Seattle Blues

I'm been waiting to find the moment to escape back into Seattle.  Don't ask me about recent events.  This, this, is your (and my) diversion.  

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In what feels like a lifetime ago, I saw my original hometown for a moment last summer.  In all reality, it was how I ended my long sojourn off the east coast, through the midwest, and nestled in the peaceful slopes of the Cascade basin in Oregon.  As I took one last Greyhound up to Portland, walked less than half a block to the train depot, and boarded I begrudgingly accepted the ideal retreat my summer had been was already fading.  Limey had already been returned, my clothes were packed and shimmied into one carry on, one back pack, and one suitcase.  Six week's worth of muscle, memory, and trinkets were packed away in my literal and metaphorical spaces.  

As a long weekend, at the end of August, rounded out my travels there's something to be said about the tranquility of returning to a one-time home.  

And with that I spent a couple days seeing landscapes etched into the memories of my youth.  In some ways they had changed, but just as when I first exited the Portland airport at midnight in late July I still felt at home.  Like golden threads of kismet had intertwined to revive my soul and remind me of where my path was and would go.  

The skies were blue, but read on . . . they greyed up a bit in typical Seattle fashion.  Yet, Kings Street still had its cigarette butts on the ground.

The Market was the smells and chaos I remembered, and the bean curd sesame balls were exactly what my taste buds ordered.  Mine was followed by Chinese food for lunch, as ever since we moved Chinese dinners have never tasted the same.  The flavors, the balance, the understatement of grease on Left Coast Chinese . . . Of all the Chinatowns I've been too--Boston, New York, Chicago, DC, Atlanta, St. Louis, Amsterdam, Istanbul, and the list goes on--San Francisco and Seattle are by far superb.  In a decade, we we are fifty, Tanfer and I have decided to spend a couple of weeks in China.  Perhaps then we can compare the value of genuine verses globalized cuisine.  Until then there's mackerel sushi in Amsterdam, sesame rolls in Seattle, Dim Sum in San Fran, and Mango Bubble Tea (and a Red Bean Bubble Tea) in Boston that will live in the memory for years to come.

On nights when insomnia wakes me I can sometimes still taste the red bean, still warm from the oven.                                                                                                                                                                                                        In all reality, the market and the waterfront stand as markers in time . . . under construction when I left, under construction when I returned decades and a life later.  Like pages of a novel untouched by time,  I could still close my eyes and smell the pink cotton candy one warm-for-Seattle summer day.  

"Nessa, Nessa . . . Mine's blue!  Vinnita, you don't eat it like that . . . you do it like this," as my brother smashed his entire face into his cotton candy contrasting to my sister and me pulling ours with our fingers.  

1980 was long ago.  

Seattle.  Always mine I would say.

Though, I would think I should note that I hoped a bus in Green Lake and while riding, and keeping my eyes glued open at the rolling landscape, when I first came upon the Space Needle--after all those years--I wasn't captured in nostalgic, mouth dropping, delight.  Instead . . . instead . . . I was fighting with my water bottle lid.  Classy, I know.

Yet, that retro construction merging from the horizon is always a sign you are home.  

Though, then my friend Sonja and I ventured out to Vashon Island where we had a farm to table cooking class with her book club.  Rocking along the sound . . . no matter what coast, or body of water, you find yourself on rocking along the waves is always bound to be a moment of peace and tranquility.  

On the island, at Pink Tractor Farm I in a white linen top, another of us in wedges, and the rest . . . well, we made a sight.  Perhaps this is where all those city meets country jokes arise from.  

In the greenhouse, picking eggplant and squash for dinner, Sonja was beside herself with simple joy as she's never gardened for food.  Watching her jump with unrestrained glee as she hauled an eggplant and half that plant itself from the ground . . . that moment of laughter will reside for sometime to come.  

Though, a teenager was among us and while this photo would make you think she was too cool for the middle aged ladies, she was not.  Here, I believe, she was reaching for a tomato.  Though, making a fictional story that she was about to topple Sonja and me is pretty damned funny.  

Right before she took out the plant, root, and first two layers of the Earth in harvesting that bad boy.  

And a melody of tomatoes and cucumber, with the Nepal being my favorite after my longtime love of lemon cucs.  

And the farm dogs looked like stuffed animals come to life, until we learned they never come inside as they are bred to protect the land.  As one was nuzzling up to me Dan told us that.  Me and another, both being loved by dogs, were bug eyed thinking "Dude, don't attack me."

Farmer Dan, the proprietor of the Pink Tractor and a former firefighter, taught us to make zucchini noodles with green curry and coconut milk, duck confit, some hushpuppies, and  . . . well, in the course of it Sonja had made lavender and bourbon cocktails.  She's got SoSimple (her little start up), and the night before it was a hoot with us botching up lavender syrup (ahem, you need food grade lavender: who know).  I got us some at the Public Market the next day, and as she had promised months before she would craft a bourbon cocktail for me.  Ya know, since I do have a thing for bourbon.

That being said, I had like two before we left her house as she said I couldn't let it go to waste.  Then we had like two at the dinner, and at some point in the night Farmer Dan got a side show when someone asked about my needle work and bras.  Eh, it's a pretty bra . . . so it's all good.

There was so much food. . . I would say we cooked, but in the end eight or so women with cocktails ate very well.  Sonja did a better job to capture pictures, as I missed a salad and a course or two.    There's a first time for everything, and I'd never taken a cooking class before.  With that, I did learn how to make and spiral zucchini noodles and the curry . . . nom nom.  I would say I'm making that for myself right now, but yeah . . . I've resorted to tossing grapes into my mouth and gnawing on a banana when I remember to eat between shuffling from one moment to the next.  What? Grapes are healthy.  I've even got a glass of water right now.  Granted, I'm contemplating hitting up my last ginger Crabbies in a second though . . . 

The next morning three us of went out . . . well, me being in a Lupus flare and all that jazz walked the trails while Sonja and Margie ran.  Of course, this is me . . . on the walk over we were talking about the bears on Vashon . . .Big, burly black bears.  So, I'm out there all alone in leather sandals loving my walk and then . . . then I see a big, steaming pile of poo.  Did I say that we have just been talking about bear sightings? 

So, I'm here . . . in this tranquil space, alone, and . . . yeah.  When Sonja and Margie got back their first words were "What's wrong?" Apparently my eyes were the size of quarters.  

I think Margie might have hurt herself laughing at me about the poo.  It was a horse.  

Yeah, city meets country.  

Though, there's me and the bike tree.   I'm fairly certain my parents have one of me, still small, standing in the same spot.  Serendipity and circles of life . . . 

And, as with that cooking class . . . Sonja took me to a wedding.  In the end, I crashed a wedding and loved the open bar overflowing with bees knees cocktails. There's a first time for everything . . .

When I was small, and lived there, Seattle Blues Jeans were all the rage.  They stood--in my mind then and now--like a cultural marker of moxi and urban design.  If you knew them, you were from the cool enclave way up north.  That place that was grunge, and cool, before Kurt Cobain and Nirvana.  Those jeans, loose fitting, with light blue embroidery and a red rose have always stood in my memory of what was, could have been, and where I can go.  The sweet memory, the comfort of place, and the ease of perception.

That's my Seattle.  Always was.  Always will be.