I mean: it’s easy, but so many things can get in the way, distracting us from love, from letting ourselves fall into the flow of loving, of giving everything we are to the act of caring for another person, for the knowledge of them, for the knowledge of what impact they have upon us, for the responsibility of our impact upon them. So many things can hold us back: pains from past experiences, confusion over lost loves, rules and cautions given by well-meaning others.
For years, I’ve fought those rules, those cautions, those fears; for years, I’ve sought to find the truth of my impact, to see who people truly are, to understand why they behave in all the ways they do.
And I’ve loved.
It’s actually the easiest thing in the world, to love. To give of oneself; to listen beyond oneself, to watch silently as someone moves in their native – or adopted – ways. To take in someone else’s essence as quietly and non-judgmentally as when looking at the ocean water push again and again in rippling seafoam upon the shore… to marvel at the patterns and at the way those patterns make us feel, rippling even into our own hearts and minds.
To know that one may not be able to affect those waters, aside from having them slide around us as we wade into them, to allow ourselves to be embraced, surrounded, loved back in the ways natural to them while we stand, basking in the warm sensations of saltwater washing on our skin, kissing our cheeks in sudden splashes, filling our sinuses with cleansing seaspray.
It is enough, sometimes, to bask, to take in the beauty of a thing again and again. That, too, is love.
And, yes, there is more, should we wish to go there: there is protection of those things and people we love, ensuring that no harm comes to them, that we may indulge again and again in its beauty, that others too may share in the beauties we value.
But, imagine the fear and terror of something so benign as the sea, should we have waded in too far when we did not know how to swim, if we were pulled under by a current to strong to resist. Imagine the fear we might concoct of even wading in shallow waters, if our fears grew great enough.
And imagine the beauties we would miss, if we let those fears take hold and rule us, instead of facing our fears and the reasons for them, if we did not learn correctly from our life’s lessons: if we understood incorrectly that the waters were life-taking instead of life-giving, if we concocted tales of monsters pulling us under the seas instead of currents from which we could actually, in growing stronger, swim.
Imagine if we decided not to love, simply because we were afraid, because we had been pulled under and choked on a love stronger than we knew how to handle. Imagine if we tried to empty ourselves of all the waters within us, simply because they resembled those waters of the sea.
It would be a crime against ourselves, and such a great error in our understanding – and yet, this is the conclusion too many draw from the pains of love, of loving: To withdraw. To stop. To die. To fear.
There are some waters in which one cannot sink, in which the salt content is so high that it is impossible, even when one cannot swim, to fall beneath the water’s surface. There are some waters so clear that one can see straight to the bottom of the sea bed. Would we want to miss these beauties, just because we had some painful, incomprehensible experience at some time?
I would not; I do not.
Love is only another mark of life, of living; and, to love, we must know what love is, how it works, from whence it comes.
But no one has taught us love.
I would say: As with anything worth knowing, as with any skill worth learning, keep trying. Keep living. Keep learning. Keep loving.
To me, love is the final magic, the infinite unknown into which so few deeply delve, from which there are inevitably the greatest rewards.
It comes again, and lingers again, this morning, as every morning since I have left the men who I’ve loved, as it comes every morning when I wake to find myself yet alone.
The bed is too narrow, I tell myself. It’s the wrong bed, and the mattress is too old, and that’s why I sleep so poorly, why I wake in a fight with my psyche – wanting so much to be happy, embracing the beauty of the day and its potential while facing the reality, day after day, of my astounding aloneness.
“Honestly, I can’t for the life of me understand why you haven’t been snapped up by some eligible bachelor,” my first sailing instructor tells me in some fashion or other every time we chat since I left Ontario three years ago.
Honestly, I can’t, for the life of me, understand why I haven’t also. Except, I do understand.
I accept and expect a certain degree of aloneness in my life. It is only when I am alone – even amidst other people, even with those I love most – when I can fully appreciate the things I love: the way the wafting breezes lift and play with the summer trees’ leaves, turning thin, green appendages into shimmering waves of laughing silver-green, playing midstream between earth and sky; the way certain chefs’ dishes, presented in artistic perfection, interplay in textures, flavors and scents on my palate, arousing endorphins that heighten my culinary sensitivities as strongly as any sensual, sexual interplay has ever done – and with none of the expectation, or disappointment.
I begin to see a pattern in myself: that there is not an ounce of expectation in those things I love all by myself, when I am alone; I was not taught to expect, to demand that the sun shine or that leaves shimmer in the breezes – and yet, they happen so naturally, so easily, all the time. I was not taught to expect bursts of flavor on my palate, food plated in perfect artistic fashion, sudden endorphin highs from food. Food was nutrition, practical, and only occasionally fun.
But men, and love… and some degree of pain in regards to them….
Those, I was taught to expect. To endure.
Why?!? I cannot help but wonder.
Why should I not meander through life, giving love and learning to expect, in so many places and so many times, beauty and love returned, shimmering with the same kind of random repetition as can be found when the trees are full of their tender, fragile fans; as can be found in restaurants the world over.
That I am alone is not a problem. That I wake every morning, remembering the glory of being with one whom I’ve loved, with whom I can share need not be pain, but a gentle reminder that it happened once, twice, several times; and it will happen again.
I am in the springtime of love, even if I am alone – or in the late winter, perhaps – but, somewhere on Earth it is summer, and the breezes lift and play with leaves in that way I love so much. Somewhere on Earth, even if it is night here, chefs are making gorgeous plates with deliciously-woven layers of flavors to lilt on diners’ palates.
Somewhere – in many places, in fact – there is love.
I’m just in the wrong place, or in the wrong time… and it will come again, or I will find it again, when my eyes open, when they’re not so clouded with tears. When I accept where I am, and where I’ve been; when I accept it will happen again.
It’s not just a lazy summer, though one might think it is to see me from the periphery.
I have the luxury to spend time outdoors, basking in the sun at the neighborhood pool, volunteering at beerfests and other events around Atlanta on weekends, meeting new people and making new friends. I even flew away to California for five days a little more than a month ago; it was the most amazing trip of my life, so far: full of spontaneity, new friends, surf, sun and movies-come-to-life.
But, in the background is my life, and the true stresses and trials left to me to solve.
Granted, I’ve arranged my life and outlook so as not to have so many stresses as some have – at least, not in the same ways most have. Instead of worrying over my health, I whittle my diet to things I know I can eat without much concern; I watch my activities so as to reduce the possibilities for physical harm to myself. Instead of worrying too much over money (which does, yet, concern me a bit), I worry over how best to make my way to the sailboat of my dreams, to the life of my dreams, to the work of my dreams that best fulfills me. Instead of fighting eternally with those I love (or like) over any given issue, I hunt mercilessly for solutions, for work-arounds, for freedom and greater love, for understanding and even distance so I may gain perspective – or, at least, peace.
I am, therefore, single; I spend a great bulk of my time thinking of others, worrying about others; and a great amount of time working on the projects that most move me, that fill me with great excitement, endless ideas and momentum.
The rest of the time, I spend enjoying life.
It is important, vital; and, somehow, I see so many who’ve forgotten it, who fall into the trap of living vicariously through the excitements and hazards and problems of TV shows, of family members, of neighbors and co-workers and friends. There is no attempt to help anyone; merely to watch from the fringes, to observe and make commentary; to tell others’ stories.
I suppose that’s important, too: storytelling is certainly an art. But I’d rather tell my own stories; live my own life. Find my own way.
So, I bask in the sun and let my mind work its magic while I’m paying attention to nothing but the luxury of peace, of hot rays beating down on me, of cool breezes picking up the sweat from my skin, of children playing Sharks-and-Minnows in the pool nearby. Of the music I choose to hear from my Pandora app, meanwhile.
And, when I get home, my copper skin a shade more bronzed, silky-smooth from repeated slathering of extra-virgin coconut oil, I’m ready again to work, to plan, to harness the power of my mind towards my most cherished goals:
It was far more nerve-wracking for me than I anticipated as I sat on a red metal bench outside of Monday Night Brewery, dolled like a go-go girl in my new Detective Comics dress and knee-high black boots, awaiting the start of the Monday Night Mile. Was I the only one who felt nervous in my get-up? Surely not, I thought as I watched a man in a flowing yellow-and-white sundress wander back-and-forth from the patio bar. I marveled at the nonchalance of girls in rainbow-colored tutus and a couple of guys with Afro-style wigs and giant, horn-rimmed glasses.
We were the anomalies in Atlanta’s first official beer run: most everyone was dressed in running gear, occasionally bespeckled with colorful long socks or wild laces on their shoes.
Though a beer before the race would settle my nerves, I know my tolerance for alcohol and preferred to start the race on an untainted stomach. I’d had a big lunch and snacked on a few handfuls of nuts immediately before the race, drank half-a-liter of water on the way down… and was still sure I was going to be drunk well before crossing the finish line.
There’s a chance that everyone was nearly as flustered as I, for there was a lot of pre-drinking. Almost no one knew what to expect, but we all surely knew it was crazy. Runners milled about in groups, inside and out, flicking eyes at the costumes and traditional running getup; I wonder if those who didn’t dress up felt as if they should have, and how many of us who did questioned if we shouldn’t.
I certainly yearned for something to keep me safe from my dis-ease, for some companion in this race since I was “running” alone; perhaps the Hatian-made superhero dolls displayed near the start line. They laid, smiling, next to hand-made clutches, pillows and screen-printed T-shirts; and I felt childishly like I would be okay if I just had one in my arms.
