Nourish

On a Clear Day You Can See Forever- Dad's View

A few weekends ago I made a solo trip to the Bay Area, seeking solitude, solace, and sea breezes.  My dad died a year and a half ago and is buried in a beautiful location: on the ridge of the Santa Cruz Mountains, overlooking the pumpkin patches of Half Moon Bay and out to the Pacific Ocean.  A few times a year I go out to visit with him, to cry, to laugh, to share the newest stories about our family.  I bring a latte and a raspberry scone (his favorite) up to the spot, sit on the ground beside him, and just start talking.  On this trip the weather was cold and foggy up along the ridge, obscuring the view to the ocean.  I didn't mind- I was feeling sad and lonely for him and the weather reflected my state of mind.

Clam Chowder, Anchor Steam Beer, Crab Cake Balls
Sam's Chowder House in Half Moon Bay, CA

By the time my cheeks were raw from tears and salty sea air I was chilled to the bone and knew it was time to head down the hill to find some food.  Over the last few months I've been on a fairly restrictive diet in order to shed some pounds, but I made a decision that this weekend would not be about restriction and structure.  I was there to nourish all parts of myself: body, soul, and creative spirit.  I decided to try a new place for lunch (our family favorite, Barb's Fish Trap, had over an hour wait).  I braved the waterfront patio of Sam's Chowder House, positioning myself under an umbrella and a heat lamp, and promptly ordered an appetizer, a huge bowl of their namesake chowder and a draft pull of my favorite San Francisco beer.  Oh heavens.  The chowder was unbelievably delicious- Sam's doesn't use any flour to thicken their broth and it's filled with chunks of fresh clams, potatoes, leeks, carrots, bacon, and is served piping hot.  I finished the meal with my own pot of hot tea, looking out over the grey choppy water and filling my trusty Moleskine journal with new character ideas.



One of the many treasures inside Harley Farm's heavenly
cheese shop: goat cheese in their herb-infused olive oil

Feeling fully revived and ready to move onto the next location, I packed up my things and headed down the coast about twenty miles to one of my favorite places: Pescadero, a funky little seaside town that is home to the world's best goat cheese.  Harley Farms is a working goat dairy on the outskirts of town and has some of the best goat cheese I've ever tasted (and I have a serious weakness for chevre).  In fact, the background picture for this blog was taken during one of my many trips to Harley Farms over the years and shows the inside of their amazing cheese shop.  Not only can you pet baby goats and take a tour of the farm to see how they make the cheese, but you can also sample all of their products.  My personal favorite?   The plain goat cheese log topped with lavender from their edible flower garden and filled with a bar of local honey.  Yes, it's really that amazing. 

As I pulled into the dirt parking spot along the country road, the sun decided to peek out from behind the clouds and the air instantly warmed up.  I meandered around the farm, unusually quiet for a Friday, and spent about a half an hour walking through the cheese shop picking out my purchases.  Ultimately I decided on a new coffee mug, rustic white glaze with their dancing goat imprint, and a bottle of their lavender goat milk body lotion.  As much as I love their cheese, I just couldn't imagine eating a whole log of it by myself after my filling lunch at Sam's (well I could, but I tried to reign myself in a bit).  That evening, driving back up the coast and over the hill to my hotel, my eyes continually filled with tears as I recalled all of my trips to Pescadero with my dad.  Of our drives, talks, coffee runs, and impromptu beachside picnics.  Somehow being out there, retracing our old routes, doing things we used to do together, calms me and keeps him alive in my heart.  I know that the next time I'm feeling disconnected from my roots, homesick for the ocean, and have a craving for a nourishing bowl of Sam's clam chowder, I only need book a flight.  My dad and the twenty-nine years of memories we shared together will be waiting for me.   

Sunshine and Seventy

Light through recycled glass soap dishes

Happiness is a precious commodity.  In my life I've found that it usually comes in short, concentrated blasts and is often tempered by periods of struggle, sadness, and exasperation.  Lately I've been experimenting with happiness, choosing to focus on those momentary blips of joy, beauty, and contentment during the drudgery of everyday life. When I first started this experiment, I found that the hardest part was being satisfied with a multitude of small moments, rather than a huge chunk of time.  But if we wait for life to slow down, for troubles to stop coming, for heartache to cease, we'll be waiting forever and missing all those little gems that make life wonderful and worth living. I've discovered that finding happiness is like anything- the more often you look, the more abundant it becomes. 

