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| Gluten-free turkey meatloaf with sun-dried tomatoes and pecan crust. |
A Turn Toward the New
The morning was cool and bright. It was going to be one of those quintessential Cape Cod autumn days. A day tourists swoon over. Worthy of a post card with The weather is sublime- wish you were here scrawled in black gel cursive between sips of a Hot Chocolate Sparrow latte. The sky was a cake bowl of cobalt blue with that particular pink edge to it that only painters notice, the blush that softened the tree line at the north end of the West Barnstable marsh gentling the heavy greens of the pines and oaks into a bluish, almost violet gray.
She brushed her teeth with fennel toothpaste and spit into the low slung sink, pausing to breathe. A long inhale to slow her heart. The cottage was pin drop quiet. The boys had climbed the rubber lined steps into the school bus hours ago, peanut butter and honey sandwiches bagged, milk money in their pockets. She had waved from the street and watched them navigate the bus aisle in shadow, avoiding her maternal gaze, not turning to wave back. Too risky, she understood.
The walk back up the curve of road to the rental she had found last spring felt different this morning. Not because of the air and its September clarity that sharpened the asters and the Queen Anne's Lace with impossible precision- though she felt a kinship with the acute focus the turning of the seasons always brings. That sense of realignment, a perennial return to purpose. Ironically, she always felt as if fall was the season of new beginnings. Not spring.
Fall was the season she woke up, as if from a dream.
Today was the first day of a plein air painting workshop. A post-divorce return to premarital roots, when she painted for the love of it- not the pragmatic bill-paying need of it. Painting for an income (however necessary it may be) is dangerous business. Courting the marketplace changes your work. A self consciousness slithers in and infiltrates your choices. The observer becomes observed. Judged. Rewarded for meeting expectations.
She had always been more than willing to please. To notice the cues and needs of others. It was more than habit. It was ingrained in her bones. She had an uncanny knack for it. And she hated it about herself. She hated her automatic willingness to anticipate and acquiesce. Sometimes she would hear her own words hang in the air and for a quantum, split second wonder who had just spoken. There were entire days lost to living outside herself, hovering above her left shoulder, just beyond reach.
Stepping into the tiny sunlit kitchen she stood still for a moment, tempted by the cluttered breakfast table. The sticky bowls and spoons. The allure of distraction. The comfort of routine. But it didn't take. She snatched her car keys off a hook and grabbed a canvas bag of painting gear by the door, turned the knob with her free hand and opened it wide. Three minutes later she made a right at the empty bus stop, and accelerated east down Old King's Highway.
To be continued...
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and his 
and movin', Baby. 
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stupor, thick-nosed and unable to string two coherent sentences together, never mind invent a new recipe for her lovely and devoted readers (that would be, You). Ears and sinuses filled with unspeakable things do not a creative, exhuberant cook make.
can save your life.
cooked to al dente (still firm), rinsed, drained
, for flavor