We were all giddy and nervous, I think, crazy to be doing something so foolish on an early Monday evening; crazy to be experienced grown-ups, many of whom had to work the next morning, knowing perfectly well the dangers of downing four full beers with university-student-like abandon and running – yes, RUNNING! – in between draughts.
Seven o’clock couldn’t come soon enough; and, finally the 16-oz pours of Monday Night’s newest beer, the 5% ABV Nerd Alert, filled tables before the start line. We gathered, chatting with each other about what to expect and how we came to be in the race; I happened to wind up next to Wolverine (AKA “Logan”, AKA “Marshall”) and his more-human buddies. Then I spotted the incarnation of my dress’ superhero, Batman; I had to go see.
Wolverine (AKA “Logan”, AKA “Marshall”)
Batman at Monday Night Mile
Now, I was okay. Now, we were together, all a group, all unsure about what was happening next, all waiting to chug our beers and step across the start line.
…And we waited….
Finally, they instructed us to take a beer, “But don’t drink them!!” Hell’s bells; they were making us wait LONGER!
‘How long do they expect us to hold onto these things without drinking…??’
There must be an instinct in people, especially those gathered in a large group on a warm evening, to sip the cool beverage held in hand, the girls next to me confirmed as they related their conscious and deliberate efforts NOT to raise their cups to their lips and sip the golden effervescence. I was definitely finding it difficult; and, as I looked around, noticed that others did not even bother to resist the temptation: several cups were half-empty or more within minutes, despite admonitions.
With a final top-up by event coordinators for those who’d “cheated” and couldn’t help but sample their bevvies, we were allowed to drink up and start the race. There were well over two hundred of us gathered, some tossing beers back with the ease of experts and others – like me – drinking more quickly than normal, but by no means sucking our beers down. I watched as my compatriots took off before me, dropping their empty cups on the ground and running across the start line; I felt urged to finish my beer quickly, before I was last across the line.
Really, Meredith? I heard myself internally. Yep, really, I responded. I was here to do a beer run, whether I was running or not. I downed the last of my beer within two minutes and dropped my cup, grabbed the hem of my mischievous, inching skirt and actually jogged over the start line.
…For about a thirty seconds.
The first-place runner broke past me on his way down as I was ¼ up the ¼-mile hill, running at a speed I’d likely match even if I was dressed as race-appropriately as he. I grinned, watching those on his tail continue the race-pace as if they’d not just chugged 32 ounces of brew. Their seriousness was silly to me; but I’d been warned to expect such dedication from at least a few.
More amusingly wonderful were the trios and quintuples of over-fifty aged friends, jogging up the hill ahead of me. I was settled in my pace, comfortably not-last and happily not-first. This was way more fun than I anticipated, and I was only one beer in!
Reaching the beer station much faster than expected, I grabbed a beer and watched the gathering as nearly everyone drank this one more slowly than the last. We watched the more serious beer-runners suck-and-bolt, and I noticed one taller guy in race gear struggling with perhaps his last pint, panting and almost doubling-over as if he’d run five times as far as he’d most certainly run thus far. The beer was the challenge here, and the strategy was in how one handled it, not the hill.
My strategy pleased me more at this point: I’d been asked already by several people how I planned to run in “those boots.”
“I won’t!” I always replied; and now I was happy that the temptation to join in the stomach-sloshing activity was virtually removed for me by my own brand of ridiculousness.
Yet, the beer was still a concern: two beers inside of five minutes is WAY more than my body likes to handle, more than my palate demands, more than my mind has had to find ways with which to cope. Drink, drink, drink, I cheered myself on. Hmm… this pour was larger than the last.
And then there was the quality of the beer, about which I was now fully aware:
Technically speaking, Nerd Alert is an ale. And if you want to get reeealIlly technical, we fermented this beer with ale yeast at low temperatures to achieve an incredibly clean flavor. However, if you bring up this knowledge in normal circles, you will, in fact, be labeled a nerd. So just enjoy the straw-blond appearance (Like the hair of the girl the nerd could never get) and the crisp, safe essence (like the nerd’s comic book room).
I guess I’m not yet beer-nerdy enough to understand… even if I am blonde.
What I did grasp was this: Nerd Alert IS fairly easy to drink, if we’re talking about heaviness. When poured with a good head, the ale is much more tasty, with a creaminess that balances out a mild bitterness. However, I always prefer something with a bit more texture and flavor, and Nerd Alert was simply… a regular beer. Not particularly crisp, not particularly delicious; it was something I’d expect while at a summer beer party in someone’s backyard – and I’d likely mix it into a shandy with a sharp ginger beer, simply to give it more foam and bite. But it would make a REALLY good shandy. Or perhaps a great beer-based cocktail.
Which is why I didn’t finish all of the second pour: my palate was still too awake, too aware, too sensitive and demanding of why I was drinking TWO of this particular beer – because, though I might drink one, I never drink two pints of something I don’t REALLY like.
Down the hill again, with much the same amusement as when I went up; and the third beer was considerably easier. I’d made it half-way in just under 14 minutes; I was making FAR better time than the hour I’d expected to take for completing the race.
I think the beers were starting to hit me, or I simply enjoyed too well watching as people swept across the finish line two lengths ahead of me, for I don’t remember much about drinking that third one – except that I finished it with ease. Back up the hill, boots making stride after stride, hiking down my ridiculous dress that was certainly not made for walking (even if it was just about the most comfortable thing I could be wearing on an almost-hot summer night).
I nabbed my fourth beer and started chatting up someone in the group who challenged me to finish my beer and make it down before them “in those boots.” Clearly, men don’t realize how easy it is to walk in high-heeled boots, especially boots tall enough to nearly reach one’s knees. For those reading: Consider that one’s entire foot is covered, along with one’s ankle, and the motion is as easy as walking normally. The challenge may come with stilettos – whether boots or sandals – but these boots were not.
As we loitered at the top of the hill for the fourth round, we watched as a real-life, car-to-UPS truck chicken standoff manifest. We stood around, incredulous and laughing as an annoyed-but-busy UPS driver waited, then decisively wove his way around tables littered with still-full pints of beer while a ticked-off-and-stubborn girl and her friend sat in their car facing him, unmoving, silently demanding that the heavens open up the earth and we all – including Mr. UPS – sink into it so they could pass.
Miss Priss finally decided to move so Mr. UPS could manage to his drop-off down the hill, then I strolled to the finish line with some new friends in their beautiful mariachi costumes and similarly-inappropriate shoes while we each finished up our last pints. This beer run was more fun than a pub crawl, I’m sure (though I’ve never been on a pub crawl). It was at least completely unusual and far more rare.
As we reached the finish line, I dumped my empty cup in the trash can and remembered suddenly to take note of my time: a speedy 29 minutes and 40 seconds to make the “run,” and I’d even watched a spectacle and made friends along the way.
I’m sure my official time reads later than 29:40, since we wound up chatting more and forgetting to actually step across the finish; I remembered to walk across, finished the race and was bedecked in my finisher’s medal.
Blissfully buzzed, we were all friends now. It was easier now, and I met more wonderful people as I strolled around, my naysaying mind gone quiet enough after of 64 ounces of social lubrication and an entertaining mile of exercise.
Me, Three Beers Into the Beer Run (and still camera-shy!)
But I wasn’t drunk, though I thought surely I would be.
The Organizers’ Finish Their Heat!! (Left to right: Marc Hodulich, ??, David Maloney, Matthew ?)
I lucked upon a new friend who bought me my favorite Monday Night beer: the delicious, gingery wit, Fu Manbrew, and – grateful to have my brother in town to act as my DD – I stood at the Start/Finish line and enjoyed this beer, watching as the organizers ran their heat, decked more ridiculously than almost anyone I’d seen, finishing four beers and one mile before I managed even half of my fifth and favorite brew.
It’s easy for me to see, now, the attraction to such events. My mom, in her great love for me, related my general fervor for life to a woman whose family lived in China for a time, who learned to let go from a culture of people who gather in parks and “play,” doing whatever they enjoy in front of everyone. It’s not normal, she observed, for Americans to allow themselves such freedom: to do and be and play in whatever manner they like best – no matter what their skill or ability.
This beer run was our version of that: a bunch of people at all levels of experience in running and drinking, getting together to play.
Perhaps we yet need the alcohol to give ourselves the excuse and freedom to let go…
Or perhaps we’re learning from it that we won’t need it, and can just let it be part – instead of the instigator – of fun.
Shoe Styling with John & Ashley Zintack (clockwise from top)
Chris & McCall Butler
The Naked Man (Andrew)The Squirrel (Marc Hodulich) and His Friend
I must thank Marc Hodulich and Dave Maloney of CharityBets for organizing the Monday Night Mile, for allowing me to participate while helping market one of the most fun events I’ve ever attended – at one of my favorite local breweries.
Dave Maloney of CharityBets and Monday Night Mile Organizer
Halving my time, I doubled my sponsors’ contributions to Ties That Matter, the Hatian charity organization created and managed by Monday Night Brewery. Thanks also to my sponsors: my new foodie friend, Lon Snider (@Heelcorkdork), who I met during my regular Monday night activity, #Foodiechats; and my dear friend Mark Shekerow, a passionately vivacious man who is always up for a great conversation and great fun, and is so incredibly supportive of all I love to do. I’m so grateful to you both!
And a special thanks to my older brother, David McGuire, for driving to and from the event so I wouldn’t have to worry over myself; and to my parents for tolerating such uncommon nonsense from me.
Post Script: If you know the names of any pictured here who I’ve not correctly identified, please introduce them to me in the comments section below! -xo, M.