Yesterday was both a typical work day and a singularly gorgeous day in Dallas.  My twenty-five minute commute inexplicably took forty-five minutes, even though I took the same route to work and left at my usual time.  As I walked to my building across campus from the parking garage, I was almost run over by a snotty undergrad in a fancy red Porsche who actually accelerated when I stepped off the curb. I promptly spilled my iced coffee all over my chest.  After getting settled in my windowless cave of an office, I realized that I had grabbed the jeans from the dirty clothes pile by accident that morning.  With no make-up and crazy hippy hair that was still wet underneath, I was feeling really attractive and ready for the day.  I felt myself slipping into grumpiness, snarling at unsuspecting students who dared come by my office for help.  From this moment the day could have easily turned into one that I would soon forget, mentally filing it under the categories of "Typical Hump Day" and the "Ruination of Perfectly Good Shirts through Spilled Food Products Day."  But who wants the days of their life to be checked off and dismissed as mediocre? Not me.  

Dream Ride- Restored 1962 Vespa in Grey Blue

Leaving for an early lunch with my husband and his lovely co-worker, I spent the ten minute walk to my car clearing my mind of negativity.  The sky was a clear cornflower blue, the hundred-year-old live oaks lining the campus smelled warm and earthy, and the gentle sunshine caressed my face and dried the last strands of my hair.  We ate lunch in a busy seafood grill, where Gene Chandler's voice crooned the Duke of Earl over the airwaves and we all indulged in our own separate desserts.  I returned to work happy; healed by good company, laughter, divine bread pudding, and beautiful weather.  In the late afternoon a good friend stopped by to visit and talk paint colors for her new office.  Ever thoughtful, she brought ice tea and some lovely lemony biscuits (amazing Trader Joe's delights!) for us to share while we perused the colors of the rainbow in the paint sample booklet.  We sat outside near a fountain, surrounded by art students sketching in charcoal, relishing in the gorgeous weather and narrowing down the perfect color choice.  By the time the 5 o'clock quitting whistle sounded, I practically skipped to my car, even though I knew I had a long drive ahead to my in-laws' house where I would be pet sitting for the next few nights.  I drove with the windows down, absorbing every second of the sunshine and seventy degrees, knowing that in Texas the weather can change on a dime.  My husband, C, and I had dinner at one of our favorite places, sitting outside on the patio festooned with white twinkle lights, sharing a bottle of Greek wine and a plate of lamb kabobs.  Back at the house, we fed the dogs, laughing hysterically as C had to bribe an ancient special needs Corgi to take his medication with multiple slices of American cheese.  Later on, while C watched My Cousin Vinnie for the umpteenth time, I loaded my newest batch of photos from my recent trip to California to my laptop.    Surrounded by snoring dogs, a relaxed husband, and the photos I had taken in the eclectic boutiques of my favorite seaside town (like these two images), I felt so incredibly blessed to be alive. Closing my eyes, I retraced the hundreds of happy moments of the day as my mind wandered towards dreamland, grateful for each and every one.  Now all I need is that Vespa and I'll be set.

Pieces of Eight

Last night during my class we were asked to write about a memory from childhood.  With the clock ticking and a measly ten minutes to complete the exercise, I grasped at the first thing that came to mind: 

Oh, Jim, what a lovely tricorne hat you have!

For as long as I can remember, one of my all-time favorite movies has been Disney's Treasure Island (1950).  I've always loved a good, old-fashioned tale of adventure on the high seas and I'm pretty sure that Bobby Driscoll (the cutie who played Jim Hawkins) was my first serious crush.  The memory comes back to me like a flash and suddenly I'm seven years old again, using my imagination to buffer myself from the reality of household chores.  The game I'm playing that day can best be described as "Jim Hawkins' Younger Sister Swabbing the Deck."  It was my preferred go-to game when the front porch required sweeping.   

Even as a child I liked to keep things as authentic as possible when imagining myself in a fantasy world.  Pirate chores (typically sweeping or mopping, but sometimes kitchen duty when a large pot of soup needed stirring) called for pirate clothes.  We had Italian neighbors, Paolo, Marina, and their baby Guilia, who gave me a beautiful green floral skirt after one of their trips back home.  The material was heavy cotton twill and it twirled nicely.  Paired with a white hand-me-down peasant blouse, the perfect pirate girl outfit came to life (conveniently doubling as gypsy girl on other days).  I've always hated wearing shoes, which is one of the reasons I'm still so fond of adventures involving sailing ships and tropical beaches.  I remember that the concrete of the front stoop was ice cold and caused my pink toes to curl as soon as I walked out the front door, trusty red broom firmly in hand.  Our front door opened onto the shady side of the apartment building and looked out to a canopy of neighboring trees whose leaves were big and bright green and perpetually damp with edges that curled inward. 



"One More Step, Mr. Hands."
A 1911 illustration by N.C. Wyeth.

