I could have just had a beer, and maybe some ice cream later, and called it dinner.
Tom swooned over the scent of the chicken stock simmering on the stove top as he left for his broadsword class. I got up from working on my dog training book to strain it. Ok, I admit it – I had forgotten about it, engrossed in my writing. I gave it a taste. It was good. The roast chicken was delicious the other night and the bones made a damn good stock.
I love Tom. I didn’t feel like cooking. I barely felt like eating. I just wanted to write. Tom went off to sword class (why does that sound vaguely dirty to me? I can scarcely write it without blushing or giggling.) without a decent dinner in his belly. He will come home on this rainy evening long past dinner time, long past hungry. And the stock tasted damn good.
It’s still light out.
I love Tom more than I want to indulge in laziness or the fantasy that I have possess edgy roughness, a crass exterior made of poor eating habits and alcohol. I’m a health food eating, yoga practicing, drinker of herbal tea, despite my fantasies to the contrary, grubby jeans, judicious use of the word fuck, and muddy steel-toed boots.
Hawkitt, Peeka and I went out the back door. Hawk came with me into the woods; Peeka stopped at the edge of civilization, trusting that whatever the hell I was doing I’d be done soon. Hawk followed me to the patch of wild leeks, and stayed nearby while I picked.
We walked back towards the house together. Hawk veered off at one point, interested in our new squatters — the cottontail rabbits that have taken up residence under the deck. I murmur “inside” and he changes direction without breaking stride. We collect Peeka from her perch on the hillside and again, I murmur “this way, inside” and she falls in step. My heart swells. Successful interspecies communication is such a turn on. These dogs seduce me daily.
I do a mediocre job cleaning the leeks, and then swipe at the remaining mud with a muddy finger. Grilled, I decide. Grilled leeks, leftover roast chicken breast, and cremini mushrooms in a bowl with hot broth poured over the top. Only I don’t have enough chicken for both servings. Ok, Tom gets the chicken.
And I’m cooking. Mushrooms in the pan, leeks on the grill, stock simmering away. Dogs everywhere, because chicken stock is a call to action. Music on.
Grilled wild leeks are sweet and smoky. I eat too slowly, and the soup gets cold. The bottom of the bowl is gritty and I assume that’s mud. Maybe it’s black pepper. Either way, I toss the last sip or so.
Tom won’t be home for another hour, so I sit down to write. Only now it’s not the dog training book I want to work on. It’s love. “This moment this love comes to rest in me… inside the needle’s eye a turning night of stars.” I moved through this tiny world this evening loving the dogs, loving the rain, loving the leeks, and loving Tom. It doesn’t happen like this all the time but when it does, it’s worth noticing.