, a reward for being human. Celebrating the artful, deliberate stimulation of our innate sensory pleasures. Indulgence that makes life deliciously beautiful.
As for the resulting light padding that these transgressions produce in the thigh-booty-stomach tri-zone area: I’ll walk it off later.
F is in perfect repose next to me. Dawn’s blue light slips in from between the shades and brightens the hills and valleys of his face. I gently clasp his careworn hand, and he softly squeezes back.
He sits at his desk, engrossed. He has the same discerning look as his baby photo that sits just behind. That look, it sparks my core sense of loving urgency. I walk over, fold him in my arms, and inhale his scent. I whisper my words of love into his skin, radiant with his smell. This is home. His hand raises to meet mine, and they embrace.
He’s here. We love. Right now.
It’s said by people wiser than me,
That you are to declare
No less often than always
Before you can’t anymore.
Lying snuggled in the comforters, with double the space and pillows because F’s gone off to work. Bye sweetie, I’ll be having breakfast in bed… Sucka…
Going for a walk as the day starts warming up, basking in the best golden sunlight of the day.
Making thoughtful, well-prepared meals.
Taking that precious 3pm nap.
Tasting a fine Irish whiskey at noon if I feel like it.
Unburdened by the clock.
Deep breaths, birdsong.
Love, love, love.