Not Doing
I've been into this thing where I work really hard during the week and then kinda dissolve into the weekend. Hedonism. It's awesome. I don't do anything I don't want to do. And it's okay that my house is a mess, that i haven't pulled a weed since August last year. The lawn is not my enemy ... let it grow.
This kind of thing leaves space for all these real moments of quality, I'm finding. Like:
•Not showering once on Saturday. Instead, perching on a front porch with a bunch of people that you like very much watching the light fall. What is it about front porches? They're better than back porches.
•Not going to the grocery store. Instead, skating a mini ramp under a weeping cherry tree that's crazy in bloom like some scene straight off a Japanese kimono.
•Not taking the dog to the park first thing. Instead, wandering down Alberta Street in search of coffee, and then sitting on the sidewalk with your back against a warm brick wall to drink it. Talking. Waving at friends in their cars who don't see you but that's okay—you just let ’em drive on by.
•Not going home on Sunday night even though you're spent. Instead, staying out late to watch Trash Island play. Feeling them play, really—the show being so fucking loud that it rattles through your rib cage.
Been Thinking
Did y'all notice the rain's back? It's okay. It's only February. It's only water. Last week's epic global-warming weather, though, or the February fakeout, or whatever it was, got me thinking about this one camping trip last summer and how I want to go back to there. Soon. As soon as possible, really.
The spot's at the beach up on a little hillside—a hideaway from such things as people and wind. To the west: the Pacific ocean and then Japan.
It's where we staggered up a dune and watched the sun disappear. It's where I tucked my tent into this magnificent tree grove and then popped my air mattress on a branch. It's where we abandoned the fire to roam the beach in the dark, discovering how bioluminescent algae made our steps glow in the wet sand. It's where I kicked the dog out of the tent due to mouth breathing and he never even wandered off—just lay there on guard all night as dictated by the primal purpose of his species and breed. It's where, the next morning, we woke up thirsty and hungover—but then pooled the rest of our water to make everyone a cup of coffee.
2014: A Year In Pictures
Life! The days are short, but when you go to count 'em up, you find that entire years have amassed.
January: Indoor concrete. The spark of a brand-new year. Cold nights, the moon frozen in the western sky.
February: Heart-shaped cookies. Sunny days and then days of blizzard. Ducking inside to drink tequila and then walking home through a snow globe.
March: A bouquet of waterfalls. The pine-laced air of central Oregon. Rain, sun, and how all the cherry blossoms pop over night.
April: Long walks 'neath the flowered drooping trees. The institution of backyard mini ramping. Lefty in the morning light.
May: Golden-hour grinds. Campfire nachos and sleeping under the stars. That sweet, pine-sap smell that tells of an Oregon summer.
June: Falling down a kind of rabbit hole of summer.
July: Zoo-bombing on warm nights. Skate camp. And that night we took the rainfly off our tent and peered straight up into the dome of stars.
August: Heat. Haze. Big roving rain clouds. Summer ends softly like a feather floating to the ground.
September: One last river day. Trish and Cairo, tying the knot. And all of my buds in my backyard for my birthday.
October: Warm fall nights, soaring down empty streets with the leaves flying away. Halloween hijinks that are done by 10 p.m.
November: When your life turns on a dime.
December: Backyard skate secrets. Forgetting things that need forgetting. Copious celebrations and an apocalyptic wind storm.
The Weekend Report
Fall and summer crossed paths this weekend on their ways in and out of Oregon. The sun was hot, but the shadows were long and the light inarguably gold.
Went to Hood River to skate but no one had any energy. Ended up on a sandbar in the warm Columbia, wading out to cool off and watching the dogs lunge through shining waves.
Smoke from wildfires turned the sunset hot pink on the way home, and everything felt liminal.
Went to see Dumpster Wizard—an aptly named metal band comprised of our pals—play in a shadowy corner of the Kenton Club, then pit-stopped at The Tannery for a potent drink in a tall thin glass.
Attended Sunday afternoon gathering at the Bracewell residence, skated 'til exhaustion, sent summer off in the best way possible.
New Best Ever
Tomatoes-wise, the cherry one has my heart. The sweetest garden morsel in a manageable pebble size—you can put a handful in your mouth, which I often do.
Now is when I tell you about my new cooking jam: the galette. Kinda like a pie, but messier and lazier and incendiarily delicious. The dough, which bakes up all beautiful and buttery, is slapped together in a big bowl. The innards are whatever you want them to be (I did cherry tomatoes, goat cheese, and pan-fried leek). Rolling pin the crust flat, pile wonderful food stuff in the center, and then lovingly fold it all up like a baby in a blanket. It's the oven, really, that does all the work.
But there is freedom to the galette. Fuck the recipes. Make whatever kind you want. Peaches and blueberries? Squash, pine nuts, and pecarino? Yes and yes. It's all good.
Just know that if you have flour/butter/something in season to put inside, then a brilliant meal is always achievable.
Not pretty looking, necessarily—but pretty in your mouth!