Simmering

The sun paid an unexpected visit to her today. Not that she would ever complain. A warm February day was as rare as her ability to find a good man and she was going to enjoy it like it was to be the last good sun she'd know. This didn't mean sitting in the rays directly because she understood too well that sometimes its safer to stay in the periphery of the heat than to get burned in the fire. To simmer instead of boil. So she stayed inside the home she had created and let the light wash over her from the windows that made her world a fish bowl. She loved the light and warmth of it all and decided she would be her own kinda fish. One that swam in her own direction in the sea and not led by the dictation of high and low tides. She had enough of those damned manic tides lately.



She had completed her day's tasks by early noon. The Jeep was washed, the laundry dry and those groceries she spent too much money on that were going to make one hell of a meal later. She wasn't concerned about the way she appeared for no one was to see her anyway. This left her with the liberating freedom to be herself. Her true- raw self. She slipped into a pair of old baggy jeans, a navy blue cami and a forest green zippered hoodie. It struck her as she passed the mirror how much she actually accidently matched given the brightly colored tie-dyed bandana scarfed around her blonde hair. The only jewelry she donned this lazy Sunday was that thumb ring she wore. That ring. Fire burned around her when she bought that piece. She had been in Temecula working a wild fire in 2008 and the shop's keeper charged her only $5.00 for the ring that she had now worn everyday since. He gave her that price because of the work she was there to do and she knew it. And she let him give that gift as it was his way of appreciating the daunting task of helping those devastated by disaster again. The Native American engravings on it had held up well the last few years.


She made her way to that pretty kitchen with the creaky floor and began to create. Art evaded her today and she had taken as many boredom photos of herself as she could possibly stand. Today's masterpiece would be much more delicious. Her recipe started with an organic JK Cuvee Winterruption Hard Cider. No- not as an ingredient but as her muse nectar. With a larger than typical wine glass she poured the last of the bottle that had been opened with a friend two nights before-  thankful that this had not yet been devoured. Second part of the recipe, two parts Blues. She turned on the deep, rich, savory sound and it instantly began to move her soul. Something about the Blues that she just absorbed. Not that she could retain the name of an artist or recite the moody words but the music and the lyrics always penetrated her in a way that made her the person she was most comfortable with. That part of her that was deeper and more in tune with the art of emotion than any man had ever credited her with. There was one who started to get it....... but Jazz and Blues seemed to dance around each other in a way that was just not conducive to a long term pirouette. Bessie Smith sings her thoughts as if she's reading her mind, 'I hate to see that evening sun go down...' She didn't want this sun to go down. Not now. She still had beautiful work to do.



The recipe- the edible art of the day. The green onions and fragrant parsley sat in a small dish cut from their plants that morning. One by one each piece cut by hand into tiny chop sized portions. Into the pan they went. The smell of garden freshness tickled her nose and brought a smile to her face. She grabbed that wine that she didn't like; that Pacifico Sur Pinot Noir Reserve and poured it into the herbs in the pan. The mushrooms were washed gently and added to the mix. A tad of Worchester - more than a tad. Remembering that jar of sun dried tomatoes she chopped them as well and added them to the canvas over a slight flame. Simmering......

As the ground beef was added she took a moment to wash a few dishes. Oh that sun. It still tried to kiss her through the window above the sink. She laughed and played with it hiding behind the basil plant on the sill and the blue bottle of Bartenura Moscato

that stood like a soldier reminding her that her closest friend had been with her the first night she moved into her home. The home that was built by him out of guilt but now stood as a sign of her independence and wings of new life. She accepted his construction after his destruction and she had breathed peace and happiness into the bones of the structure. And now the sun poured in to kiss her each sunny day and it was a game they played together out of the perfectness of it all. She pulled the green hoodie from her and sat in just the straps of delicate blue satin, the bandana in her blonde hair and those faded old jeans. The sun had merged with the oven and the temperature rose to that of a summer day within the walls of that powder blue kitchen.

As she cleaned the red peppers removing the seeds and cutting them into boats for the wine-beef-mushroom mixture, it occurred to her that there was something very sensual about cooking a meal with such precise care and thought and tenderness. It required an adventurous spirit to make a dish from the thoughts of a free mind. She pondered for a minute about the fact that this part of her which one would think would capture the taste of another did nothing to make her more palatable to those men with the feet that ran so fast. Truth be told- she had grown tired of trying to keep up with them.

She had reached a point where she was just as content to lace their running shoes for them and give them a swift pat on the ass as you would to jump start a horse. "Run, Man, run," she thought. "I won't chase. I won't divert your course. Just run. This meal of me is more than you could appreciate." The amount of her soul that went into each added taste and the joy it brought her to combine and create something so delectable. "Run." She thought of the one who built her house from guilt, the one who swore to serve and protect but with her decided to perve and neglect. The one who seemed to be golden but was holden to another. And so many others with their promises, deceitfulness and escapes. Sister Monica Parker said it. "But if you ain't coming home- leave me alone -  and let me moan..."

Let her moan.

The sun began to say it's goodbye and like a friend that she didn't want to go- it lingered just long enough to make the departure that much more difficult. Despite her longing, her bargaining and begging- the sun dropped its head and left a darkness in its wake. The peppers breathed a scent of earth and sweetness and she was brought back to the music and the meal. That which nourished her body and her core. The smell filled her home like an amazing kiss of taste and desire. It was ready and so was she. As she cut into the very first bite of the edible art she had prepared it occurred to her that she had learned the gift of patience. Patience in creating, in awaiting the spring, and in finding love. No more than she would have given up food for a few bad meals would she give up love for a few sour hearts. There would be more to savor. And she knew it. And she was prepared to wait for the right recipe.

And so she enjoyed her meal. The best she had ever designed. She kissed and released her setting sun. Her glass of cider nearly finished and her independence renewed. She smiled to herself, swallowed the sweet drink and a little of her disappointment of recent days and readied herself for the coming of this evening's moon and what she knew would come to her soon.