Full day

There is a delicious crispness in the air, the one that the poets among us wax, well, poetically about. The shifted hour means there is a wee sliver of light when the alarm rings (for I can no longer rely on the sun to wake me), and the warm man next to me makes me yearn for hibernation. But it is evening for my Parisian client, who is waiting to hear from me so she can head towards her own duvet, so rise I must.

Bleary-eyed, I wake the sleeping devices on my desk and they beep and blink to life. The file has arrived unharmed from its transatlantic trek, and looks to be in good shape. (Would that it were that easy for us!) I will work, but it will not be long hours of drudgery. Very good news indeed. There is time to join the waking men folk for breakfast.

I suppose I should put on lipstick, don a frilly apron, and produce fresh croissants, but this is a work week, so the toaster will have to do. Little One opts for toast flooded with butter and topped with cinnamon sugar, washed down with cocoa. Darling Husband does the honors, heating up a mug for himself, laced with peppermint syrup (he is no fan of pumpkin spice). I snuggle into his back, and make my own, laced with coffee, for I must be alert to understand the vagaries of smart buses and on-board telemetry (hey, isn’t that what my car has?).

But I am peckish too, and note that the boys’ foray in supermarket hunting has brought home my old friend Crumpet. Toasted twice, smeared with butter, I take a bite. Something is missing, I think, and wonder if there is an open jar of last year’s blood orange marmalade. No, but there is that grape jelly that didn’t quite gel that the boys keep asking for in their lunch. Sure enough, it is perfect, a tangy, sweet foil for the cool crisp morning.

But lest you think this is just a poetic snippet, and that my family treks out into the dawn with full bellies and perfect love in their hearts, a plot emerges: Little One shouts out, "I lost my tooth!" And indeed, there it is, the second this week (I pity the poor parent who will have to deal with two coming in in quick succession, but she will have to take it up with the Tooth Fairy). My day is now complete, with a wry smile for my husband, who knows tonight's date will take on a whole new dimension when we get home. Kisses all around, a trek back into the house for the forgotten bits, and off they go, as the breeze turns to splatty rain.

A perfect start to the day.

Calendar pinups

I imagine most people’s June calendars have sunny beach scenes or images of warm people and gardens full of blossoms. I turn my calendar page, and there stands Little One in full rain gear (that’s boots, a coat, rain pants and a hat with ear flaps, for those of you who don’t live in a temperate rain forest), soaked to the skin and covered in a fine layer of sandy mud. Yes, folks, it is June, damp beginning of the clamming season in the Pacific Northwest.

Fishing Sensei has scheduled a muddy extravaganza to celebrate low tide next weekend, but alas, Number One son will be sawing away at his cello that afternoon, on a stage, which really does require our attendance. Not that it’s a hardship listening to his orchestra, but I admit hesitating a bit, recalling the heady aroma of fresh clam chowder made on the same beach where we dug the main ingredient. Mighty tempting.

The cat meowing loudly at the back door breaks my reverie. I look up and see a soggy mop that looks like it needs rinsing, and then realize she’s either fallen in the creek again, or it’s really raining. A peek through the open door verifies it is the latter, and I’m pretty sure I left the car window open last night. Just a crack, just enough.

Clearly, our plans to mow the lawn and clean the hot tub deck are on hold, and we won’t be dining al fresco any night this week. But I am glad we got the downspout fixed, some beds weeded, and the hanging baskets planted before the deluge. It is tempting to simply crawl back into our nest, where I suspect the covers may still be warm. I note that the cat has taken this approach. On the other hand, I think I have may some clams from last year in the freezer, just enough for a pot of chowder.

Too much to drink

The rain finally let up a bit yesterday, and the water in our neighbor’s driveway subsided. I can’t say the same for some of the freeways and arterials around town, and certainly down south. They finally have a picture in today’s paper of I-5 through Centralia, the halfway mark between here and Portland, and home to outlet stores and other diversions for drivers passing through.

The last time we were in Centralia, though, we eschewed the big boxes and strip malls and headed to the old part of town. The train station had looked interesting from the tracks when I went down in September, and sure enough, we found a lovely, restored train depot, still functioning as a stop for Amtrak twice a day. Nirvana for Little One, and we came home with a pocket of smashed pennies. Soaked from the rain, we headed to the old downtown right across the street, and found a dark, warm pub (The Olympic Club) for a bite to eat and some hard cider.

As I look at the aerial photo of Centralia splashed across the front page this morning, I note that the old part of town is perched just high enough that it remains above the floodwaters: the soulless boxes and even the interstate freeway, however, are still underwater, two days later. Almost as if the founding fathers had decided to work with nature instead of arrogantly trying to master it.

We are thankful to be largely unaffected (there was a small mishap with a puddle, but it only resulted in a bit of extra laundry). We are grateful to be free of the huge task of mucking out from the storm, able to indulge ourselves in small seasonal tasks: filling the bird feeder, making up a batch of potato leek soup, lighting the first candles of Hanukkah. And wrapping presents for my brother, who is hoping the waters recede and the road is repaired before he plans to trek up for Christmas.

Rain, rain

It is raining: gloomy grey skies, wet splatting rain soaking into my bones. I take a paper-covered onion from the basket, balance it on my cutting board, and revel in the familiar ritual: hone the knife, cut the onion in half, peel the paper back, cut almost to the root horizontally, then vertically. Slice off the small bits of aromatic gold. The nestled pots clank as they release one of their colleagues, and the burner clicks four times, then ignites. A few more minutes, and the back of my hand tells me it is hot enough for a stream of greenish olive oil and the onion. The first sizzles release the pungent odor, letting everyone know that warm food is coming.

The same knife helps me peel back the thick outer skin of the ham and cut it into spoonable chunks. They join the onion, by now golden and translucent. The spice cupboard door opens, revealing treasures from the spice islands: a bit of kosher salt, a grind of black pepper, a few rasps off the flat side of the chocolaty brown nutmeg, a dash of herbs and seaweed. My favorite wooden spoon stirs the mix as a stream of stock pours in.

I plunge my hand into the bag of lentils, elfin coins, the currency of winter dishes. I prefer handfuls to pouring just for the feeling of them slipping through my fingers into the simmering broth. One more stir, then I shall leave it to bubble and toil while I slice a crust of bread and gather a ladle, bowls and spoons.

Let the rain fall, we are warm inside.

Uninspired

The cold rain returned yesterday, that cold rain that would be snow if it were only a bit colder. When I thought of potatoes (since it was Monday), I could only think of mashed potatoes. Luckily, there were russet potatoes in the larder, so I peeled them, plopped them in a pan of water and set them to simmer on the stove. Lacking other inspiration, and preoccupied with the evening's upcoming concert, I grabbed some sausage out of the freezer--where would I be without the microwave to thaw? Mashed potatoes also call for peas, these were Petit Peas from Trader Joe's, also out of the freezer. Uninspired, but apparently comforting: I note that all the mashed potatoes were gone by the time I got to the dishes.