So many mornings, I wake naked with a sheet or light quilt draped over three-quarters of my body, the wind coolly sneaking into my room and kissing my arms, shoulders and back; and I find myself half-dreaming of resting in a lover’s bed.
This morning, with the sun not as hot as yesterday, not as proddingly demanding that I leave my comfort, my dreams turned to the ocean, to a bed near the beach where similar soft breezes and gentle sunlight awakened me as tenderly as a careful love. I could remember the white sands beyond, hear the faintly crashing waves orchestrate with quietly-rustling leaves; and my body is quiveringly seduced as thoroughly as by the scent and structure and attentions of a well-attuned man.
Could it be that nature itself is calling me, beckoning me to the edges of land and foamy water? If so, I’ve felt it for years….
It’s said that youthful impressions are the strongest made; and I’m sure of it.
My first and greatest love, le mer, is calling me home.
I woke this morning to vivid, almost-awake dreams of deep, dark blue waters, of a high, hot sun, of salt air thick and lush on my nostrils, of a strong, deeply-tanned man – the owner of the long, white sailboat – preparing to dive with me.
The sense of freedom and vastness, of purpose was so clear – more clear and explicit than with any other dream or idea I have: the purpose was unspeakable, and the only way to describe it is: Life.
I find myself in the midst of the world, preparing my journey with food, beverage, music and travel across land – and yet, I find myself restless, dis-eased, anxious. Surely it is my sense of food in relation to restaurants, my sense of media in relation to television, my sense of marketing in relation to advertising; and it is hard to break through these notions.
Sailing, however, is both new and old, instinctive and primal and inventive, nakedly natural and so very human. It is demanding on physical, mental, emotional and consciousness levels; it requires an openness to the sea and to peoples and to lands – a forever learning, amidst warmth and love of the sun and wind and skies.
I do not know how I will get there; but I feel I must make start making my way to the sea, no matter what I must do or give up to do so. My skin longs for the heat of the sun, the cooling breezes, the nourishing salt water; my mind begs and prods me for the simplicity and nuances of laying hands on line.
I want to disappear into her, back to my origins, back to the sea… to be myself and protect what I love most: to be Meredith.
I actually found myself depressed as 5pm rolled around and the number of people at the cafe thinned out. The guys next to me moved to another empty table where they’d have more room to spread out and discuss whatever Internet venture they were concocting, one guy a very obviously-artsy type and the other, with his laptop, moved and dressed like a prototypical modern nerd: khakis and a colored button-down with comfortable shoes, and practical, monotone-rimmed glasses, all covering his smooth, mocha skin and slight frame.
I gathered my things as the guys were readying themselves to move, feeling a dank heaviness in my stomach and a thickness building in my head. I didn’t want to leave, but what was I going to do? Move in here? I’d been at the cafe all afternoon, reading and highlighting my journals in a long-overdue task from The Artist’s Way, feeding off the ambiance of this corner of the reclaimed warehouse that is The Jane, sipping really good pour-over coffee and a mediocre Americano and a plastic restaurant-style juice-cup of water, nibbling extraordinary French butter cookies called sablés. And trying to write while watching people come and go.
I’m not really a people-watching kind of person, in that I don’t deliberately go out to watch people. I’d rather be more active in just about any circumstance, and this case was no different: I listened to conversations between business people, between a father and his two young children, between the baristas and bakers, and I wished I had some reason to be involved. I’d rather be conversing with any of them on just about any level instead of sitting alone in this incredibly-cool coffeehouse, rather than watching slightly-enviously the stylish girl at the table next to me as she typed away on her Macbook, somewhat snobbishly-resistant to the rest of the world and projecting enough of a sense that she didn’t really care what anyone else was doing.
I, on the other hand, was far too aware of the entire scene. The buttery pastries being rolled and cut on the corner-counter by two cute college-aged girls lured me, as I know enough about baking to love the task of it, to hunger as I watched for more knowledge about baking such fine pastries as these. The melded scents of toasted flour, caramelized sugar and melted butter wafted from the kitchen and through the room in a constant, unmistakable fragrance, tickling familiar memories of joy. I sipped my pour-over and watched the baristas playfully drizzling hot streams of water over filters full of ground coffee beans, two boys and their fun, transforming mud-colored grounds into addictively-acidic, bittersweet cups of black coffee.
My eyes found fascination drinking in every aspect of this cafe, wherever I gazed: at long, manila-colored wooden counters; at the age-pocked concrete floor that groped persistently its antique green paint; at huge, antique-framed mirrors hanging in portrait behind the pastry counter and tilted in landscape above the registers. Cute souvenirs are arranged attractively near the pastry counter: bags and coffee cups and more; and, under the registers one can find pour-over kettles and stands identical to the ones used by Octane’s baristas, and fanned-out copies of my favorite local foodie journal, Brother.
The thought gripped me as surprisingly as it did strongly: I wanted to work here; the feeling followed firmly that I would not. This was a place for me to enjoy; but with every moment of enjoyment, I craved that the moment would continue longer than it would. Everyone enjoying his or her coffee here was a part of this place, a part of this community, and I was not. I was a stranger, a visitor, even if the baristas and bakers were kind to me: I lived in the ‘burbs, an hour away, and everyone here was within walking distance, within biking distance, within short driving distance. They belonged.
I realized, later, how much it reminded me of the coffeehouses in my former home of Hamilton, Ontario: artsy, hip places with such a fun vibe and shabby-chic decor; only this was more friendly, more open, with much better quality goods. It was all I ever wanted in a coffeehouse and more, and so inaccessible to me in the ways I most wanted.
I finished my Americano and my cup of water, savored several bites of a lavender-lemon sablé as the unusual floral scent filled my palate unexpectedly every time, and left half of the delicious cookie in the 9” metal cake pan acting as a plate, wondering why I would do such a thing.
But I gathered my bag and slipped out from behind the table along the giant roll-up door with large windowpanes, savoring for the last time that day the wrap-around bar and tall case full of liquors that I noticed only halfway through my stay, admiring the remarkable transformation passion can achieve, especially in a corner of Atlanta once dangerous enough that none of these people would spend hours, as they did regularly, in this corner of this warehouse.
As I stepped from the glass-framed entranceway and into the light of an overcast sky, I knew why I’d left that half of the most exquisitely unique cookie I’d ever tasted:
I was leaving a piece for the gods to savor, as I recall some culture was said to leave the last sip in their glass.
And, since I am the only god I believe in, I knew I’d be back, to have another one.
*Edited 4/10/2014: Thanks to The Little Tart’s General Manager, Sarah, who corrected me. The name of the exquisite cookies I enjoyed are “sablés”, not “santés”.
He told me to meet him at F&B; he was sure I had mentioned wanting to go there, but I knew I hadn’t.
I wanted to go there; I’d wanted to visit for a proper meal since the night of hors d’oeuvres and drinks with my mom and the editors and publisher of FLAVORS Magazine. I’d wanted to visit long before then: since first driving down Peachtree Street into Buckhead one late October night, not long after returning to Georgia. I’d spotted its black patio peeking across the street from under the boughs that drape Roxborough Road and frantically searched the building for the name before the light changed; the white letters stood just where they should, above the black cloth awning.
The valet service impressed me, as it always does, as it did the first time. I stepped out of Dad’s black 1990s Mercedes feeling excited and luxuriously spoiled, relinquishing my responsibility to a young man in black and felt my mind turn powerfully to the clicking of strappy high heels laced around my ankles, vaguely noticing myself placing them one-before-the-other as I’d learned to do in modeling class as a teenager, the better part of my mind swirling with what-to-do-when-I-saw-him.
That’s the funny thing about falling in love, isn’t it? You focus on so many small details that normally don’t seem to matter with anyone else, at any other time. You try to pull away and find yourself again, and you just get swept back into the madly powerful emotion.
The restaurant mattered so much to me; being there with him was like having dinner with two favorite men, each competing for my attention. I had been so aware of the decor, the first time: the small French pots on an overhanging shelf near the bar charmed me intensely; the lighting from the darkened windows made the nook where our group sat on high stools at a long, high table feel all the more intimately intense. I had lightly teased the server for his small negligences of my mother’s non-alcoholic beverages and later connected with the owner, impressed with his charm, grace and hospitality; had indulged in bite-sized appetizers that I’d enjoyed more and less. But my attention was entirely on this place.
This time, my companion fought for my mind, first teasing the hostess and then our server on my behalf – the same server I’d teased on my first visit; my date worked hard to alight my senses with gestures, conversation, attention I’m unused to. My mind and heart were caught in a massive tug-of-war between my way of typically experiencing meals, during which no one really pays me attention, my mind and senses becoming one, savoring every drop of a meal and the environment – and this new man, who both wanted me to enjoy myself and yet somehow demanded to sample and intermingle with every drop of my delight.
The subtle became nearly lost: I drank a bold, organic red wine with our meal of appetizers, my palate finding, despite my distraction, the hints of tobacco, currants, blackberries amidst the dry tannins. We discussed the merits of the puff pastry, which I enjoyed with its fresh arugula, broiled grape tomatoes and creamy, warm goat cheese atop eggplant paste; he thought it needed to be stuffed with cheese. The mussels in their light white-wine-and-cream broth we agreed, as we fed each other on half-shells, needed more depth; he asked for a plate of lemons and some fresh thyme.
My mind flitted to the other guests as he improved the meal for me, bite-by-bite, and I enjoyed it more; I found myself worrying, at first, and then accepting our irreverent indulgence and obviously sensual enjoyment of the food and each other that was, at this point, no longer for the other’s seduction; he’d captured my attention and won me from the restaurant.
