Chez Markie and Assistant

Having spent various amounts of time as a grocery clerk, war monger, auto parts clerk, tradesman, educator and farmer over the course of my adult life, I now find myself wearing a new hat: that of a chef. I am cooking lunch on weekdays for the staff, here at HappyDayFarms. 

The lineup

There are as many as six of us at any given meal, but the farm being an entity in constant flux, troops may stagger in whenever. They accept what is offered and return to their respective labors, while I clean up the kitchen.

As it was when I was teaching, I find that my profession occupies my mind constantly. Instead of, “What am I doing with social studies, fourth period?” it’s more, “Where am I going to get milk for the mac and cheese on Tuesday?”

Or just as likely, “If it’s Wednesday, this must be shepherd’s pie day,” because this dish allows me to raid the farm for ingredients. Why every week? The best I can do is say that it is back by popular demand.

In this week’s version I included beets, beet tops, baby onions, a big Spanish onion, green garlic, carrots, snow peas, broccoli, crimini mushrooms, bell peppers, bacon, red wine, rosemary, French thyme, sage, organic hamburger and golden potatoes, for the mashed potato crust.

Not all of these ingredients came from the farm, but the first time I made shepherd’s pie for the staff, five weeks ago, it was half carrots because, well, that was what I had and not much else. As the season progresses, I will have many more hot-weather components to include.

Alongside my cooking responsibilities is Master Ollie Mac, my two-year-old grandson, who visits me every day for a couple/three hours. Ollie is the center of my universe now, and takes a front seat even to the cooking; I cannot do both at the same time, without some serious juggling.

Some meals naturally lend themselves to being prepared in the wee hours and then simply heated up. Others can be prepped early for easy assembly later. I just need to assess as I go along what works best. I never want to find myself with Ollie at the same time something critical is happening on the stove, unless the littlest chef is up on his customary chair, assisting.

Otherwise, we’re talking cremated lunch, because of that front-seat/back-seat thing I was talking about.

So far, so excellent. I have had a meal on the table at the prescribed time, twenty-four consecutive weekdays, with barbecued tri-tai-tip fajitas slated for today, Friday. If everyone is here, great success; if there will be late-comers, also fine, because I am not going anywhere. 

This marks the 76th day in a row for me not leaving the mountain; I was expecting trombones.

A good friend has suggested to me that I am trying to redefine my role here on-farm, and I expect that is correct. Who was the Head Chef here in the past? Who was it that craved grandchildren so badly, her heart ached? Who is it that is missing?

It’s no wonder I am consumed with spending time with a Little Man and cooking up a storm: I am trying to be both me and Annie, simultaneously.

Since I could never replace Annie no matter what I did, the best I can do is try to encompass a couple of those many traits that best defined her, into my repertoire. 

Hence, Chez Markie and Assistant.

  

Next: The Menu

The Case of the Missing Choo-Choo (Based on a True Story)

The lil dude staggered into my office, looking slightly lost, almost as though he needed an oil change and a lube. The umbrella did not help. Standing about two-and-a-half feet tall, and weighing in at 27 pounds, he appeared to have been partying last night. There was more than a trace of whipped cream on his upper lip, and crumbs from a chocolate cake clung to his jammies.

Indeed, he was still in his jammies, and he was clutching an orange, plastic tractor (with trailer), that he was never going to let go of. He looked dejected and though his mama was still in view, getting back into her little Subi, her departure was not the reason for his unhappiness. 

“Is that you, Little Man? Did you survive your birthday party? You don’t turn two every day of the week, you know,” I began, just to show him that my heart was on the right side.

“Papi,” he began, and I knew he had something on his mind, “Strofnab kaboom uh oh dor-snuggle, choo-choo, exfekno see ya gjkfufeeyon ducktrimp,” he explained, enunciating every syllable for me.

“Seriously?” I exclaimed. “You think your choo-choo has been train-napped? When’s the last time you saw it?” I was not afraid to ask the hard, biting questions.

He's up to something...

“Yadredsey,” he informed me, but I knew that wasn’t right. We had not put any tracks together for the last two days at least. Besides, I had a photo of Ollie himself, clutching the four little choo-choo cars and heading toward me, away from my bedroom. I marked the pic, Exhibit P, for pointless, but I told Ollie the “p” stood for perfect.

He indicated my bedroom and informed me in no certain terms, that the choo-choo bromnopsied coco jorflicted sissled.

“I see. Well, let’s have a look right here, shall we? Let’s get a flashlight and start with the couch.” I signaled to my secretary to cancel all my appointments, but then remembered, I had no secretary. “Never mind,” I hollered to her anyway, because that’s what I would have said, if I had had [Editor: You DON’T!]