On that front porch, in that moment, I wasn't a child with household chores to do.  I was a kidnapped English girl, a stowaway on a pirate ship.  My older brother, Jim Hawkins, and I would plan adventures with that scallywag Long John Silver.  After running around on deck, fighting off the likes of Israel Hands, we would go diving off the ship into crystal clear turquoise waters, searching for conch shells and buried treasure.  Interrupted mid-joust, I look up to see my mother at the door telling me to put some socks on.  Drat.  Smiling, she puts a warm hand on my shoulder reminding me that the dishwasher needs to be emptied.  Double drat. Letting out a big, dramatic sigh I begrudgingly hand her the broom and walk inside.  Kidnapped pirate children don't have to worry about things like dishwashers. Or socks.

p.s. This chore avoidance through fantasy technique is one that I still use, although nowadays I typically find myself on an Greek Island belting out songs from Mamma Mia.  Occasionally though, a grown-up Jim Hawkins (who now resembles Henry Cavill) joins me, begging for one more adventure. 

The Short and Long of It

My mind has been churning since my last writing class and I've found myself scribbling in my new turquoise Moleskine journal at every possible opportunity.  I've been a writing machine, worried that if I don't get my ideas immediately down on paper they'll suddenly float out of my brain never to be thought of again.  Mostly I've been working on fleshing out some individual characters that have been percolating in my head for a while now.  Scenarios, settings, personality ticks, and my eager anticipation to meet some of these figments of my imagination have kept me blissfully busy.  I've been sneaking off during my lunch hour to nerd out and people watch, working in spastic bouts of writing frenzy. 

My glory years in the pool....posing
with Richard Quick, head coach of
Stanford Women's Swimming in 1991.

At the end of this first set of classes, a mere four weeks from now, I have to turn in a short story of roughly 2500 words.  Granted that's only five pages, but brevity has never been my strong suit.  Growing up as a competitive swimmer, my best events were distance ones like the 1650.  While most kids begged their coaches not to make them swim sixty-six laps in a short-course pool, I couldn't wait to dive in and start the mile long crawl to the finish.  Even more shocking, I used to be able to do it in under twenty minutes (it's amazing what you can do when you are 10 years old, weigh 90 pounds and have feet two sizes larger than everyone else).  What can I say? I've always been a glutton for punishment. 

I've got to admit though, the whole concept of writing a short story makes my palms sweat a little, as memories of seventh grade English with Mr. Ryan begin to surface after almost two decades of repression.  Five pages is not a lot of room for a story to take shape.  I suppose some people would point out that five pages is entirely sufficient if you choose your words carefully, think through your character development, and have a zinger of an ending already planned out.  Having none of those things, I've got to come up with something pronto.  Taking a deep breath, I have to remind myself that even though my next writing event is more of a sprint, I'm in this for the long haul.  Luckily, I have years of training under my belt that have prepared me to go the distance. 

Taking Flight

So, I'm a bit rusty....but check out that classic styling.

They say writing is like exercising a muscle.  Like most people I spend much of my day writing work emails, texts to my loved ones, and ridiculous notes to myself on colorful post-it notes.  I don't get to exercise that creative writing muscle very often, but as of yesterday, I've made a new commitment to do so.  This time I'm actually going to do it and not let my blank notebooks gather layers of dust.  What's different this round?  Well after much encouragement from my spouse (mild threats to DO something about my dream to be a writer, rather than sit around twiddling my thumbs) I enrolled in a creative writing series at the university where I work.  Now there is more than just my pride at stake- there's the pressure in knowing that I've actually paid to be there.  My first class last night was simultaneously energizing and terrifying.  And I walked away with a ton of challenging homework for the upcoming week.  After a decent night's sleep and with my initial enthusiasm somewhat reigned in, I've been doing a lot of thinking about writing today.  Right now my creative writing skills are a bit like this rusty bicycle- I had every intention of getting out for a ride over the past few years, but somehow my ideas and my drive ended up shelved, abandoned, and left outside to rust in the rain.

Look at me Morty! No hands!

The good news is that even though I'm a bit rusty (and my first in-class writing assignment sounded worse than the romantic gibberish I used to write in high school), I'm actually taking my writing out for a spin.  Sure, I need some TLC, but at least I'm mostly intact.  In no time I'll be cruising around like this fabulous Edwardian lady- confident, jaunty, and with a killer pair of boots.  I have a story (a series, really) that wants to be born.  But before that happens, I have to put in the time, exercise those writing muscles and learn to trust myself.  I need this outlet in my life.  I've suffered from significant amounts of stress, loss, and grief over the past few years, which depleted every last ounce of my creative elixir.  But 2012 is a new year and I'm ready to reclaim my imagination, my dreams, and my sense of humor.

I know that one day in the not too distant future my internal writing machine will take flight.  I imagine myself as this fire-haired goddess, chasing my dreams through the cosmos, bounded only by the limits of my imagination and my faith in myself.