Two days before the great feast, I saw a pirate.
He was in the bread and bagel aisle, and I sort of cut him off. But this was after the epiphany, and so I am telling things out of order.
First of all, I have to say that I don’t really cook anymore.I used to.I used to start the day by making a big breakfast of eggs and bacon and toast for everybody.And then a big dinner, and then a big supper.But I got over it just about the time I learned about the protein/carb thing and had children old enough to use their own brains and hands to feed themselves.Besides, I always hated making food.
Still, I have been known to break out into the odd meatloaf or pot of broccoli soup, especially in the autumn when something inside of me starts nest building.I don’t know why it is, but the second the nights cool off, I am frantic if I am not making a thing out of wood or clay or fabric or wire or glass or something – and if absolutely nothing else presents itself, I suppose the thing can be somewhat satisfied if I use food. It was more fun when the result could be something like cinnamon apple cake, or hot dark brownies, but I am too canny for that now, having lived the results in the past. So broccoli cheese onion soup it will be, nine times out of ten.
But here it was, two days before—as I have already said—the great feast, and I went shopping for the fixings.All of this that went before is simply to explain that I no longer haunt the aisles of grocery stores as a usual thing, and so I saw the insides of this one with fresh, un-jaded eyes.
Smith’s is a nice grocery store, well designed, well-lit, well-presented.Standing somewhere between the onions and the tomatoes, I suddenly found myself in the middle of Dickens’ Christmas Eve market—and I stood there in growing amazement. Each apple was nestled in its own little green plastic niche, round, fat and glowing—an entire counter of apples, acres of them, all kinds—and the names: Abrosia, Fuji, Braeburn, MacIntosh, Honey crisp—read the list out loud, I dare you, and see if your mouth doesn’t water—bright, gleaming red apples and green.
And then the pears—more kinds than I knew existed, D’anjou, Bartlett, Asian brown, all neatly marshaled into their niches and laced with eternal ivy. Baskets of lemons, cascades of limes, piles of garlic, tumbling from artfully spilled baskets.
A wall of greens—dark and light, frilled, red-leafed—chards and lettuces, escarole, scallions—bright bags of carrots, peppers: brilliant green and yellow and red and orange—all fat amd firm-fleshed, washed every few minutes by a small storm of rain, announced by a miniature clap of thunder.Baskets of herbs, cabbages, cauliflowers—perfect, spotless, some organic, some evidently made by machine.
Your choice. Walk along the counters, dip your hand into the baskets of squat filberts, pick a plumb, a raft of raspberries, a corpulent red onion or a pomegranate that will fill your fist to bursting. How could I not be amazed?
I’ve written the story before, told me by the manager of this abundance, how a herd of Russians had been ushered into the store, just so they could see what American life is all about, and one of the Russian men, seeing what I had suddenly seen that afternoon, came to a dead halt in the middle of it all and broke into sobs.
I took out my phone and tried to grab at wonder—but the lighting and that little camera did not work so well together, and the pictures I ended up with were a that every color, every taste, every shape of living, summer treat a mouth and brain could ever crave—spilling in billows on every side.
I already knew we live in an age of wonder. I take it all in stride most days, but happily for me, on this day, my stride faltered, and I became aware of the fact that I had feet at all.
Grateful? Shocked. Blessed. I could have fallen on the floor and wept, but that would have been awkward for everyone else. It was bad enough that I was roaming the aisles with that little camera, like a Japanese tourist at Disneyland.
It was in that spirit that I finally tore myself away to hunt out the holiday breads (dark rye, Jewish rye, California sourdough, nine grain wheat berry . . . ) and that’s when I nearly plowed into the pirate. He was stumping along, pushing his own cart, leaning on it with his elbows, a proper pirate slouch, masses of black, unruly, curly hair, red cheeks over a bush of beard and mustaches and eyebrows.
“Oh, excuse me!”I said.“Shouldn’t have cut that corner.”
He had only a few things in the basket. One of them, a pie.
He glanced at me, no look at all on his face, and then said—in the deepest, most gravely and sonorous voice—the utterly perfectly, absolutely most piratish voice you can imagine, “Oh, you’re all right.”
And I am not kidding here—it was only with the most earnest exertion of civility that I didn’t turn around and follow him and ask him please, please—to say “ARRRRRRRRR” just one time.Just once.I mean it. I had to tell myself “NO,” three times before I gave it up.
The end of this story is simple: it had been so long since I had had a moment of complete, transcendent, clear happiness. And here, I’d had a good half hour of it. I have been so dogged for so long, I didn’t even recognize delight until it had nearly bowled me over. My heart was racing. I was nearly laughing out loud at nothing.Delighted with being alive, delighting in the strange world we think is so darned normal. So grateful. So amazed.
I got over it, of course. I didn’t even get a chance after that, to write any of it down—not for five whole days. But after I took my Sunday School class to feed the horses and led the music and yelled at the Relief Society for singing the word “rejoice” like they were asleep—I came home today for turkey sandwiches and this download of memory.
I hope that your Thanksgivings were like warm, homemade bread – substantial, delicious, steaming and begging for butter and honey.Ours was.We shared it with Lorri’s family, and we ate till we were sick, and we watched Brian Regan’s new DVD and laughed ourselves sicker, then played cards and talked and better or more delightful hours were never spent.
At the end of it all, I am not suffering the same violent eruption of joy. Wish I had been built to sustain such a thing for longer than twenty minutes at a time, but I don’t think my brain would survive the chemical mix. But I am still left with the gratitude. And a lingering amazement.
We live in the midst of miracles.
And now, it’s time for us to make Christmas.
This is my hope for us all: that we all do our best, and keep our eyes open, and allow our hearts to feel,and—in touching one another—we brush glory.
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