Fine.

“Afos?” Ollie looked at me, confused. 

“Couch, sofa, whatever. I’ll lift it up and you look under it. Sound like a plan?” We were sailing now.

The plan went according to, well, er, except the minute I lifted that couch sofa up, Little Man scuttled under it, clearly excited. Out came a small orange ball, a glass bead or three and a small red block, but what did not come out, besides the choo-choo, was Little Man.

“Hey, I hate to bug you, Lil Dude, but this sofa up in the air wants to take a rest. Could you hook a Papi up and amscray out from under there?”

“Papi, snorbbery uckldidje choo-choo kaboom, uh oh!”

What I lack in style,
Ollie Mac makes up for...

“Let’s conjecture later! Right now I need you out from under there, muy pronto!” Responding more to the note of urgency in my voice, than my fluid use of Spanish, Little Man backed out slowly, not unlike a crab being forced out from under a rock, by being probed with a piece of driftwood.

Mercifully, I set the sofa down, grabbed the flashlight and headed down to the lower part of our living space, where we proceeded to examine every nook, cranny and drawer, occasionally crying out in despair, “Choo-Choo! Here, Choo-Choo!” all to no avail.

We circumnavigated the downstairs of the house again and again, getting a little more extreme in our search as we went. We went through every pocket of the coats and hoodies on the coat rack; we looked though all of the kitchen cupboards and drawers that were under three feet tall, and we ransacked the pantry. 

I knew I had a flask in there somewhere, and By Ollie, I was right. Unfortunately, the flask was as dry as my throat. 

At least we got a bonus when we found that package of dried mango, but we did not find any choo-choo’s.

I examined the glass case where all the elephants like to congregate, but no dice. No choo-choo, either.

We went through all of Ollie Mac’s cubbies, looked along the book cases, and even searched in the box down below my little kitchen office, where I found the missing computer wire a month or so ago.

Fergeddit it.

Finally, we gave up our efforts for the morning, and adjourned to the living room, where the jigsaw puzzle sat, beckoning. About to engage said puzzle head-on, I sidestepped the xylophone and decided to relocate it before I tripped over it. I like skateboarding, but not on a xylophone.

A funny thing happened when I picked it up, however; there was a distinct rattle. I looked closer, obviously, than ever before, and noted for the first time that it was actually a container, with a curious door on one  end. Still not yet connecting the blinking neon dots, out spilled one of the missing choo-choo’s when I tilted the xylophone on its side.

The missing train was inside the xylophone. Not to be outdone by a musical instrument, I started jumping up and down with Joy, who was only there to drop off some produce, and did not appreciate my enthusiasm.

Well, I didn’t appreciate her sticking me in the eyeball with a carrot, either, but that didn’t happen until-[Editor: Not relevant…]

Well, there’s not an awful lot left to say, except that Joy and I have settled our grievances, and that I won’t be dancing with her anymore.

Little Man is so overjoyed to get his choo-choo’s back, that he has piled them into that brilliant orange tractor I was telling you about. 

The one with the trailer?

I made a mental note of that fact, and went back to pestering my secretary. I’m trying to talk her into having coffee with me.

Well, I would, I mean, if I had a secretary…

Mature Women Only Need Apply

I am of the school of thought that women, like fine wine, improve with age. This is not to slight young women in any way, shape or form. They are splendiferous too, but not like they will be when they gain a few more years on the age-o-meter.

The reason I bring all of this up now, is not because I am looking for a companion, but because I will be at some point in the near future. I made huge strides today by listening to “On Call” by The Kings of Leon without bursting into tears, so I know that this bleak period of my life will eventually end.

Of course, I have humorously speculated on just exactly whom it is that would be interested in a 67-year-old man/hippie, who does not own a pair of shoes and drives off the mountain only when the dog chow finally runs out... 

My response to that speculation is that there is bound to be a women of mature age, who wishes to take a chance on a man who was married for almost forty years, and wants nothing more than to do it again.

By mature age I am talking at least sixty years young, or maybe a year or two younger than this. Older than sixty is not only acceptable, but commendable. I will be an equal-opportunity suitor, for women of a mature age. 

Love is the greatest power.

Exactly what is it that I am offering here?

I am offering this incredibly beautiful woman the opportunity to allow me to take her life to the highest level. How do I know this woman will be beautiful? I know because all women are beautiful, but the happy ones are the ones who positively glow. Nothing makes a woman glow like being loved properly by a man who knows how to do so.

I am not talking about love between the sheets; I am talking about love in real life. One of the most valuable commodities a person can possess is the ability to go through life in a nonjudgmental way. It can be a most loving characteristic of all, this ability to allow someone to live her own life without being constantly criticized.

