Mush Life

And so, the weather warms and all the snow is gone.  It was gritty snow and came right after the vacant meth house on Bow Hill Road burned its guts out.  It fell on a frozen ground and was fun for a minute while we watched the dogs eat it.  Not long after the blanketing, rain followed and nighttime froze that mess. 

Monday I agreed to run errands with my father, and as we hit the frozen patch of mud-ice capping our driveway, the tiny Jeep tried with all four wheels to take us into the ditches.  Or maybe my dad was just playing around.   Errands complete and rain beating against us, we careened in the dark back toward Bow Hill.  My gut turned a bit as he passed the Chuckanut Drive exit, opting to stay on Interstate-5 a couple exits further.   When my dad is at the helm, it seems that driving is his secondary objective to whatever else.  The interior guage lights had dimmed and as he was repairing them with his left hand, he managed to turn off the headlamps several times.  On the freeway.  At night.  In the rain. 

Earlier that day I'd taken a Burlnigton trip to Fred Meyer, which I explained to my southern husband, is like a Kroger-brand WalMart.  In the produce area, I investigated some artichokes.  I decided I'd get some a different day and was putting one down when a man came up to me. 

"My wife is German-Russian."  He said.  "You have to have those prepared German style.  Oh boy!"  He went on with the recipe twice and finally gave his card.  The man's name: Volcano Vic.  I was to email asking for the specific recipe.  I bagged two chokes and thew 'em in my basket.  He went on.  After about 15 minutes of listening I knew that he had cooked professionally in the past, had sold a recipe to the Marriot for bloody mary construction, but now worked as a food demonstrator or bread bagger for 14 dollars an hour.  And that he has a German-Russian wife who fixes to die-for artichokes.

Yesterday I drove my friend Ayrn to the airport in Seattle.  We left around six am and saw the sunrise above a herd of brakelights and morning commuter traffic. After dropping her, I locked my car doors and took hightway 99 through Sea-Tac hitting the morning stop and go stop and go as I entered Seattle.  I scrapped my plan to get a savory crepe from the place on Second Avenue across the street from Corbis where I used to work.  I'd get off at 8 am and nearly every morning scoot across the street for ham and brie wrapped in skinny pancake before the meter maids would ticket my car.  Being in Seattle provoked a ton of memories from the five years I spent living there.  I phoned a couple people but really knew all my folks would be working and sleeping at that hour so it was time to do that northbound crawl.  Only it was a smooth boring drive and I texted Ayrn while she was waiting for her flight to depart. 

Back on the Hill, I napped to Jurrassic Park after throwing a log on the fire.

Outside now is only mud, hinting nowhere that we'd only just had a nice caking of white.