Can You Hear Me Now?

I stopped cooking when my sister left town. She's always leaving. Houses, cities, states, husbands, lifetimes. Our relationship rekindled exponentially with the advent of the cell phone. Now I can reach her anywhere, with two exceptions: The Cabin and The Afterlife.

The Cabin refers to a slice of woods and shoreline a stone's throw from the Wilderness at the back door of Canada. My husband and I stumbled on it several decades ago; we had no clue it would morph into the mythic boreal version of "We'll Always Have Paris" that it has. But it has. "If there's a war (pestilence/comet/invasion/another Bush in the White House), head for the cabin" has become a mantra within our group. At the very least, its location allows us the illusion that we are indeed really Canadians, having nothing whatsoever in common with your Average American Asshole (hereafter referred to as AAA). Actually, we think of ourselves as Borderliners. With all that implies.

The Afterlife speaks for itself. At least my sister thinks so. In a way, she believes this is The Afterlife, in that it has come after The Former Life, which came after The Life Before That, you get the idea. I don't know about this. But I do know that Verizon can't cover the Borderline, and it goes without saying it can't cover the Ultimate Border, so unless one of us is dead or at The Cabin, my sister and I are a cell phone's throw from one another at any given time. I like to say of my sister, "She moved to California, and it took." Which explains alot. About both of us.

Periodically, my sister makes a pitstop back in her home state for a couple of years. To catch her breath and remind herself why she got the hell outta Dodge in the first place. Minor things like forty below zero and Jesse Ventura come to mind. Not to mention AAAs with gun racks for headboards. The last time my sister revisited Dodge, she parked her gypsy wagon Up North, about a mile from chez moi. This happened just after our father died. She came for the funeral and stayed for a year. One night, in the midst of funeral week, she had a vision; the next day she called a rental agent, found a place to live, flew back to California and pulled up stakes. She tucked the stakes into a secret compartment in the trunk of her car and headed 2,000 miles east, then turned left.

That was the Year of Living Gastronomically. Having never known my way around a kitchen (I tend to get lost in the refrigerator, somewhere in the vicinity of Ecco Domani), that year I became inspired. Like I'd had a vision. My sister would come to dinner every Saturday evening, and because the default season Up North is winter, I'd spend the afternoon shoveling snow and cooking, usually something red. After eating, we'd convene to the living room to feed the fire and drink wine and commune. Mostly we communed about The Cabin and The Afterlife. This went on for months. Then, when the snow melted in July, my sister checked the secret compartment in her trunk and drove back to California. Soon afterward I started getting lost in the refrigerator again.

I don't understand why I suddenly donned a chef's hat that year. Or why I later misplaced it. My immediate family should be culinary inspiration enough, it seems to me. Maybe I'm a bad person. Although for one year, a few years back, I was a good cook. Now, occasionally, I'll feel that urge again, and I'll whip up a vat of chili or a tub of marinara or a plank of lasagna. It's usually below freezing when this happens. Afterward, with the candles snuffed and the dishes bussed and the leftovers tucked away in a secret compartment, I'll convene to the living room and call California. A sort of prodigal gourmet. And whether she's between houses or husbands, and thanks to one of the miracles of Modern Life, my sister usually answers.

The Fifth Season

Holding a garage sale can improve your sex life.

Let me explain.

Who in their right mind would choose to go hang out in a garage for hours and hours? Well, other than a guy. Rephrase that. What woman in her right mind, etc. One needs a little incentive, a motivational boost. Enter, Pinot Grigio* (should this be capitalized? in my book it's proper usage). Add a little satellite lite classical and a hint of pine (see post of 9/24), there goes the evening. The luggage gets stacked, the punch cups priced, the Mickey Mouse golf clubs shined up, the bead curtains untangled. By the time I waft back toward the house, the sky is shot with stars and I'm feeling spunky. And on a school night.

Three days and counting.

Actually, I'm feeling a little better about the Bizarre Bazaar, not to mention the ozone layer. I heard on NPR Science Friday that "they" are predicting the hole in the ozone will close up by 2050. Oh yeah, I'm also addicted to NPR News and Information, which I listen to on my headphone radio while running, allowing me to satisfy two addictions simultaneously. Anyway, getting the word on the ozone layer produced an odd sensation in the small of my back, a sort of prickly tickle which I took to be running-related, until it occurred to me later that what I'd experienced was a spasm of OPTIMISM. Short-lived, but OPTIMISM nonetheless.

The last time I felt a vestige of what could be vaguely construed as OPTIMISM was four years ago, when the DNR cancelled doe season due to the brutality of the previous winter. This was the winter of the most recent Storm of the Century (not to be confused with the 1992 Storm of the Century), when I stepped out onto the back deck one midnight and heard what I thought were gunshots going off all through the neighborhood. Believe me, this is not that kind of hood. Next morning, I realized what I'd heard was the sound of trees breaking under the weight of six-inches-of-slush-turned-ice; now they littered the landscape like giant Pickup Sticks.

Welcome to Up North. Notwithstanding a recurring Storm of the Century every few years, we have the usual five seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, Garage Sale.

My husband, a.k.a. partner/soulmate/love of my life, laments that Garage Sale Season, like OPTIMISM, is short-lived.


(*Is there anyone else out there who occasionally lapses on this and asks MyNameIsBriannaI'llBeYourWaiterThisEvening for a glass of Topo Gigio?)

Word One

Raise your hand if you saw the Northern Lights last night.

Just checking.

I decided to start this blog as one more in an ongoing series of lifelong attempts to replace one of my plethora* of constantly shifting addictions. These days: Free Cell, running, “Project Runway,” reading, Pinot Grigio, sleeping, all of the above, other.

And yes, I did. See the lights.

I'm holding my second annual garage sale in less than five days, so I've gotta make this quick. I call my souk the Bizarre Bazaar. I'm addicted to creating a non-garage ambience, I've got my work cut out. I stapled white sheets to the ceiling all along the side and back walls, strategically draping them to hide the usual garage flotsam. I've tossed throw rugs about, hooked up satellite Lite Classical via a 900 megahertz wireless to my old ghetto blaster, plugged in an oil-filled faux radiator spaceheater, outlined the multi-shelving unit with a string of white sparkle lights. I found the shelving unit curbside down on Glenwood last summer with a FREE sign attached, while heading for my daily four-mile run along the shore. I found the ghetto blaster at Hy's Loan down on Hennepin in Minneapolis in the 70's, along with a couple of mikes, two mike stands, two speakers, and a Kustom amp. Maybe a ring, too, but I can't remember. Oh yeah, I burn incense when I shut the garage door and close up shop each night.

The incense is pine-scented, in keeping with the Northern Lights thing.

The shore refers to the North Shore, as in Lake Superior.

More on all this later, I've gotta run. Literally.


(*I still hold a certain affinity for the word “plethora,” even though my hairdresser used it at least four times during one hair abuse marathon about a decade ago. I can’t recall the context.)