It is a strange game, to be captured by a man, especially when one’s interest is native and well-entrenched; stranger still to be stolen from something as inanimate as a restaurant. And even more strange to have the restaurant turn around to compete again….
I had an unspoken taste for something rich and chocolaty-sweet, though I was settled on going home. A moment later, with no instigation on our parts, our server brought us a sample platter of desserts, on the house. The plate contained three delicious desserts, none of which I remember so well as the dark chocolate ganache that was precisely what I had wanted; my senses were now reeling, spinning out of control at the madness of this night, at the dizzying vie for my attentions and affections. I sipped a double-espresso in an attempt to balance my mind, steeling myself against the sweet delights and my companion’s deft and intriguing conversation with the female half of F&B’s ownership – again, on my behalf – by focusing on the hot, bitter liquid.
It was clear, by the time we exited, who had won me this night, though I regretted the loss for the restaurant I had loved so much since first seeing it, to which I felt such a strange connection, that had left me with so little to applaud.
I hear it’s since changed owners, which makes sense from the new look and feel of their website, from the new, white awnings above the black-glassed patio.
He won me that night, my gentleman; for the night and for most of the following months. And I lost that restaurant, lost F&B….
“Won the battle but lost the war,” they say….
For there’s not yet a man who can take me from my love of being, of experiencing a moment in its fulness, be the moment good or bad, passionate or blasé, deep or shallow, intimate or excruciatingly distant; and not many restaurants that fail to indulge.
Tempted as well as I am, they’re all just moments of falling in love.
They were alright when I first tried them, when they were novel and restaurants like Hard Rock Cafe served grain-based GardenBurgers instead of soy-based Boca Burgers. But someone got the idea that soy-burgers are more flavorful, desirable, something than whole grains… and now that’s what everyone serves.
Including my parents, who have had the idea since I stopped eating meat at fifteen years old that I would wind up malnourished if I didn’t get enough protein, and who like to buy me Boca Burgers when the family is grilling hamburgers.
It’s not that I won’t eat them; it’s just that the grey, frozen patties are pretty darned flavorless, even when cooked up and layered with cheese, greens, tomatoes, ketchup, mayo and mustard… in which case, I usually feel like I’m eating the ‘burger’ just to get a little texture out of the meal, and perhaps a bit of protein.
I’d rather eat eggs. Or a salad. Or a salad with eggs, sans condiments.
I’ve also stopped eating most condiments since I don’t often eat sandwiches and I tend to prefer the flavor of my foods added to them while cooking rather than poured from bottles at the table.
Yet, during my first #Foodiechat on Twitter, when the subject of gourmet condiments arose and Traina Foods started throwing around that they make sun-dried tomato ketchup, that they were even willing to give away samples of the product to some of the #foodie participants, I couldn’t resist asking for some.
About a week later, an 8x5x5” box arrived from California, to my utter surprise. I’d forgotten about the samples and had been sure I’d receive, at most, some ketchup packets; I opened the box curiously and laughed, finding two full-sized ketchup bottles tucked between huge pockets of bubblewrap.
But what to do with so much ketchup? I hadn’t so much as poured a dab of ketchup on even my Waffle House hash browns in years, didn’t dare contaminate the sweetness of decent fried potatoes – especially sweet potato fries, which I most commonly ate – with anything besides salt, pepper and perhaps some rosemary… and I almost never eat fast-food fries.
I gave one bottle to my intrigued brother and his girlfriend and set the other on the counter until I could figure out what to do with it.
Weeks passed. I’d notice it on the counter occasionally and would remind myself that I needed to try it… But it was ketchup, for goodness sake, and when was I going to make french fries? When was I going to even go to the McDonald’s down the street to pick up a small serving, so I could taste the sun-dried goodness that surely awaited inside that plastic bottle…?
I wondered what it would taste like, knew I could just open it up and taste it by itself… but the thought seemed obscene, ridiculous. And what if it was only good ON something?
The longer I waited, the more my mind filled with contrasting ideas of what was inside that bottle: overly-sweet ketchup like I grew up with; some combination of that and the richness of sun-sweetened Roma tomatoes like I loved pulling from small jars in their oil packing…. I became so lost in my expectations and ideas that I was no longer sure whether or not I wanted to try it anymore. Maybe I’d wait to hear my brother’s appraisal….
I guess it’s easy to put off anything, no matter what you do; but this taste-test became so much easier to delay with my regular outings to restaurants and my busy schedule of helping paint and pack up my parents’ house.
Still, the Traina Sun-dried Tomato Ketchup sat on the counter. Waiting for me.
I was not expecting to try it today. This was not in the plans. In fact, my only plans for today entailed writing an overdue piece about my first experience of Decatur’s The Pinewood Tipping Room, and relishing in the excitement of this evening’s dinner reservations at Ford Fry’s latest offering to the world and Atlanta: St. Cecilia’s, in Buckhead.
I peeked at my phone when it notified me of a Tweet. It was Traina’s social media staff member: “Hi Meredith! Any plans to write about our CA Sun Dried Tomato Ketchup? What did you think? Thanks!”
Oh heck. Yes, definitely; I’d delayed this for long enough, and I’d only refrain from writing about it if it wasn’t good. What the heck was I gonna eat this on??
“Definitely planning to write something, haven’t had a chance to try it yet. Any suggestions for a tasty combination?” I presumed it’d be word-worthy, but, for goodness sakes… what the heck was I gonna eat this on?
“Aside from elevating burgers, it is great on grilled cheese sandwiches….”
I don’t do ketchup on grilled cheese sandwiches, but what the heck? Why not….
The problem is the cheese. I’d made so many grilled cheese sandwiches for yesterday’s lunch that we hardly had enough left. So, I was stuck with the Boca….
…Which I grilled, set on sandwich bread with some mustard and fresh spinach, topped with Traina’s Sun-dried Tomato Ketchup….
Oh my gosh.
To call it “ketchup” is to really lower this condiment’s value significantly. “Ketchup” is what kids put on oily french fries and dry hamburgers and meatloaf and steaks and fried chicken strips and fish sticks to make them somewhat edible. “Ketchup” is what teenagers put on Kraft macaroni-and-cheese to give themselves more calories. “Ketchup” is what weirdos put on their grilled cheese sandwiches because… well, who understands why anyone would spoil a perfectly good grilled cheese sandwich with an overly-sweet tomato paste product – unless the “cheese” was oil-based American “cheese” slices?
This was not ketchup.
I found myself repeatedly squirting more of the rippling, textured tomato puree onto my plate, dipping my Boca burger again and again into the mound as I would dip corn tortillas into an addictively fresh salsa, the ‘ketchup’ making my veggie burger taste more like an Italian sangwich than the ordinary soy-burger I was used to eating. I’d put this stuff on Eggplant Parmesan as a quick sauce; it would surely do wonders for breaded veal or chicken cutlets with sautéed peppers and onions…. I bet I could even convince some of my Italian-American friends it was homemade…!
My mind kept rippling with ideas for this sauce: pasta, pizza or calzone sauce….
I don’t know how much I used as I reveled in it; I tried to remember as I somewhat guiltily read the back label to find the calorie content (20 cals/Tbsp), as I scanned the remarkably-simple list of ingredients, finding that only the use of corn syrup in the recipe made me start.
But the taste, the texture made the use of corn syrup forgivable; this stuff was amazing, especially if I ever needed a last-minute solution.
And to think, I gave away a bottle….
They must know how good it is, to have given me two.
By the way, don’t ask me where you can get it; I don’t know. I’d guess you could probably find it at Whole Foods and other gourmet food stores; but, with the friendliness of their social media staff, I’d suggest you just follow them on Twitter to find out more about this and other products by Traina.
Heck, “other products.” What else do you do right, guys?
***Please note: This is not a paid advertisement; the most I got out of this deal was two bottles of amazing so-called ketchup. Which I’ll be out of before I know it. And then I’ll have to buy it like the rest of you….
Imagine relaxing into the complete care of someone else, finding that trust in yourself that babies have for their parents, that innocence where you can take every touch and gesture made towards you with the openness of a child who’s never been hurt by a single person, who’s never learned to cut themselves off from themselves or the world.
It’s not so easy, sometimes, to take the warmth of strangers, to allow others to care for us even when they will do us great amounts of good, when they might heal some of those past pains and difficulties of our pasts, when they might move us into a future of which we always dreamt but never knew how to achieve.
Today was my second visit to a day spa for the second-only mani-pedi I’ve experienced in my life, paid for entirely by a friend who makes it a habit to give generously to friends and family, who asks for nothing in return, who knows that gifts are even transitory and perhaps only moments of fleeting happiness for others – yet gives anyway.
I rested into the cushioned, leather chair, my feet soaking in warm, soapy, swirling water. This time, I knew the routine and relaxed into it, though I watched, fascinated, as the two ladies went through removing nail polish, cleaning and massaging my feet, calves, hands and arms.
There were long moments, last time, when I wondered if I deserved such treatment. Of course, it was being paid for… but that doesn’t necessitate desert. For long spans of time, I could feel my residual tension, built up over long months and years that had become a part of me that I just accepted – like the callouses on my heels and toes that annoyed me, that I promised I’d one day get rid of, yet never quite took the time or knew how to do it properly.
I scolded myself, last time, for accepting such a self-indulgent gift; I’ve never really cared for perfect nails, for painted finger-and-toenails, for silky-smooth skin – especially since, through my diet and natural health care habits, I manage to have clean, smooth and soft skin that is occasionally remarked upon, even if my fingernails are weak.
