Columbia is a possibility

I just plucked an aged Berenstain Bears book out from under my tush and grinned.  Tomorrow night I'll be snuggling Daniel under our faux-suede duvet in our monstrous bed; there will be no puzzle pieces lodged in between our pillows, no sincere requests to read Llama, Llama, Red Pajamas "just one more time," no warm babies lying on my chest and occasionally gifting me with a blue-eyed gummy smile...and I'll think back to this patchwork place that I spent so much of these past three weeks.  Thorin who suns himself in the bright corner leaving behind a carpet of dark hair; Ewan who stashes his books and plastic dinosaurs for evening play.

Before writing this post, I had just come in for a drink of water after sticking various rubber finger puppets in the copper twirly on the porch.  This doo-dad is guaranteed to deliver hours of optical illusion to any eave from which it drops.  My mother bought one for each of us at the Sunday farmer's market.  Tucked between the white tents bursting with blueberry lemonade, buffalo jerky, and donut peaches was a gnarled wood pyramid dripping with copper twirlies.  As the metal spirals spin, the object appears to splash up from the coils, when actually there is no movement.  It really is quite fun and I hope all of my future guests will enjoy the orange hued contraption once we hang it on our porch.  I will be certain to document future visitor's reactions in their varying forms of amazement.

These past few days have been luxurious for my senses.  Warm oiled hands kneaded my doughy back at an Aveda spa (Gracias, Kathy), my mother arrived sculpting blintzes swimming in berry sauce, peach cobbler melting in homemade frozen yogurt, and snapper lightly resting in butter.  She has a way of placing both food and memory into the mortar and pestle to mash the two inseparably into your consciousness.  I shudder to think of others, including myself, making these dishes...pure sacrilege to fathom someone else dishing up these delights; however, I'm keenly aware these recipes were not genetically ingrained.  They came down from a quartet of influential women.  Seasonings and general culinary knack hail from Lola, Southern staples from Deanne and Bettie, and the coup d'etat ---peach cobbler from Margaret.

Iris and I both watched as my mother, hopped up on iced-coffee, and maybe slightly in response to my sour-faced response to "maybe we'll wait on the cobbler," began to plunge into our 22 lb. box of Johnson Orchard peaches with vigor at 10pm.  She pealed and diced each peach, juice spilling over her hands into the pan below.  Flour, cubed butter and water danced delicately in a glass bowl until a rolling pin could nudge the crumbling strips into being.  Soon, the sugar-sprinkled buttered pastry mounted gushing peaches and the pair caramelized together in a hot oven.  Cobbler wafts began just as the ice-cream maker slowed its churn of homemade vanilla frozen yogurt.  My own twin contraption awaits my lactose intolerant fantasies when I get home to Long Beach (thanks, Sparky).  And that was just on Saturday.

Crusty sourdough plunged into bowls of vibrant carrot ginger soup; yellow beets, pears, and shaved parmesan dressed in a delicate vinaigrette; velvet spring risotto with peas and drizzled with olive oil; Tuscan chicken with goat cheese on foccacia found us on our mother-daughter Sunday afternoon.  We drove for several hours through valleys, in the shadows of the Manastash ridge, into the lush Cascade greenery to find Snoqualmie Falls.  A waterfall splashes 268 feet below the picturesque Salish Lodge (our dining digs are in the upper left of this photo).  Flower baskets gushed, mist from the falls dabbled the chamomile flowers clinging to the cliffs, and the sun shone with gentle radiance on a day filled with conversation.  Both our minds and mouths wound along the highway with questions and perspectives.  We discussed the beauty of sisters and female friendship (when sisters didn't come), my eventual wedding (of which we lightly plan even though "the question" still looms), my parent's divorce (an oldie-but-goody), and a passionate discussion of how Daniel and I "should absolutely NOT go to Columbia" in January (about which I could not muster up enough evidence to counter adequately).

We passed cows grazing near lakes dotted along the highway, horses galloping near dilapidated barns, and she told me of the temperature alarms and smudge pot lighting that used to wake up our neighboring orchardists in the Methow Valley.  During the spring, if the apple buds freeze, the crop is ruined, thus, back in the 70's low temperatures would set off a string of alarms.  Our family friends, the Stennes Family, would awaken, throw on some work clothes and hastily run from row to row, lighting smudge pots.  The thick black smoke and heated oil slightly warmed the air amidst the trees saving the buds and ensuring for at least one more day that the crop would survive.  I was fascinated by the romanticism of this frantic lighting.  I saw dark images of overall-clad farmers, soot on their faces, kneeling down beside the gnarled apple trunks and fanning flames they prayed would cast a warm enough embrace.  Flickering flames casting shadows on worried faces spread throughout the lush apple valley...livelihoods completely naked to Nature's lashing.

With full cameras and bellies, we drove towards home with fewer words and stopped in an old mining town that used to play Cicely, Alaska on television.  Passing time listening to gravel crunching underfoot and leathery Croatian men banter outside of a store hawking dusty Northern Exposure memorabilia.  An enormous Marlin Brando mural (from Wild One) painted on a lumber canvas and famous cafe facades and radio booth windows were captured.  My favorite Roslyn moment was looking up to watch the lanky biker cross the road, all but a denim heart around his genitals covered in worn black leather, faded boots grinding gravel, a tobacco stained beard hiding a gentle smile as he put out his cigarette in the coffee can at my feet, twisting the butt in his fingers until the filter and unburned remnants sprinkled into the sand.

My mind spun with images and my stomach churned the cheesy memories of Shane's homemade pizza as I wriggled under the quilt last night.  My mother and I each lay with our backs facing our opposing lamps, pajamas and pillows, feet and books, all slowly settling into night.  If only Michael Landon had popped his head up the ladder, kissed my braided bonnet head, and said "Goodnight, Half-pint" I would have been certain that I had just spent the day on the prairie.