I wonder…

Is there a woman out there who likes having her coffee brought to her in bed in the morning? And likes having breakfast made for her?

Is there a woman who likes a man who handles the housework? Who does the dishes? Who mops the floors and scrubs the toilet? And who does the laundry?

Is there a woman out there who likes having more flowers brought in for her than there are vases? Who likes having the fires started in the cold mornings to warm up the house? Who likes a man who knows how to cook?

Is there a woman out there who likes chicken cacciatore? Shepherd’s pie? Quiche? Roasted veggies? Barbecued anything? Freshly baked pumpkin pies? Apple pies? 

Is there a woman out there who has been living by herself for longer than she cares to think about, who is tired of being by herself? Who wants to be loved and cared for like she has never imagined possible?

Is there a woman out there who wants to walk side-by-side with a man who respects women and who wants to demonstrate it? Who wants nothing more than the opportunity to prove himself to the woman of his dreams?

Only a woman of mature age, who fits the criteria of being by herself, and who wants to be loved as she has never imagined possible, can answer the above questions.

Not I. I loved one woman exclusively for almost forty years. I am not a man who has any interest-whatsoever-in other women, when I am in a committed relationship. I will demonstrate that with actions, not words. 

All I can do is ask the above questions, and then follow through on my promise to love my woman as she has never been loved before.

I Can Fly?

The response to my post about micro-dosing surprised me. Having never heard of the term prior to Monday of this week, it seems as though I was simply not in the loop. 

One does not get this medicine from Big Pharma...

“What is it?” asked one good friend so I explained that it was ingesting small (hence, micro) doses of psilocybin mushrooms, though other folks substitute different substances for the mushrooms. 

The idea is to infuse enough of the medicine into my system to make a difference on my life outlook, but not necessarily enough to make me feel like jumping off the roof of the house to prove I can fly.

Because I have done no research and have little experience, you can take or leave what I have to say. What I am experiencing with the loss of Annie is not depression, but sadness. I distinguish between the two because I have a mood spectrum disorder, what old-schoolers call being bipolar II.

In my case I am manic 99% of the time and depressed about 1%, and the depression component requires a trigger. Annie’s passing certainly falls under the category of a trigger, but I had seven-and-a-half years to prepare for that inevitability. No, I am not depressed these days but I am deeply saddened.

Having my grandson Little Man visit every day is the reason why I am not depressed. His innate curiosity, his sunny disposition and his vice-grip on my heart combine to erect an effective barrier to depression. But when he is not here, sadness abounds.

Life glows and glitters when this character is here.

That sadness is going to be with me until time grinds some of it down the hard way, one minute at a time. The micro-dosing softens some of that grind, allowing time to pass as though it were in the fast lane instead of crawling along on the shoulder of the highway. Some days time seemed stalled along this highway of life, but stalled is not stopped, so the days, they pass.

I no longer see a murky abyss, blocking forward progress to the future. My marriage, my partnership with Annie, was so beautiful and so profoundly essential to my happiness, that I will undoubtedly try to recapture what I can of that experience.

The logistics of being able to reorganize my life, to allow me more access to what is out there in this world, seem overwhelming. That being said, love is the greatest power in existence, so pursuing it should lend wings to my sandals.

Would that it were so easy, but nothing in life that is easy, is worth much of anything. No, this will not be easy, but the harder it is (she said) the better it will turn out to be.

Who am I to argue with that logic?

For the Birds

Dear Annie, 

Well, you are not lying beside me, so I will make the rash assumption that you are either in Willits or Sacratomato, doing more tests. This being here at home without you, is for the birds, but I do understand and support you one hundred percent, as I have since this whole nasty bit of business began.

As strange as it may seem, February was as dry as July normally is. Though it is beautiful outside, and we have amazing veggies coming in like gangbusters, we are all nervous about the lack of rain. The pond is long filled, of course, but it just ain’t natural, gal darn it!

I had Little Man over this morning for a couple/three hours. I rarely consult the clock. He knocked my socks off, as usual. You know what the little dude did? He took a dirty tee shirt of mine and put it on the floor in front of your glass case, in case he dropped one of the glass figures.

Note the mini-water goblet,
just like mine...

I mean, I do that for him every day, but today, he managed to get down there while I was whipping him up some breakfast, and put the shirt there himself. It’s just one of those insignificant events in the life of a small boy, but to see him take precautions as a less-than-two-year-old-kid, to keep from breaking something, warms the cockles of my heart.