Last time, the treatment was nearly over, my naturally-pink nail polish glistening prettily on my fingers, my lower legs scrubbed and moisturized and warmly wrapped in steaming towels, my scalp being massaged deeply before I let go of thoughts and accusations to sink into the bliss of letting someone I didn’t know take care of me.
This time, my friend’s damp calves and feet being thoroughly massaged, I remembered how I love to learn. So I let myself learn: I watched as my pink fingernail polish was removed, finding myself at home in the answer to my week-long question of how gel polish is changed; watched and learned how to file, buff, trim my nails and cuticles.
The young-to-old ladies around all took this in stride, all are seasoned veterans of self-care; even pretty little girls scampered around the room, their fingertips dashed with the colored marks of hand care.
I’ve been caught between worlds, between caring for the health and condition of my skin and nails out of a concern for my health and well-being, yet thinking the world of mani-pedis was superficial, self-indulgent, consumerist and unnecessary. Yet, I never knew how….
I turned on the electric- masseuse-chair and felt a shock. Ripples and rolling balls moved up-and-down my back, under and between my thighs, and I forgot to watch my human caregivers. The merciless machine demanded me to give my tension, to give in to its waves of pressure that felt better than the best human massage I’ve received to date – which was months ago, all-too-infrequent and altogether too kind. It was all I could do to refrain from gasping and moaning as the strange machine hit so many nerves, released so much forgotten pain.
In self-conscious awareness of all the people around me, I instead breathed deeply, now increasingly sensitive to my human caregivers’ work. I was broken; I felt myself giving in with every touch, with every gesture to the beauty these women were being paid to create.
Being paid? It almost didn’t matter, didn’t feel like a fair exchange, no matter what price; my self-conscious pride threw itself back at me, retorting that this much care must be costing my friend a fortune.
It’s odd the way our minds hold to old pain, to old tension, even when we know it hurts, that it would be better to release it in love, to those capable of handling it in their strong and natural ways. I watched as my mind let go of pain only to recreate it in another way, as I acknowledged the bad habit and demanded, consciously, that my mind let it go in love for myself.
We strong people of the world, we forget sometimes that we need love too. We forget that others might care, that others must care, that others need to care and give what they may – especially to us, so we may go on, so they may go on in their small or large ways. We forget that we must let go, too, of the tensions that build from hard work or deep love; that we must indulge ourselves in care and love; that doing so will move the world as surely as our works.
It dawned on me that I’ve been taught by men, surrounded by men, loving men in all their strength, endurance and capabilities. That I am caught, too, in some of the prejudices and habits of men: of believing that self-care, especially of the physical sense, is particularly insignificant and superficial and to be ignored unless utterly practical.
Yet I recall tales of the Romans and Greeks, of their spas and daily massages as told of in Quo Vadis, of the great love and self-care that these men allowed themselves amidst and perhaps contributory to the great achievements of their societies.
It’s not just vanity, I realized today. It’s not just superficial to be self-indulgent, to allow someone to care – even if it’s a stranger in a day spa. The treatment is what matters, the allowance to let go and be cared-for, to re-open oneself to oneself and the world, so we can continue in our natural ways.
It’s not just vanity, gentlemen. It’s called: self-love.
It’s called Writer’s Love or Writer’s Tension or Writer’s Pinch, as in a pinched nerve or some such, when I can’t write. I’m not blocked; I know what I want to write, I know the subject and the method and the mood. I’m not blocked. I’m just damned picky. And, in those moments, my mind just won’t move, and neither will my fingers (to type or pick up a pen), and everything, everything is wrong, wrong, wrong.
Don’t ask me to write, in such times, for I might just write something awful and mundane just to spite you, and you’ll never know it was spiteful because you’ll just love the hell out of it. I can’t do it wrong, except that it’s all wrong, all heartless, all for the indulgence of your petty little soul, for the indulgence of your lack of intelligence and lack of judgement of knowing that I’m spinelessly spiting you and your tapered values. And spiting myself, too, for ever having allowed myself to be in a state such as this one, where someone else can demand, can ask me to write, and I write, like Ayn Rand’s antihero creating cupie dolls while he’s capable of sculpting a majestic Dominique to stand in the midst of Roark’s grandiose lobby.
That’s why I quit anything: I’d rather do nothing at all, I’d rather sit and wait it out than sell out to you or to anyone.
Because I’ve sold out too often and have made the most of it, have made my pennies on those damned cupie dolls with their stupid curl in the center of their dumb, cheeky foreheads.
Don’t ask me to write. Just be grateful when I do.
Be grateful when anyone of any capacity flickers with their grace and grandiosity within your vicinity.
Those are the true angels, the truly great, the genii.
Be grateful, and give them their due, even if it takes all your lives just to do it.
Those debts are the ones that matter, that come first.
I should know. I’m still working to pay off mine. And I’ll find a way to do it, too. If it takes all my life.
He was like a little kid, leading me into the dark, underground restaurant where we were seated at a small, square table; his excitement overtook me. “Have you ever had Chicago-style pizza?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, feeling somewhat guilty for having never experienced this thing that so excited him. I opened the manilla menu covered with black print, searching for the answer to this obvious culinary delicacy that I’d somehow, in my naivety, missed.
He was undeterred: “It’s a deep-dish, stuffed pizza. They lay a crust on the bottom of the pan, fill it with tomato sauce and cheese and whatever you like, put another crust on top, like a pie, more tomato sauce and cheese…. It’s amazing.”
I could almost hear him salivating in his description, if such a thing is possible. His excitement slowly transfused into me; I groped for understanding. “Oh, kind of like Pizza Hut?” I asked, hoping.
“No, not at all. Their crust is somewhat fried and oily….”
The server interrupted, asking for our drink order.
Less than half-an-hour later, a small pan sat before me, filled with the obligatory baked dough and tomato sauce, cheese and spinach layered an inch-and-a-half thick, tucked beneath another crust with more sauce and cheese, the whole thing only six inches in diameter. There was no way I was going to finish this thing.
I dug my fork into the pan, pierced the layers with knife and pulled up strings of cheese, sauce, strands of spinach falling over the tines, layers of crisp and moist crust….
Overwhelmed with flavor, with the intensity of this steaming depth of pie, the experience of the best pizza I’d ever tasted rooted itself in my memory.
―
It was all I could talk about for years. We loved going out for pizza, starting in Montreal at the tiny shop where his friend served slices and fries; at the restaurant a few streets away where I first tasted poutine on a picnic table outside; at Pizza Hut on ‘the mountain’ in the middle of winter, where we’d devour an entire pizza between ourselves. There was no comparison in the experience; each pizza delicious, each place beautiful for itself, for the company, for the conversation, for the simplicity.
But I’d told him about the deep-dish pizza that plugged itself into my memory, wanting desperately to share this magnificent thing. He loved food, ate like a king when it was worthy; he would surely enjoy it.
I whined and begged for long years in Hamilton, wishing to him and to the universe for Chicago-style pizza, or at least a chance to take him to this experience somewhere in the North. Perhaps we’d even make it to Chicago, to taste the thing in its original.
―
We ordered out often enough, and tonight we wanted pizza. I had it in mind, as I always did, that I wanted that deep-dish delicacy, layers of sauce and cheese and stuffing. It dawned on me, at last: just check online. Just see.
What are the chances that Hamilton would have a Chicago-style pizzeria? I thought, my fingers typing.
―
The delivery guy came to the door, revealed from his red-fleshed envelope a white-and-red pizza box, and handed it to me. I was shocked at the weight, what must have been five pounds or more of meat and cheese and sauce. But it made sense: we’d found it.
Somehow, tucked into a brick building on Hamilton’s East Mountain, Chicago-Style Pizza (named just so obviously) existed, successful for years and seeming in no hurry to go anywhere. Except while on deliveries.
He paid, surprised that it shouldn’t cost any more for this insanity than for a single-crusted deep-dish pizza from Pizza Hut at a fraction of the weight.
The excitement of my finding overwhelmed me; we opened the box like two kids at Christmas. The scent of rich, spiced tomato billowed out, demanding.
We dug in, gorging ourselves incredulously.
―
It’s a thing of sharing, this pizza, this enormous luxury spilling over with love, spilling over into love, from one love to the next. There must be something to this style of pizza, something in the original creation of overabundance of love, like the overabundance of sauce and fillings and cheese, tucked into a crust to hold all of that great love in.
For the sharing continues from our love to our next loves and to our friends and family, always in excitement that never ceases, always celebrating in wonder and surprise this incredible, voluminous thing.
It’s been over a year since I last set foot in Hamilton’s Baltimore House, an eclectic coffeehouse overlooking King William Street a block down from James Street North, the 1940s music cooing from the doors to the left and right contrasting sharply with the ‘seventies-style rock blaring from my earbuds. I stepped into the cafe side (to the left, please) and up to the counter where I clearly interrupted a conversation between the barista and her gentleman visitor.
It’s a queer place, but stylishly queer – like Edgar Allen Poe and Sherlock Holmes; I heard, when it opened over two years ago, that the decor was supposed to resemble something of Poe’s time. I wouldn’t know whether it does or not, but plush-and-wood antiques are scattered everywhere on the side with the long, wood-and-stained-glass bar.
I wonder if I’d enjoy it as much here if it was more occupied; I was clearly the only paying patron when I entered today, and I came in specifically for their beautifully-presented coffee and quirky atmosphere. But, imagining the bar room filled with conversing people – queer types, of course, and ordinary ones made intriguing by their presence amongst oddities – I think I would like it as much or more.
