They lifted their feet
and stepped softly into evening
the view was incredible.
They wore raincoats to keep off the clouds.
They climbed until distance made everything look
exactly half it’s regular size,
and thought about the half-size people
living in that half-size town.
Everything was pink around them,
and when it purpled and got dark
they zipped up their rain coats and stepped softly down,
out of the cold
into lamplight.
This is the story of how they up and ran away. At first they thought they were running away from their past, and then it occurred to them, somewhere in flight, that perhaps they were running away from the future, which seemed more complicated. So they hid behind a big, romping rosebush to get their thoughts together. “Where do you run when you’re running away from the future?” they asked each other. Paradoxically enough, the answer seemed to be “space.” So they build a rocket out of cardboard boxes and wooden pallets and some branches lent by the rosebush and duct tape, of course, and they picked up a sad-looking pigeon who they thought might need company, and they flew off into space, where it was very cold.
They parked on an asteroid, and sat and looked at the stars and all the other asteroids, and ate some sandwiches (of course they had sandwiches. Would you go to space without sandwiches?) and talked it out. And although they were assuredly afraid of societal stagnation, especially as illustrated by the unending political gridlock that had become the bane of the bipartisan system, and also afraid of the earth’s dwindling resources and humanity’s general inability to get its consumerist economic habits under any sort of control, they weren’t sure that building a rocket and going to space had solved that issue. Not for the earth, certainly, but they found that even sitting on an asteroid looking down at the deceptively pristine globe, they were still afraid, for the planet and the people on it. They still apparently cared. And so it seemed they must not have been running away from the future.
What, then, was the purpose of their flight? Had they been running to, rather than running from? They discussed it, but neither had had dreams of being an astronaut, so it didn’t seem like they had had space lurking in their minds at the outset. Having gotten away from so many things, and still feeling that their running away was not what you might call a success, they were forced to accept a somewhat unpalatable truth.
They must have been running away from each other.
Once they finally said it, they found it to be a relief.
So they climbed back into their rocket ship, and wandered a little until they found a nice-enough planet (rather, a large-ish asteroid) and she set him down and waved goodbye and continued wandering until she found a similarly sized asteroid – perhaps, a little smaller, but with a lovely billabong that suited her fancy, and landed the rocket ship there.
She found some seeds in the branches the rosebush had lent, and grew a rose garden in the abundant sunlight with billabong-water. He built cairns and towers out of rocks, and spent a lot of time looking at the stars, which he found very calming. They wrote each other letters, which the pigeon (who had perked up considerably) agreed to ferry back and forth for them, although it had to rest for quite a while, and be petted and made a bit of a fuss over after each trip.
They each found reading the other’s letters an unfettered joy. They composed them carefully, with thought and precision and love.
They loved each other, of course, after all. Just like they loved the earth.
All they needed was a little bit of distance.
This is a pan I did not want.
I wanted something with a bigger bottom and with shorter sides –
the sort of thing you’d fry the latkes in.
But this is a good pan.
It is good for braising. It is good for mixing a whole pound of pasta with a simmered, chunky sauce,
maybe with artichoke hearts in it.
It would probably be ok at frying latkes, too.
Washing it, I find it more manageable than my big big skillet.
It has a sort of comforting weight in the hands; it feels balanced.
Hands frothed with dish soap, fingertips wrinkled
I am filled with the pride of ownership.
How will I survive the diaspora of friendship?
I will lean heavily upon the future
(in form of: wishing, hoping, and video-communication)
Also on the past
(in form of: remembering, and the arcane and archaic art of the postal letter)
I will not forget those things outside of my immediate cycle of days, but
as importantly,
I will allow myself to be comforted by those things within that cycle.
I will take my vitamins. I will brush my teeth. I will cook dinner.
I will cry a little when I need to.
What is less than three? Whole universes. Everything.
Foreshortened hands and pictures in my notebook and boxes on my bureau and poems that I wrote or have not written –
This is literal.
And I will remember telephones and aeroplanes;
the easiest and the hardest,
the saddest and the best.
I am a master of the universe. I will conquer this loss.
We will regain.
Where do you find them?
Try:
Behind the stove
Around the door frame
Under small stones placed in the pots of plants
In closets
In lamplight
In morning and evening
Behind the dishes
Among the dry goods
Most places.
Not all places.
How do you honor them?
Honestly. Happily.
Sorrowfully, when you must.
Use:
Laughter
Ajax scrubbing powder
A nice salad, with tomatoes and a little hard cheese
Old bones, cleaned by wind and weather
Tangling bodies
Wine
What can they do for you?
Nothing.
Nothing, at any rate, that you can’t do for yourself.
But if you’ve bothered to
(To what?
To protect yourself. Those around you.
Eat and drink. Hang tiny lanterns. Wiggle your toes in bed
in the mornings. And
just soak it all in like moss soaks water or sunflowers sun)
then probably they slipped in without your even asking them.
They sit around your door frames. In corners. Between pots.
Their favorite place is the slanty drawer where you store candles and oddments
(Unless you don’t have a slanty drawer. Go looking, then.
The spot won’t be that hard to find.)
If you’ve bothered, then
You might as well take a second and greet them.