Miraculously I did a quick shopping trip yesterday, as SmallBoy said he was going after groceries, and did I want to come too? I tried to weasel out of it by saying it was too late (lunchtime) but I couldn’t even convince myself.

“Fine, but I’d rather go get drunk at Boomer’s instead.”

“We’ll do both,” he said agreeably.

The funny thing is, with all of those groceries just put away, I ended up cooking up a whole passel of fresh veggies that your oldest son, HeadSodBuster brought for me this morning. There were onions, bok choi, arugula, broccoli, Brussels sprouts (!), carrots, and leeks to go with the romanesquo I had from the other day.

I sautéed it all in chicken broth which I made the day I cooked up the chicken teriyaki, and added some balsamic vinegar and some Tamari sauce. Speaking of that teriyaki chicken, you would have been proud of me, substituting honey for sugar, so that Little Man could eat the teriyaki part of the show. Sugar does not treat that boy very well at all. I don’t even give him homemade catsup because of the sugar, which is OK because he prefers the homemade hot sauce anyway.

So yeah, the time is dragging big time these days, with you off the mountain again. I am keeping the house immaculate, which is not hard to do, so that when  you return you will be dazzled. I am working jigsaw puzzles still, hoping this pesky shoulder heals up. I did that when I completed the second part of the deck, but it’s all good because there will be no need for me to go under that knife again. 

I know these letters are not terribly exciting, but you did say you looked forward to them, and it makes me feel good to write you. I will also send another pic of the Little Man, so you can keep up with his progress. 

I will say this, at least writing you makes me appreciate what I have. I can’t imagine what life would be without you, my love. 

I love you,

Markie

PS: Hurry home so I can cook you up a storm, OK Annie? 

Annie?

Road Construction Not Included

I have not yet gotten past the Is-this-really-happening? stage, but at least I no longer expect to wake up from the most hellish nightmare imaginable. Nightmares end; this one won’t.

Annie with Dozer at the beach

I have been offered grief counseling from both the hospice folks up in Garberville, and from the VA in Ukiah. Though I have benefited hugely from counseling in the past, particularly when it comes to managing my mood spectrum disorder, I do not view grief counseling as necessary at this most painful of times.

Talk it out, folks say, and I do recognize the value of that. Fortunately, I correspond daily with someone who does exactly what a therapist does: She listens, or rather, she reads what I write, sifts through the detritus of my thoughts, and then she gently nudges me back on course. That's what sisters do.

The best therapist in the world can’t make my pain go away, she can’t make time go any faster and she can’t lift the cloak of sadness that envelopes me. If I were in bed, under the pillows, or stumbling around in a drunken stupor, then sure, bring in the white coats.

As it is, I still get up somewhere around one in the A of M, give or take a few, and I still crash and burn early in the evening. That part remains the same.

Meanwhile, the house is immaculate; I am, after all, a Virgo. That being written, I know absolutely nothing about the other eleven zodiac signs. I just know that every profile of a Virgo ever written, fits me. And this Virgo is pretty compulsive about the morning routine of polishing the house in preparation for a small boy’s visit.

My compass these dayz

Speaking of therapy. The presence of Little Man in my daily life is the single best thing I have going for me. Curiously enough, having a small set of ears available for reminiscing, also helps immensely. After all, Little Man spent time every day in the vicinity of Annie, in the last months of her time here, and we have had many occasions upon which to reflect accordingly.

He won’t remember his grandmother when he grows up, not yet being two, but he remembers her now, and that is the thread I weave into the tapestry of what is still to come.

In my first two posts after Annie left us, I referred to the abyss, or chasm that lay in front of me, and how it terrified me. I wrote of the mist, or fog. Well, that metaphorical crap is gone now. 

I am a 67-year-old farmer who has this bipolar thing going on, I don’t own a pair of shoes and I live on a mountain. Whatever. I experimented by driving off the mountain Monday, for the first time since the week before Christmas, just to see what that was like.

After half-an-hour at the farmers’ market, held in Harwood Hall these days, I fell apart and had to exit, stage left. Something about all of those middle school graduation dances, History Day and Science Fairs, working with Annie, and all of those memories, made me decide that it was time to bail out. 

Losing my spouse, my partner, a person so filled with life, leaves the unknown in front of me, and that is what initially terrified me. Why wouldn’t it? My world has revolved around and been intertwined with Annie for almost forty years. Now I walk around asking myself irrationally all day, “Annie died?” 

Talk about denial.

Time just needs to get a move on and pass. How much time one asks? I have no clue but I do believe it’s one of those I’ll-know-it-when-I-see-it things, like going off the mountain, doing whatever I need to do, and managing to do so without bursting into tears. 

Well, except for road construction. That makes everyone burst into tears...