For now, it’s the copious artifacts that tickle me, my eyes running across velvet chairs and exposed-brick walls, down well-worn, hardwood-planked floors, my imagination running wild with the possible histories of furniture, lamps, photos intermingling from so many eras. I want to know the stories of each piece, to know how and where they were found, to have the room turn into an Alice-In-Wonderland where plush pink wingbacks balk at being sat upon and speak offendedly at the numbers of rude folks who’ve mistreated her, of how vibrant were her colors and how pristine was her varnish in her prime.
My mind murmurs stories in time with the lilting tunes as I watch the “famed” bartender, Kevin Delaney, with his thick moustache twirl the ends in a looking-glass at the end of the bar, the only human to suit this decor, and I wish I was somewhat more apropos, too.
There are other things that draw me here, other subtle fineries that the owners of Baltimore House must have known would charm someone, and they certainly charm me: The coffee and tea service is unparalleled in the city with (bottomless) coffee mug, antique creamer pot for dairy, the cutest tiny spoon, a small side glass of water and a wrapped square of dark chocolate, all presented on an oval metal plate with white paper doilies. How quaint.
The food is tasty, too: grilled sandwiches, muffins and cookies presented in like manner; but this place – especially with Edith Piaf’s “La Foule” playing in the background – demands social drinks such as coffees and teas, or a classic cocktail such as our moustached bartender might shake. Poor soul, he’s almost comically alone at the end of the bar, awaiting his first customer of the evening.
And they finally enter, a pair of oddly-normal business types in suit-and-tie for an early Thursday happy hour, eager to douse their normalcy in an outlandish place.
Surely this is why we enjoy it here, those who know of Baltimore House: it is the place just outside the bend, on the other side of standard – even in a city of so many coffee houses, even when this type of cafe isn’t so hard to create, isn’t even completely unique. It’s off-beat enough that one thing or another will light our imaginations, will take us away into the ambiance, music and hospitality of another place and time, saturated in subtleties.
As soon as I could when I got back to Hamilton, I went to visit my friend’s used-and-vintage clothing boutique. She loves clothes, was formally trained and worked with high-end designers in Milan, and opened Hawk & Sparrow in Ontario’s steel town two years ago so she could run her own store. Aside from curating the city’s best selection of stylish clothing, she’s now designing, making and selling clothes and jewelry; and I found – and purchased – a silver-and-brass two-finger agate ring that rivals and even increases the beauty of my silver Swarovski bracelet (that, while I like it, cost four times as much as the ring and is far from being a genuinely unique piece).
Being back in Hamilton has been wildly creative for me. Perhaps it is the isolation from indulgences or inspiration from highly-creative friends, or perhaps being in a city that was founded on and steeped in production for so many years sets a standard for those living here.
Necessity being the mother of invention, such worn-down cities as Hamilton seem fantastic fodder for creatives: they have beauty in the raw, luxury is minimal and materials come cheap. Those with eyes to see and hearts willing to express themselves may find places like this a wonderland, even in its difficulty.
The can of Scottish steel-cut oats was tucked on the top shelf; autumn’s chill inspires in me a desire to begin the day with a bowl of hot oatmeal. I popped the lid open and found it still sealed; I’d wait to raid the cabinet until I’d talked to its owner.
We were inspired, playing off one another’s preferences and ideas, and the not-so-little-one piped in, too; the recipe was developed, in theory, at least, and I had the plan ringing in my ears. I couldn’t wait to try it.
What developed in the kitchen the next morning has become our favorite breakfast, a medly of unexpected flavors playing off one another that nourish well; we’re not hungry until late in the afternoon.
A bed of hot, creamy, cinnamon-and-clove-spiced oats holds a spoonful of ginger-lemon kale touched with a bit more cinnamon, drizzled with a bit of lemon-molasses syrup, topped with a warmed, candied, canned sardine and served with a heated lemon slice. Perfection. Gourmet flavors. At a minuscule price.
I was shocked at the first spoonful, at the range of flavors and textures that hit my palate: sour-creamy-salty-bitter-sweet; they continued and varied in intensity, bite after bite, layers of chewy oats and crunchy kale, pungent molasses and spicy ginger, of tender fish flesh melding in a way that commanded my attention and demanded addictive eating. Even when the bowl was finished and my appetite sated, I wished for more – to continue tasting the unique, unusual balance of a never-before-experienced-or-imagined meal.
Had I not made it myself, I’d have paid a good deal for this meal, as simple as it was. Had I not tasted it, experienced for myself the flavor balance of this savory-sweet breakfast, I might have scoffed at this twist on ordinary, sweetened oatmeal.
This was the genius of the chefs I’d watched on Top Chef and Chopped, the creative ability to come up with something incredible and unique with commonplace ingredients.
We’ve since experimented with cod liver, with tomato-chili-soaked sardines and with canned salmon; all are just as good, in their own ways.
One added benefit I personally love is the silkiness of my skin, now that my diet is rich with omega-3s from the fish and with silica from the oats.
I should note that my girlfriend, who does appreciate good food, is not crazy for this dish – so maybe it’s an acquired taste, or one for those with adventurous palates. I am, no doubt, of the latter.
Savory-Sweet Oatmeal with Ginger-Lemon Black Kale and Molasses-Candied Sardines
1 cup organic steel-cut oats
1 Tbsp olive oil
1/2 cinnamon stick
1 cup 2% or whole milk
3 cups filtered water
1/4 tsp sea salt
5 whole cloves
5 leaves organic black kale (or 3 leaves green kale, ribs removed), washed and chopped well
1×1.5-inch piece ginger, minced
1 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp lemon juice
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
dash salt
2 Tbsp filtered water
2 Tbsp blackstrap molasses
1 Tbsp brown sugar
1 Tbsp lemon juice
1 Tbsp butter, cold
4 slices fresh lemon
1 can sardines, drained (or tomato-chili sardines, or cod liver, or salmon)
In a medium-sized pot, combine milk and 3 cups water; heat over medium-high until simmering. Meanwhile, in a medium skillet, heat 1 Tbsp olive oil until hot. Cook cinnamon stick and cloves in oil until cinnamon uncurls; add oats and stir constantly until oats are toasted, golden and fragrant. When milk mixture is simmering, add oats and cinnamon stick; stir to combine. Cook on medium-low, stirring occasionally to keep oats from sticking to pot, for thirty minutes. Stir in 1/4 tsp salt. Then, using the handle of a wooden spoon, stir oats consistently for seven to ten minutes, until most of the liquid has been absorbed. Remove from heat.
While oats are cooking, wipe skillet clean with a paper towel. Add 1 Tbsp olive oil to skillet and heat over medium heat. Add minced ginger and cook for 1 minute. Add chopped kale, lemon juice, ground cinnamon and salt; sauté for 2-3 minutes or until kale is deeply green and wilted. Place mixture into a bowl and keep in reserve.
Divide cooked oatmeal into four bowls; spoon ginger-kale mixture on top of hot oats, splitting evenly.
Return skillet to medium-high heat and add 2 Tbsp water, whisking well to deglaze pan. Whisk molasses, brown sugar and lemon juice into water and cook, whisking constantly, for 30 seconds. Remove from heat and quickly whisk cold butter into the glaze. Drizzle approximately 1 teaspoon of molasses syrup over kale and oats in an X pattern.
Return skillet, with any leftover molasses syrup, to medium heat; heat fish and lemon slices in molasses for 15-30 seconds on each side, coating the fish and lemon lightly with the syrup. Lay fish and lemon slices on kale mixture* and serve immediately.
*If using cod liver, optionally drizzle any additional cod liver oil over the top for added nutrition.
I’m pretty lucky to have been raised in the South, where so many dishes are basic, simple to make, easy to recreate. I’m sure I learned to enjoy vegetables from the way my mother cooked them, steamed or boiled with nothing more than a little salt-and-pepper to enhance the flavors.
Mom must have figured out I had a good palate when I was a teenager, for I somehow earned the regular role of Taster of Mayonnaise-Based Sweet Dressings for cole slaw, carrot-raisin salad and apple salad – which are all essentially the same basic recipe with variations on the acidic ingredient – though, in proper form for someone in such a role, I created ‘rules’ for which acid went best with each salad.
I still love these rich, creamy, sweet salads with a hint of sour and so much crunch, and I was pleased to take over making both the dressings and the salads as I grew older. The trick, I learned, is to balance the creaminess of the mayonnaise with the sweetness of sugar (or whatever sweetener you’re using) and the bite of the acid. I started by using white vinegar or lemon juice, but have recently begun experimenting with apple cider vinegar because of its profound health benefits and presently wonder at the flavor complexity that lime juice might create.
My favorite cole slaw is super-simple: hand-shredded cabbage, grated carrots, a (very) little salt and pepper, and the dressing. And, though it’s good pretty much immediately (and sometimes far too hard to resist), I always like the salad best when it’s marinated for a day or two, after the carrots and cabbage start to soak up the vinegar, pickling just a bit.
Southern Cole Slaw, Meri’s Way
1/3 head cabbage
2 medium carrots (skins on), cleaned well
4 heaping Tbsp real mayonnaise
3 Tbsp apple cider vinegar
2 Tbsp white vinegar
5 Tbsp dark maple syrup
salt and pepper to taste
Using a chef’s knife, carefully shred the cabbage along the grain into 1/8 to 1/16-inch-thick lengths. Cut lengths into 4-inch pieces; place in a large mixing bowl. Grate carrots into bowl; toss with cabbage to distribute well. Season lightly with salt and freshly-ground pepper; toss again to mix.
