somehow, indeed

I've had that funny card on my fridge for almost three years, since a man in suspenders and a loincloth walked up to me in Center Camp at Burning Man -- I think it was right before a dust storm, or right after one -- and handed it to me.

(You may never have been to Burning Man; perhaps you've never heard of it. Suffice it to say, "somehow it works" is a good motto for a gathering of 40,000 revelers, all of whom are intent on a week of bachannal, in a dustblown ancient lakebed in the Nevada desert. Somehow, most likely in heavy reliance on duct tape, we got our shade structure to stay upright and functional the whole time. Somehow, event producers manage to set a 40-foot effigy to blazes without anyone getting hurt. Somehow, our neighbors served up a cold, crunchy spinach and cranberry salad five days into the event. I'm not sure how, but somehow. But I digress.)

The leftovers from yesterday evening's heavenly sundried tomato-pumpkin seed mixture made it into my scrambled eggs this morning, and I started out full of buoyancy. But I sat next to a group of young men on the bus whose sole and enthusiastic topic of conversation was guns -- what sizes and styles were preferable, who had guns for sale and for how much, how many each of the boys planned to have. I stepped off the bus with an ache in the pit of my stomach. There must be other ways for boys to become warriors, in our time.

And the air at work was heavy, too; though my boss is on vacation, he spent much of the day in a telephonic screaming match with the legal secretaries as they struggled to file a series of documents. I was shielded to some degree from the conflict, but it penetrated my experience nonetheless. I was only too happy to get out of there this evening.

On my way home I stopped at the meat market, Ver Brugges. I am fortunate to live right around the corner from a wonderful stretch of College Avenue that is home to a meat market, a wine shop, a florist, an independent pharmacy, a family-owned grocer, a bakery, a tea house, and the Wood Tavern, just a year old and utterly outstanding. All in the same block! (I think there's also a bridal shop, but I haven't stopped in there yet.)

Walking into Ver Brugges, I feel like I've entered something of an alternate universe. There are about ten men who work there, all with grease-stained aprons, many with subtle overtones of Jersey in their voices. They sell all kinds of meat and fish, plus cheese, pickles from a glass barrel in regal repose on the metal counter, and mesquite wood chips. When I asked the man who sold me my swordfish (wild, Hawaiian) why the wild Alaskan salmon was so inexpensive -- let us not forget that salmon season has been cancelled, dear reader -- he shrugged and said, "'cause it doesn't taste very good." Can't argue with that.

He also told me that the only way he'd prepare that salmon would be to cure it with sugar. I perked up my ears. I eat low-sugar, but that's beside the point; he'd just revealed to me a bit of insider information! Aha, I thought to myself: this man works in a meat shop, he'll probably have some good advice about how to prepare meat! This, friends, is somewhat of a revelation. The people from whom I buy my food can do more than pass said food over a laser scanner and hand it to me in bags? These people can give me tips? These people might, in fact, be considered experts, since they are literally up to their elbows in the stuff all day?

It boggles the mind.

So, anyway, I left the shop with a little spring in my step (and a little parmigiano-reggiano in the bag with my fish; watch me branch out!) and headed home. But not before I picked a couple of rosemary sprigs from the bush on the corner, and not before I left a little note for my three-houses-down neighbors, the ones with the lemon tree that is absolutely drooping with lemons. This tree is glutted with lemons. Lemons abounding, lemons multiplying, lemons to the left and the right. If this tree were a cow, and the lemons were its milk, it would be baying in displeasure. So I left them a note: "I would willingly receive any lemons you can't use!" It appears that they haven't been using any of their lemons whatsoever, so I might be about to hit the jackpot. I'll keep you posted.

And once at home, it was time for a snack before I hit the trail -- so I slathered a few thick tomato slices with my homemade hummus, topping them off with slivers of parmigiano and a pinch of salt. YUM! Yum, dear reader. While this snack did confirm my hypothesis that one should really not bother buying tomatoes 'til they are in season, because why eat a tomato that's not green and yellow, and called a "green zebra," it was still delicious, and filled me up to head out onto my favorite after-work trail up in Strawberry Canyon.



The birds up in the hills said "tureeee!" and "tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk-tuk" and "carrooor," and the sunset was a resplendent golden rose color through the redwoods, and the small pains of the day faded.

I returned home to put the marinating swordfish in the broiler, and dropped five miniature artichokes in the steamer. Thinking creatively I decided to try to make a tahini dipping sauce for the artichoke. I'm embarassed to even tell you about this, but we both know I'm in a learning process, so I shall disclose that I mixed tahini, olive oil, water, lemon, and canola mayonnaise together in a skillet. Well-intentioned, yes; edible, not so much.

But somehow it worked; I elicited my own groans of joy from dipping the soft, earthy artichoke hearts in the left-over olive oil/ fennel seed/ orange-rosemary vinaigrette from the prior evening's salad.

And, much to my dismay, because I'd hoped I was going to be able to report to you that I BROILED SOMETHING for the first time ever, it appears that the broiler doesn't work. Or maybe I didn't give it the proper secret hand signal, or something. (Seriously, gentle readers -- am I supposed to do something to start the broiler other than turn the oven knob to "broil"?)

Either way, no space-aged infrared rays penetrated my poor swordfish down there in the little drawer, so I had to admit defeat and move it up to the the oven. Well, somehow it worked, because about 12 minutes later, I thoroughly enjoyed a fine, light, garlic-citrus-rosemary-flavored swordfish feast.

Look at how well it all works. I am nourished, I am alive, my heart is open. And somehow -- just like this, each day a cacophony of glass-breaking near misses and a symphony of heavenly synchronicities, and I in its midst, fumbling and dancing -- I am learning.