16th May 2011
Note: For those of you new to our blog, you might want to read the first 2 or 3 posts in the archive so that you know the background of our Cape House scenario.
What a week! On Tuesday, the latest potential buyer of our Cape house had to back out because his partner is too tall and the downstairs of the cottage, too short! Within hours I was covered in hives from neck to ankles. I’m sure only sheer vanity kept the little suckers from moving on to my face. Who’da thunk? Am I really so sensitive? Aren’t we all? And isn’t it great that our bodies are capable of telling us everything we need to know, but don’t want to. Really, we can’t get away with anything.
I tried telling myself all kinds of stories that day: how it wasn’t a life/death situation, how little we control, how it would eventually sell. But the truth is, I was furious. How dare the universe not give me what I want, when I want it? And beneath the childish rage, the fear: What if the market bottoms out again? What if the house doesn’t sell? What if we can’t get out of debt?
The problem with fear is not the fear itself, it’s how vague we tend to keep it. Either we don’t name it or we don’t answer the “what if” questions. It took me two days to get back into reality. If the market bottoms out, if the house doesn’t sell, we’ll make other decisions when the time comes. We just don’t know, nor can we, what those decisions might be. And there we have one of the great human dilemmas: not knowing. It is unbearable to we humans to not know.
Over the course of the following two days, during which time the hives brought me to my knees, we made the one decision we can make right now: to go forward with our plans. And so on Saturday, we made the five and half hour drive we’ve made so many times, from Manhattan to Provincetown, stopping in Orleans at possibly the best fishmonger on the east coast, where we bought 6 halibut cheeks and a luscious, heart-shaped piece of tuna, the glistening red of which pulsed on its bed of crushed ice. Next stop, also in Orleans, Phoenix, the organic fruit and veggie shop, where a basket of fiddle-head ferns beckoned from the inner sanctum of their curls. One more stop, in Wellfleet at PB’s, a true French boulangerie, complete with Parisienne accents, for a baguette for our Sunday morning breakfast.
We’ve made this trip up here probably a hundred times in the more than 20 years we’ve been together. It’s a long trip that seems to get longer as the years whiz by. And this time it was made harder by the fact that we want to be done with this already and also because the road trips we most recently took were through Provence, where nature accompanied us even on highways.
Although, that’s not really fair of me. The Merritt Parkway, and the stretches of I95 between towns and cities, boasted the glory of New England Spring. Even on the grey day it was, the myriad of new greens leafing out the trees and the occasional surprise of a flowery cherry tree were every bit has glorious as our Spring in Provence. But oh, those towns and cities. The soulless façade of broken places. The strip malls and fast food “restaurants.
Which reminds me: we watched a wonderful documentary a few nights ago called “Kings of Pastry” featuring French chefs vying for the MOF award for desserts which takes place every 4 years. One of the chefs in comparing French and American cuisine said, and I paraphrase, “in France we don’t have the concept all you can eat.”
Because of the near impossibility of getting “real” food when traveling the American Highway, we always pack a sandwich. It’s always the same one:
6 slices, lightly toasted, thinly sliced
organic yeast-free sesame spelt bread*
slim slices of pecorino cheese
drizzle the toast with olive oil, mash on the avacado, sprinkle w/salt. Now layer on the tomato, topped with the cheese and the top slice of toast. Don’t put that tomato on top – soggy bread.
· This divine bread comes from a bakery in Ontario. They do not take individual orders, so we buy 6 loaves at a time, which they ship to us. They keep well in the freezer. You can find this bakery on line at www.littlestream.com
· Definitely scroll down to the bottom of their page and watch the video. If that doesn’t get you ordering. . . .
We try to hold out until noon before eating our sammies along with glugs of green tea. Divine.
We pulled up to the cottage about 3 o’clock. The tide was coming in and there was a stiff wind blowing in circles. Usually when we arrive we take a moment to stand and look over the garden gate before entering – a sort of wow, look where we live moment. But this time the wind hurled us in the gate before we knew what was happening, almost like we were being pushed from behind. We staggered in and were hit by a blaze of scarlet tulips.
The pear tree was in full delicate blossom. Hundreds of bulbs I planted in the autumn had produced banks of daffodils along the hedge and Joel’s studio, with random clusters on the dune and in the woodland garden where their optimistically nodding heads contrasted with sprays of bleeding hearts.
The beach plum tree is poised to pop open its blossoms about the same time as the broom and the white lilac by the hammock. Nine different varieties of climbing roses are galloping up fences and the walls of the cottage.
Honeysuckle and clematis are beginning their annual race to outdo each other. The tamarisk trees remain tight fisted. The linden tree, laden with its flowers-to-be. The 3 pines have grown another few feet in spite of annual disease. These babies, shoulder high when we planted them 11 years ago are now a good 25 feet. And miracle of miracles, all my lavender shrubs have survived another harsh winter. As always, we are amazed at the courage of this garden, clinging to the edge of the sea with valiant determination.
We unpack and start the fire, struggling with a lot of emotions. We decide on the halibut cheeks for dinner.
6 halibut cheeks (4 would have been enouth)
Brown the butter, sprinkle in the capers, sauté the cheeks for 5 minutes, cover and steam for another 2. We think a little white wine and heavy cream would be nice, but didn’t have any. Sprinkle with minced parsley, serve accompanied with steamed green beans sprinkled with lemon juice. A good meal after a stodgy day in a car.
While Joel is babying the cheeks, I’m out in the garden picking daffodils and tulips for the table. As I stoop to cut a narcissus in front of my writing shed, I see under the Zelkova tree (which I prefer to call the Zeidigo tree) bunches of wild violets – still blooming!
And suddenly I’m back in Provence at the beginning of our journey more than 2 months ago: The Violet Festival of Tourrettes Sur Loup!