In a small mixing bowl, add mayo, vinegars and syrup; whisk to combine. Taste and add, a teaspoon at a time, more mayo, vinegar and/or syrup to taste, whisking well between additions.
Pour dressing on slaw; toss and stir to coat. Taste for seasoning.
Cover bowl and let rest in refrigerator for up to two days; mix to coat at least once each day, and immediately before serving.
Maybe it’s because I am one generation from farmers, on one side, and two, on the other.
Maybe it’s that I was raised traveling north to my grandparents’ and great-grandmother’s farms in rural Indiana, going south to my great-grandfather’s and great-aunts’ farms in south Georgia.
Maybe it was the mystique of soft whispers from the soybean and corn fields, of the giant pecan trees that dropped delicious gifts for us to gather, of ever-ripening pear trees, of the grapefruit and lime trees in the back yard of my grandparents’ Florida home, of miles of sweet-scented orange groves in the sandy plains surrounding.
Maybe it was the grove-side stands that sold the sweetest orange juice I’d ever tasted, the road-side shacks with delicious, hot boiled peanuts, fruit, corn, honey – even a few miles from our Georgia home.
Or maybe it’s the simple honesty of farmers I encountered that instilled in me an eternal love, respect and gratitude for those who till their acres, plant and tend their crops, offer food for sale in humble ways, gift them to neighbors and friends.
In Ontario, years later, I had the opportunity to work at a few farmers markets, selling freshly-baked artisan breads, pies and muffins for the restaurant where I worked. I didn’t make much money doing it; I could have easily earned thrice what I earned while setting up and standing for hours on a large patch of grass or in a gravel driveway, repeating, tick-tick-tick, the seven or eight varieties of breads and pies to inquiring passers-by. But it was beautiful; I loved every minute.
I’d sell out regularly, our bread was that good. When I’d sold out, or nearly so, I’d walk the patch and visit the other sellers: farmers with tables laden with fruits and vegetables familiar and not-well-known. I was a child, standing at their tables, as childish as the small ones who’d come to my table, eyes wide and excited at our fruit pies and apple-cider muffins, at our bountiful breads. For me, it was the colors, the piles of leaves and rolling mounds of fruits, tomatoes, tomatillos, corn, squash, varietals of mushrooms – all things I could put together, cooked or raw, and create something to make my imagination and my palate explode with something new, delicious.
I was as shy as any other customer, perhaps more so, since I was a neighbor and understood the value of their precious time, when I knew I’d pay less because I was a neighboring vendor in this community, and that is what is done. But I wanted nothing more than to stand, as any regular customer, admiring their bounties, loving them for the time they’d spent caring for these plants, for nurturing their soil despite the difficulties, despite the minimal pay.
I wanted to buy everything they had and knew I had neither funds to do so nor mouths enough to feed. So my mind would race as I stood spellbound, letting others pass before me as I let my palate choose for me, salivating over the ground cherries this week, the tomatillos and onions and garlic in a dream of fresh green salsa the next.
Only a few truly understood my great love and respect, I think: the apple farmer who always looked a touch grumpy, who sold his apples for $5 a pint and always had so many left, whose fresh, thick apple cider he sold for $6 a gallon and was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted – all the sweet, honeyed goodness of a freshly-picked apple pouring endlessly into my mouth, with none of the time lost on chewing. I bought apples and cider from him every week; I’d look him in the eyes and tell him “Thank you” and he’d look on to me curiously from beneath his disappointed shroud and thank me back.
And Russ, Mr. Happy-Farmer himself, founder and owner of Hamilton’s Backyard Harvest, who befriended me on one slow afternoon filled with the vigorous-but-friendly banter of my libertarian views while I challenged the German cheesemonger’s more liberal ones; Russ of the always-naturally-grown vegetables, of squash and melons and tomatoes you’d never before seen that tasted as good as the prices you’d pay – which were not too much, but were never “cheap.” I always felt I was getting a steal, walking home in the early Thursday evenings, laden with $50-worth of vegetables and fruits in re-usable bags from Russ and the other two or three farmers, most of which was organic.
Russ would teach me about growing while he could, between pleased customers whose names he always knew, whose hugs he’d always earned. Russ is an entrepreneur and a musician, complex and freshly antique in his reserved openness, in his beatnick-hippie ways and bright, observant eyes – as complex as the flavors of some of the fruits and vegetables he grows in the city’s neighborhood backyards, working the soil for people who want vegetable gardens and have no time to tend them, earning his keep from the harvest he sells as his only payment for tending them. Novel, beautiful, I thought.
There is a stillness in the minds of farmers, a grasp of things that no one seems to see. These are the plant whisperers, who urge a seed to grow, to take itself upon green wings and fly into the sky though rooted to the ground, to bloom in fragrant flowers and carry heavy loads of plump fruit upon thin stalks and vines. These are the ones who know the sun and the wind, the clouds and the rain; who know the many bugs in the ground and the animals around; who feed all of humanity with more than sustenance. These are the friends of chefs, of cooks, of mothers and children; these are the founders of society and beginning of art and beauty. These are the original creators – these farmers who take neither too much nor too little upon themselves to deliver up to us their bounties, but work from dusk til dawn, from the beginnings of civilization through to today.
It is no wonder they worship, so many of them; that they give thanks to whatever spirit blesses their fields, for their gratitude and humble care is translated in every stalk of heirloom wheat, in every fat and multicolored tomato that tastes as good by itself as the most exquisite dish, is evinced in the makings of masterpieces.
They worship the sun and the rain, the soil and the seed; are grateful to spirit and land.
And I feel the same, once removed: my gratitude, my heart is with them.
Backyard Harvest – Locke Street Farmers Market 2011
I wonder if we’re all great dreamers, we who are drawn to the sea and sail.
My dream starts with my name, Meredith, Welsh for “guardian of the sea” or “great chief.” I’m called “Mer” by those who love me, “Meri” by those close to me. I was almost “Emily Jane,” but my father saved me and my mother chose well in her second try. I was born in Orlando, under a strong water sign.
My father’s father loved the sea, was in the US Coast Guard during WWII, always had boats of one sort or another and lived in Florida. Regrettably, he was a drunk, so I never sailed with him, never knew anything of boats except for his never-completed houseboat that sat on stilts on Florida’s Atlantic coast until after he died in his eighties.
But I grew up close enough to the sea to love it, visiting my grandparents regularly enough through my childhood to make it to the ocean or the Gulf at least once a year through my nineteenth year.
I’ve always lived close enough to some major body of water: Lake Lanier, in Georgia; the Ohio River, when in Cincinnati; Lake Ontario, while in Canada. I always loved watching sailboats from the shore, always loved walking around marinas, always thought of sailing “one day” – with never a hope of realizing that dream.
Until, one day, I met a man while serving at a local restaurant who was moving onto a sailboat in Hamilton Harbor. Instantly excited, I asked him all about it – and we became fast friends.
A year later, I visited his boat for the first time. It was love at first step – with the boat, not the man. We shared a couple of beers on deck and all I could think was how much I wanted to see below, wondered how it must feel to sleep on this gently-rocking creature.
Two weeks later, I learned. I brought dinner, a bottle of wine and a movie this time; we started with beers, drank the bottle of wine more quickly than we realized, sampled his impressive Scotch collection as we settled below for the film. My eyes roamed the warmly-golden interior of this sweet boat; I imagined taking her out, freeing her in the wind, of spending days and nights on this beauty. What a lucky man my friend was.
Not sober enough to drive – or walk – home on this chilly night, he settled me on a narrow berth with a sleeping bag and hopped onto his berth. I slept better than I had slept in years, better than I have in years since, waking early to the occasional ringing of steel on the mast in the gently-blowing wind. I was excited; this was bliss.
Everything changed, from that moment forward. My perception of the town changed, my life opened up suddenly, and I finally knew why I had never been at home in any apartment, in any house on land: My home was not on land; it was on the sea.
It was not long before I started looking for a sailboat of my own, through which I found a skipper seeking crew for weekly races in the bay. My enthusiasm trumped my lack of experience; I was immediately accepted, along with two more experienced sailors, and – in the two seasons we raced – went from last place to second and then first in our class, winning the title of “Most Improved” for the year.
I never missed a race. I loved being “The Main Babe,” loved hauling in taut lines as I grew quickly stronger each week. I loved the camaraderie of our crew, the instantaneous friendship that came of working towards a common goal, of simultaneous enjoyment of full sails and rushing water beneath our bow. Every moment was complete; this was everything.
The dream led me to shed almost everything I owned, led me back home to rebuild my long-neglected relationship with my family, led me to meet and crew on a trimaran at speeds I never knew one could make under the force of the wind. Led me to a new skipper whose great knowledge of sailing and of boats will aid to the final realization of my dream.
Amidst all this, I write. I love the experience of sharing food and drink with good companions, love the brilliance of chefs smitten with the creation of delicious, beautifully-presented substance.
Mine is The Dream: Sail and write and travel, enjoying new places and foods and people, sharing all I can with those I meet, with those who read my words and view my photos.
So, why am I here? Why am I not yet on the sea, sailing from coast-to-coast?
I’m still looking, still sailing through my life, still learning.
The journey is so important, and those with whom one travels are equally important. I’ll find the ones with whom I’ll travel next, or they’ll find me – the ones who give for the sake of giving, who love for the sake of loving, who expect little and learn much. From them, I’ll learn; with them, I’ll sail – on the sea, and through life.