Shrine. Not-a-shrine. Temple. Not-a-temple.
Home. Not-a-house.
Gods. Not alone.
They found treasures out there,
making a monster on the rocky shore,
and chief among them was the boat.
It was a tiny terracotta vessel,
sporting a crack
and a scratched-in design –
perhaps a blackberry,
or else maybe a rose.
And inside, inexpert
bright glorious blue!
It splashes up over the edges, like it wants to look out
and watch the world and the river go by.
Where were you taking your cargo of brightness?
Were you just leaving, or have you arrived? ‘
She took it. She kept it.
It sits on her dresser
with other small treasures,
the fleet that she captains in whimsy and dream.
When it comes to cooking on a day-to-day basis, there are two real categories of food: the things that you make when you’re up to it, and the things that you make when aren’t.
The later is a special, if unglamorous, group. They are the meals that comfort you when you can’t stand the thought of packaged food, don’t want to go out, and are too broke to order in; when you want something honest and uncomplicated and good. What this means varies from person to person, but never requires dirtying a lot of dishes or spending too much time. You might make salads or fried rice, soup or grilled sandwiches, stir fries or omelettes or pasta.
Every once in a while one of these dishes is nice enough that you’d consider serving it to somebody you might like to impress. When you get a call out of the blue from an attractive acquaintance inquiring about dinner at 6:30 in the evening, it’s nice to have the something in the house that will do.
This has been one of my most foolproof standbys. Except for vegans and true vegetarians, it’s almost universally loved. It’s filling and easy and simple and cheap, and except for the carbs, it’s very healthy: oily fish (yes, anchovies) and broccoli are both fantastic for you, and a little olive oil and hard cheese never hurt anybody. In fact, you can even make it with whole-wheat pasta. I have, and none were the wiser.
For 4-6 people, depending on voracity.*
(The whole thing will take about half an hour, 45 minutes if you’re deliberate or distracted.)
Equipment
Ingredients
Procedure
* This dish also scales beautifully. Half a pound of pasta and a smaller head of broccoli, lighter on the anchovy and garlic, and the exact same procedure feeds two. If you’ve got big enough pots and pans, you can double it up and feed 8. Simple.
** You want it as green as you can find it, with tight little bundles of florets. Nothing wobbly or soft or yellow. Also, check out the stem and see if it’s hard and woody – that’s a bad sign.
*** I like Pecorino a lot, but I’ve used Asiago and Piave, and of course good old Parmesan. Get something nice, though – a whole piece of cheese, and not one that comes in printed shrink wrap, one that was recently cut off a big wheel. Also, remember that not all graters are the same; micro-plane graters create light, fluffy piles. If you’re using something with bigger holes, you won’t need as big a volume of grated cheese.
**** God help you if you’re using an electric stove. I recommend picking up the pan a lot to regulate heat. Or moving to a place with a gas stove.
The sentiments expressed in this post were earlier expressed by the wonderful cook and author Laurie Colwin. Read her books!
I don’t remember anymore how old I was,
those summers I went every morning.
I do remember standing ankle deep in river
looking at the stones which all seemed precious in the sun,
thinking nothing could ever be so beautiful.
Nothing ever has been.
I can’t tell you why the dirt is nice dirt,
why I can’t keep my shoes on, would not dare to try.
I tried to explain. I don’t think I succeeded,
but I think he understood. Laughed at me a little.
Always has laughed at me, just a little.
(And pointed out where there were fewer rocks.
I knew already. I did not go.)
There are black raspberries if you know where to look.
It’s nice to eat them and even nicer to leave some
for the next person
who knows where to look.
The field is full of dragon flies or fireflies
Sunlight or moonlight or cloudy glow-light
from the big hospital and the houses beyond the trees.
You can call it nostalgia if you want.
I prefer to call it coming home.
Bright yellow backhoe works hard all day long
and shuts down, exhausted, at night.
Lamppost leans over her, protective and calm,
he worries, but can’t do too much.
There are weeds in the lot, but the sunsets are nice,
in the heat of the hot summer night.
And bright yellow backhoe, and lamppost, and me,
love each other, and never quite touch.
I think she woke to wonder every morning,
even when she was already a ghost.
Sat at her typewriter and leaped gracefully over the aching hollowness
lingered delicately
(as fruits chilled all day on ice, served up with kirsch)
on the sweet moments,
the world quietly disappearing around her.
Fascists wander through the pages,
all smiles. Communists and beautiful Jewish girls
trying to forget and remember the starving pain
of imprisoned loved ones, being served strange meals
on old ships
by old stewards.
Champagne and caviar and the slow, voluptuous
always voluptuous, ever so voluptuous
pleasure of discovering that despite what men tell you,
you, as a woman, have the right to ask for
and receive
just what you want.
Love, she reminds us,
without ever telling us,
is complicated. People move about.
We hurt one another.
We break the rules.
We feed our strange hungers and our healthy ones,
and the alcohol in our blood and the strong or subtle flavors
are meant to be enjoyed,
and we are meant to enjoy each other,
and we are meant to enjoy ourselves.
I think that my gratitude would matter to her,
if she could ever have known
the things she taught me.
(For M.F.K. Fisher)