Last night we sat in the backyard for the first time this season, occupying two of the six chairs surrounding our glass-top table with umbrella situated two summers ago in the sunshine upon a rectangle of 12 faux brick tiles bought at Wal-Mart for $3.48 each. We talked, we listened to music, (U2 Joshua Tree); we read some. My wife read her fiction and I read one of my books that make me angry over the state of the world; that is all I seem to read these days. I readied the grill for her hamburger and for my tuna steak. We heard neighbors in their backyard, two houses down and one over; a chess move for a knight. New neighbors perhaps; we could not remember them from last summer. Winter pulls a blind down over proximity. Of course, in backyard seasons we merely twirl the wand and peer between the slats. We will never know this new young couple; their history, their hopes, their dreams, much less their names. They were working in their future flower or (perhaps) vegetable garden. When female partner pulled off her t shirt to a modest, unrevealing sports bra getup, my wife dubbed her naked girl; and with male partner already stripped to a pair of shorts, he naturally became naked guy. I started, (but then decided it was not necessary), to remind my wife of times not so many years ago when we were naked girl and naked guy. Forty years was not so many years ago; and I am confident my wife remembers.
When it became chilly enough for naked girl to put her t shirt back on, we moved from the breezy openness of the backyard to the less breezy patio, enclosed on three sides and furnished with a round rickety bamboo table and two generic tan outdoor chairs. It was also more private, (I suspect only one or two neighbors could see us, as we peered back and forth through our respective slats). Though privacy on this night was not really a concern, (our music, our books, our mode of dress, my wife's wine, nor my beer were in the least offensive or intrusive), there is some comfort in drawing blinds.
I started the fire, seasoned and patted out three burgers, (one for my wife's dinner, one for her lunch tomorrow, and one as week-old sacrifice to our kitchen wastegod – it is our way), and I oiled and seasoned two tuna steaks for myself. I solemnly introduced the burgers to the grill, staggered the spatualistic tintinnabulation of the tuna steaks accordingly, and we sat, enjoying the smells of charring meat and wood smoke.
I am a pescatarian. I have not eaten meat now for nearly three years; or is it two? I remember the date, (April 27), but I’m not sure of the year. I could figure it out because my last day of meat consumption, April 27, was a Thursday. But for whatever reason(s), I am okay not knowing.
- I feel compelled to note though that I have consumed meat twice in this time; once when Cracker Barrel slipped some ham shreds in my greens, and once purposefully when I respectfully grilled and enjoyed a 3 ounce deer steak gifted from a hunter.
Regardless, to go along with the protein, we cooked and buttered some corn, baked some fries, and we heated some leftover mac and cheese. We plated our food, retired to the living room, put on a British crime drama from Netflix and we enjoyed a satisfying meal.
We rested.
This morning, I walked.
Before 6am, even this busy corner of the world in which I reside, is quieter. A world in quarantine is even quieter. I crossed a patchwork parking lot emptied of cars. Previously, even before 6am, the fitness center justifying the parking lot was packed with people now unfit to work out; immune systems afraid of being too weak to resist. We protest. We all protest; but some are too weak for self-control. Even when I intend to avoid politics, it creeps in.
Typically, I walk to think. This week I want to walk and act and work to observe, and report; I want to reduce my complexity of thought. This is difficult for me. I have grown accustomed to digging deep and filtering the dirt through my trembling fingers, watching for the anomaly, and questioning the consensus. I want to close my eyes to the obvious so I may open my mind to the possible. I want to walk without seeing, without observation.
For me, observation has always been extraneous. I think it saddens my wife that I cannot speak to the color of someone's eyes, or that I cannot comment on or appreciate the new blooms on the tulip tree in our backyard. Or is it the front yard? Is it even a tulip tree? Do they grow here? Are they even a thing? I don't know.
Perhaps observation for me is only important when it aids in the accomplishment of something. The shading on the top of the burger being cooked with smoke and indirect heat telling me when it is time to flip. The crisping of lost cheese, telling me to find it. The angry tone of the homeless man and the implied or imagined threat, telling me to calmly and politely continue walking. He asked me why I was out here walking and if I had eaten breakfast and if I had money. He asked me if my phone has a tracker on it. He was both ragged and rugged; some 20 or so years younger, with a gruff growth of beard and an urgency. He came from the Jewell Cemetery, State Historic Site, where I imagine he had spent the night. After ten minutes of this tandem Q & A, I went right; he stayed his path.
Then after a stop at the coffee shop for my Americano, (20 ounce, 4 shots, no room – they know me now), I walked on and had to backtrack 50 yards to see the sculpted metal dinosaurs holding their Easter baskets, wearing their bunny ears. My wife loves those dinosaurs and their ever-changing costumery. I never see them. She told me to look.
I understand anger. I am not sure I understand random and/or thoughtless confrontation.
Another morning, another walk. Another day, a few smiles, a laugh or two, fresh tears, work, food, drink, conversation, rest, life, death, comfort in routine, added disappointment.
Where I see the disappointment of miscalculation, some see absolution and their own salvation. When I anguish over their effusion, they languish in their delusion. Where I see opportunity for amelioration, they countenance passive preservation. Where I seek respectfully skeptical collaboration, cooperation, and expert investigation, I am met with righteous indignation and subjected to angry confrontation. When I work toward less complex cogitation and more complete observation, I am distracted; I am disappointed.
We should do better. We could do better. I miscalculate daily; perhaps hourly. Exponential disappointment.
Another day.
And another day.
Last night I made some good soup and bad sandwiches for dinner. The soup, a hearty white bean and quinoa vegetable soup from a Mary McCartney cookbook, was warm, filling and satisfying. I lost track of the sandwiches. Typically, I put the bread on and add cheese a little at a time, gauging the ideal amount for the moment. Last night, turning the griddle up too high, I was unable to add cheese as they warmed because the bread was immediately toasty. The result: too little cheese encased in slightly ashen, somewhat scorched bread. I typically take pride in my grilled cheese sandwich. This was far from my best effort.
About four-grilled-cheese-efforts-ago, I stumbled across a marvelous accident. I found myself burning my fingertips trying to snatch strands of cheese escaping from the bread. They were transforming into delightful little needle-nibbles of crunchy cheesy goodness. From there I found that coarsely grated block cheddar cheese, (I prefer sharp), in a half-dollar size mound, (no more than 1/8 to 1/4 inch high), placed directly on the griddle and allowed to melt down and brown on the underneath, then flipped and crisped, becomes a scrumptious, rich and sensuous cheese cracker on steroids. Lost cheese, found.
Another day.
Last night my wife asked if my worsening vertigo this week was masking a different problem. It has happened before. I changed the subject; not to hide anything, but because, (my observation skills being what they are), I wanted to consider her question – carefully.
I don't think so. No numbness and tingling traveling up and across like before.
A future tragedy? Or a non-event? If a non-event, is the worry, the concern, the conversation wasted? I prefer to think of it as misplaced; and at times over-dramatized. Mortality is a consideration, but it should not be a fixation.
After my walk, readying for work, I put on one of my slim-fit shirts I found in the back of my closet, worn regularly but a few months ago. It was fairly easily buttoned and not uncomfortable, and if I were going in to work instead of sitting, working at the kitchen bar, I might have put on a tie to cover the slight bubbling and stretching-apart down the line of buttons. But I decided that it was better to acknowledge the reality of this new day; and perhaps work toward the future. Will the dissection reconnect? Or will the unentangled grow further apart?
And another day.
Last night my wife pulled a Tupperware container out of the fridge and said, “this burger is nearly a week old. I think I should throw it out.” I agreed.
It is our way…