Soaring Through Blue

an island rental home, at last






Goodness.

We have moved.

We live on the island now, where majestic firs wave stately salutations to the scrim-grey sky in expansive wind.

We live on the island now, where quiet blankets all like the hush of thick, handstitched quilts muffling a soft, afternoon nap.

We live on the island now, where we grin and giggle all day, where we cook, constantly, where we sleep, deeply, dreaming of a slow future with chickens and writing, and wonderment.

O, Moving.

Much as you bring the promise of nascent newness, you do wear on me.

Our island home is strewn with your boxes waiting to be unpacked and boxes that have been unpacked, with things waiting to be put away and things already put sort of where they go but not quite. I'm exhausted, with the work, but also with exultatious joy in our island life.

You see, we're home.

I always knew, deep in the darkest pit of my belly, from the moment I first set foot on this island, that it was where I was meant to be. I "taught" English back then, in high school. I loved it, even having to write tedious student evaluations that I would put off all weekend, watching old movies instead, and then having to in on Monday, emptyhanded, no work done. I gave teaching my all. I gave the island my all.

But, you see, it was a lonely existence, and my feet wandered me toward bigger things; Manhattan, which I know most people just call New York City but that also includes Queens, and I didn't live there, and then London where I lived with Pierce Brosnan and Madame in their lavish manse, and then to Seattle, where I eventually met my true love, my soulmate, my partner in giggles, my baby papa, my own personal Chef.

And, here we are now, in our island home, gulping back big sobs of giddy tears at finding ourselves here, in our island home.

It is nothing short of heart stopped wonderment.

You see, it's a new life.

For me.

It's funny. Most people see their lives as one unit. I, however, see my life lived in fragments. The fourth grader who gobbled frozen Clark bars every day for an entire summer. The fifth grader wearing stylish orange glasses, sniffing at the poor girl who wet the bed. The high schooler wearing a thrift shop shirt and rainbow suspenders and a bowler hat, quipping wisecracks that were infinitely more hilarious than anything the popular girls at the cheerleader table were saying. The English "teacher", staying up until the wee hours of Monday morning so that she could hand papers back to her students at 9 a.m. The giddy bride, finding the perfect gown in a thrift store and having a stain panel added. The resident of Italy, walking down dangerous mountains, speaking Italian for "I will grow very ill if I eat your gluten, so make sure the chef makes this wheat-free and tell him no cross-contamination, or else", and eating two gelatos a day, with gusto. And the mama, whose Midget Peanut talked and ate bacon paste with gusto at 7 months.

Those lives, and hundreds and hundreds of others. One life stops and another starts. A myriad of compartmentalizations. Hundreds of separate lives.

And this past week I giddily began yet another life.

Life on the island.

Outside the window the rain flitters down through the majestic pine needles, birdtweets oozing through the windows and into my ear canals. The slowness grows, enfolding me in its flappy bingo arms like a benevolent older neighbor lady who sometimes babysat you when you were little. Forgive the odd similes that only I can understand. I'm just a little bit done in.

You see, PapaChef and I wanted more for our Midget Peanut. We want her to grow up in a small town type small island town. We want her to be able to say "I live on the island". We want her to feel the beach sand between her toes, to get her fingernails dirty, permanently, making mudpies, to know all the farmers by name, to read Shakespeare in a treehouse, and not smell of pee. We want her to be able to say to others, "I'd invite you to my island home but we're pretty much booked up for the next two years. Call me. I'll send you a confidentiality agreement regarding the location and name of the island." When she's a little older, of course.

So, after weeks of winnowing and tossing, we had pared down to only what we really need, like the extra pastry scraper and more wine glasses than we'll ever use. Damn, it feels good to be less encumbered. PapaChef is hard at work, finding places for everything in our new island home, while I hunch at the computer, documenting it, touching base, reaching out.


Having not had much time at all to cook, in between winnowing, supervising the packing, and checking Twitter, Facebook, and my top twelve websites on a rotating basis, I threw together this sumptuous supper from things I found in the back of the refrigerator and pantry. PapaChef took one bite and nearly choked from speechlessness. "Honey," he intoned, after regaining his equilibrium, "This is better than anything you've made yet! Damn!!" and then he pumped his fist in the air, accidently knocking himself on the chest a few times in the process. He's so damn funny.



Moving Day Melange

Lard
One onion
Limp celery
Fish stock
1 can imported clams
1 can imported beans
1 can with missing label
half a package of bacon
some rice
a few coffee filters
the rest of the French mustard
a small bag of unidentified GF flour

Get a pan screaming hot, as PapaChef loves to say. Gently plop the dollops of lard into the pan and watch it melt, tenderly.

When melted, nestle strips of bacon into it, making sure not to crowd them. Let sizzle and dance in the hot fat, bending low to smell the bacony goodness wafting upwards. Smile as you watch them pop and sparkle.

When the bacon has nearly lost its verve, add the onion and limp celery, which you have had someone chop for you, efficiently. Stir until it's a soft slop, succulent, and sweet.

Zip your can opener around the top of the can of clams, imported. Drain, saving the liquid to add to the fish stock. Sprinkle the imported canned clams into the bacon mixture and think about how clams and pigs don't co-exist in nature yet can mingle in a pan on the stove. Funny, isn't it?

Use the coffee filters to strain the fish stock, which probably has some stray bones and cartilege in it.

Dump in everything else and let mingle, stirring, occasionally, until it congeals and coats the back of the spoon with a thick semi-solid paste. Pat into a greased baking pan and bake in a medium oven until done, about 15 minutes to 55 minutes, depending. Serve with Diet Dr. Pepper, or whatever other kind of drinks you can dig out from the back of the fridge.

Serves 2 to 36, depending on if they come back for more after the first bite.