To be plain: I’m looking to learn what else I need to know of sailing, of traveling.
Looking forward to meeting more dreamers, here and on the seas.
I remember an Arabic friend for whom I strived to make the perfect espresso, who told me the story of visits to his homeland, of drinking multiple cups of strong, black coffee poured ceremoniously for each man during gatherings.
I remember spending late nights in chilled trucker-style diners, crowding three-to-each-bench with friends, drinking countless ounces of dark, watery, acidic liquid to warm myself with the cheap, bottomless cups.
And driving nearly an hour at least twice a week to low-lit white rooms while handsome twins cooed melodies to my sister, our friends and me as we sipped rich, bitter broth from large, matching, ceramic mugs.
I was never one to drink coffee alone, never brewed a pot or ran a cup from my rarely-used espresso machine unless someone shared with me. The Unmentionable Shops opened, quickly becoming a worldwide fad and taking so much clout from our pretty, artsy coffeehouses, yet I never went to drink alone; absently nibbling dark-chocolate-covered espresso beans while laughing, watching wondrously as the stage of five or six improv actors entertained a cafe of strangers who all felt like friends was far more addictive.
I’ve loved every eclectic coffeehouse I’ve ever entered for its potential, even in the cold of Cincinnati’s winter, even that bohemian, blue room and its droning spoken-word poets where I felt like I had stepped back in time, where my well-dressed friends and I were clearly overdressed and out-of-place.
Perhaps it was when I was alone that I stopped going to coffeehouses, when I stopped drinking coffee: after I dumped my boyfriend (or he dumped me; I’m still not sure), and when, returning to Atlanta, I found no one close with whom I wished to share such intimate things. I always claimed it was the aching belly I would have after the second or third cup, that it was the yellow-and-black diners’ white-and-black mugs of tannic acid that turned me from every single drop. But maybe I was wrong…
Since, after six years of swearing it off, it was in the company of three close friends that I returned.
“Are you sure you don’t want to have some?” he asked. “Here, try mine.”
“I don’t like it; it makes my stomach hurt,” I protested. And still I gave in: his cup looked, smelled so delicious, so richly tanned, so perfectly balanced in the pretty white cup of this opulent hotel restaurant. I lifted his cup delicately to my lips, sipped… and fell in love.
It was clear he loved his café whenever I saw him drink it, and clear now why he enjoyed every cup he sipped, whether from a diner or from a fine place such as this: he drank it like a prince and had the sensibility to distinguish whether it deserved to be drank or not.
He saw my face change subtly, saw the unspoken surprise, the acceptance. “Do you want one?”
“Yes. Please.”
In taking that small porcelain cup of heavenly-rich, creamy, sweet liquid, I suddenly felt a part of this group, taken into their realm of enjoyment, lifted to a higher plane of sensibility that included the ambiance and the conversation between these men. It was not that I did something that I did not wish, that I forced myself to fake belonging; but rather that I found my place again in something forgotten, discarded years before when it became unsatisfactory in every aspect.
My wealth was given back to me in this place, with these men, at this table, in this gesture – in my acceptance of this cup.
It surely seems silly, exaggerated, to think that a mere cup of joe could change so much. Even until this moment, I only peripherally felt, thought, knew it did. All I knew was that I was awake, that it was beautiful: that moment, that day, that place – that cup of coffee – and that I would drink it on occasion afterwards.
I do crave coffee now, from time-to-time; and I do go for it alone. But I think it is not the caffeine I desire, since I never suffer from its lack; nor even the taste, since I rarely get it quite right. I am even more sensitive now than ever to coffee’s effects, my heart pulsing and racing frighteningly if I drink an ever-changing and indistinct “too much.”
It is the experience of coffee that I crave: the social aspect, the craft of coffee-making, of serving coffee, the interaction of one human offering a simple pleasure for another, of one person enjoying a simple pleasure with another, wherein, I’ve learned, nuances can be so distinct. It is the act and gift of pure pleasure in commonplace things that makes even the caffeine rush so poignant and close, that makes coffee so good; that makes me yearn for every coffeehouse, for every friend with whom I’ve shared a cup; that makes me love coffee.
This heat stirs memories in me of handsome men in linen suits and khaki shorts; of a long, hole-in-the-wall, easily-missed Venezuelan restaurant with roll-up garage door that lets sunshine and breezes flow through on the hot summer days of Queen Street West in Toronto.
We were all in Toronto for the day and I the luckiest girl in the world, with the most fantastic men who would ever exist: all three dark-haired and tall – though the youngest not yet as tall as he would be. We’d made a day of it, as we loved to do, taking the express GO bus from Hamilton to the city in comfort and speed, an hour-long trip where I’d cozied up to the tallest and broadest of the three in the seats before the two, and we’d happily turn our heads ‘round to converse with them from between.
It was a grand time, every moment we spent together. There was nothing so luxurious as strolling through the city with The Man Who Wore Suits, with Mr. Casual Philosopher and the young Sir Curls, and I, Blonde-and-Breezy, in one flowing summer dress or another. It was the thing films are made of, of which stories are told; and I lived it every day.
Mr. Casual took us through the city; he knew it best, had walked it hundreds of times and knew where this restaurant hid. From the columned train station of Front Street we walked, two-by-two in our little pack, my short legs keeping up only because I’d trained them in so many walks over the years. Amidst tall glass-and-steel skyscrapers catching light and reflecting it from one to another mirrored pane, lighting the wide column of asphalt and concrete that lay at our feet, we walked like no one else was there. One conversation or another took us as we strolled – then paused as something in the refracting light caught our Philosopher’s eye, and, swinging his bag from his back, he’d retrieve a black box-and-lens and catch gem after sparkling gem. He turned his box to us, sharing the pieces he’d found; then, just as easily: legs and speech flowed on, taking us deeper into the city.
It was always the best with him, made better still by the company of our handsome companions. We were a force like the wind, and just as casual, weaving around pedestrians and bikers and so many tourists. Up the east side of Queen from University we strolled, the sun blessing us, bronzing my bare shoulders and arms and the faces of all four. Through the crowded, narrowed sidewalks of Chinatown we meandered, where treasures flow like mounds of flowers from the stairs of shops, curiously enticing in their multitudinousness; where rich, salty scents tantalized from so many Asian restaurants like magical dragons flicking wily claws to pull me by the nose and beckon me to indulge in mounds of rice and saucy, vegetable-laden dishes.
My men are more enticing still and pressed on hard, unaffected, it seemed, unlike me. It was a hunt, every time with them; an adventure to a certain destination of which we sometimes only knew by the stopping of our feet. The walk was purposeful, deliberate; we did not linger, did not shop, did not browse in the bright stores we passed but kept on while the Philosopher chanted on and on in enlightening ways. It was ethereal, and we were all pulled by the others, by our will to be together, as one.
My eager eyes scanned everything, took in giant fashion icons in print looking down from the sides of buildings, punks with heavy black eyeliner, sporting tall Docs on their feet in this blistering heat, the vast plethora of beautiful and mediocre and ugly people crossing woven snakes of streetcar tracks at crosswalks.
Down Queen Street West we strode, past the chromed jazz club that always caught my eye and ear, past the blacked-out corner bar that felt like it could suck people in, past windows filled with rolls and layers of ornate fabrics draped over antique mannequins….
We were famished when we finally came upon the small chrome tables spilling out onto the sidewalk, and Mr. Casual announced we were there. The place was clean with plenty of seating around the meandering counter and the pretty dessert case filled with imported pop and sweet things. We sat down and he ordered for us: fried cassava with guasacaca and tequeños.
Long, thick wedges of golden yucca sprouted from a paper cup, so hot I singed my fingers as I gingerly lifted and lowered one into the cool, green dip. Guasacaca is thinner than guacamole and tastes more of lime; the cassava was addictively similar to potatoes but less starchy and more densely fibrous, with none of the sick feeling one has after consuming the equivalent of french fries. I singed my palate badly on that first delicious bite, then helplessly blew billowing steam from the wide wedge of root dangling from between my thumb and forefinger. I wanted more; it tasted so good – and suddenly, the heat of the day was indistinct, imperceptible on account of the superior heat between my digits. I couldn’t wait; I gobbled it up and kissed my pinkened fingertips, watching the guys go in for more.
The little cheese pies were cooled; I lifted one and took a bite, two bites and it was gone, melted cheese between baked half-moon crust being just too tasty to savor for long after such a walk. Making short work of these, Sir Curls and I stepped to the Venezuelan girl at the counter and ordered something new. Pabellan arepa for the guys and pabellon veggie arepa for myself.
I was brought a dish with fresh, sliced avocado, white rice and black beans, and a round bread that looked like a dense corn tortilla – an arepa. The boys found my meal bland, but I loved it. It was like Mom’s Southern cooking when I grew up: simple, basic, nourishing, and tasty in its forthright healthiness. The arepa was my favorite (after the buttery avocado, of course), somewhere between soft and dense; it was cornmeal-based, of course, like cornbread, but softer and less airy, and certainly not sweetened – just like Southern cornbread. White cornmeal was used, just as in true Southern cooking; it was like home, but exotic in its unique way. I was in the South, but deeper South than my home; and I imagined myself to eat such things happily in the company of red-skinned, dark-haired people with wide eyes and full smiles.
My own dark-haired loves ate their pulled beef happily, relinquished the comparatively-bland arepa to me; and the Philosopher took up his speech again, remarking on new inspiration from this place. I sipped iced lemonade from a glass, felt cool breezes caress the singed waves of my shoulders and my back… and relaxed easily into happiness.
Oceans of Mine 