Single in the Wilderness

But then you're never alone, are you?

Before you start reading this week’s story, I have an announcement to make! America Eats! will celebrate its third anniversary next week—250 stories in all. It’s time to put out the paid subscription shingle sign and announce a new endeavour—the America Eats! Library series. The Library is composed of beautifully printed booklets on different culinary subjects, some historical, others of special interest. Paid subscribers will receive the latest, Invalid Cooking: A Few Old Recipes for What Ails You. More information will follow next week but if you wish to beat the stampede subscribe now!

---

My husband and I unexpectedly acquired a little house in a modest old community. We said the house would be a refuge, a place to read and write. My husband would finally have a fire pit big enough to build as huge a fire as he always wanted. Our children, who couldn’t believe their parents would do something so nice for themselves, excitedly took to the idea of being in the woods anytime they wanted. They also considered it an option if ever the apocalypse or zombie wars materialized–but that’s another story.

What I saw in the little house was a place to be alone.

I generally like people. I love my family and friends and the cat and the dog. But I am also an introvert. My skin actually itches and my brain tenses whenever more than two social events occur close together. I usually retreat into my room that is the size of a generous walk-in closet. Now I would have another place to hide.

This is what luck and happiness is to me.

Since the house is seasonal and we bought it late in October, I was finally able to spend two days by myself last week. I filled the car with the tool box, a pruning pole, sewing machine, several exciting pieces of trash-picked furniture, my laptop, notebook, and the book I was currently reading. I had great plans for the coming days and no one who would question my wisdom about doing them.

The first thing I did, though, was sprawl across the bed and take a nap. I awoke two hours later into the most magical deep stillness. Back home, this would be the time of the day for a cup of tea and an hour or so of reading. As the weather has warmed I’ve begun to sit outside, able after all these years to ignore the screeching noise from the nearby Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Here I was now, though, settled into a wicker chair (another trash-picked find!) with tea and a book and only the lulling sounds of chattering birds settling in for the night.

My husband recommended the book in my lap. It was written by one of his favorite writers. He called it a masterpiece. But I’ve been stuck on page 32 for days, confused about all the different narrators. He assured me it’d get easier so I drank my tea and slogged through until page 35 where I decided my husband could possibly be more cultured, if not smarter, than me. I went inside for another cup of tea and returned with a gardening book about deer resistant plants.

Soon after it was the cocktail hour and then I should think about dinner. I was brought up to believe that anything less than a plate full of meat, potatoes, and a vegetable was not a proper meal. Childhood demons being what they are, I have more or less adhered to this rule. At the very least I have found that providing prodigious amounts of food to the three male members of the family tended to keep the peace. But the children are out of the house and sometimes my husband is off somewhere else, and then I take pleasure in an unadorned omelet.

For some ridiculous reason that probably involves additional lingering mother issues, I never considered that a huge bowl of lactate-free caramel vanilla ice cream topped with a blob of raspberry sorbet would be a mighty fine dinner. Couple it with the rare experience of finally possessing the TV remote control for the whole night and you have one gratified woman.

The next day unfolded in perfect order, everything accomplished by late afternoon without incident, including ascending the top of the ladder to install a shelf in the kitchen. At 5 p.m. there was a long sit in the yard under the canopy of trees for tea and further garden book reading. 6:30 p.m. brought the mixing of the tiny cocktail and the anticipation of cooking the trout I had brought from home.

America Eats! has often documented my husband’s fish phobia but it bears repeating here since it is one of those minuscule and ridiculous fault lines that all marriages have. He certainly has a bigger list on me but this fish thing weighs heavily on a woman who really likes to cook fish. The trout, clear-eyed and glistening on it’s pure white bed of ice in my neighborhood market, would not be denied.

And so it was gently packed in more ice, cradled in a thick plastic bag and securely seated on the front seat where it wouldn’t be crushed. Now in the little house’s littler kitchen I patted it down, slit it’s belly, removed its spine and bones, and stuffed it with buttered roasted almonds. Once lightly dusted in flour, I guided it into a hot skillet slick with butter and olive oil and stood guard until the skin had crisped and the flesh flaky. Slid onto a warm plate with a squirt of lemon juice and with a glass of middle-drawer white wine, the fish reminded me of the distinct contentment in cooking for oneself. The ingredients are particular to your liking, the flavors yours alone. If you were to share your plate with others they may think it’s the worse recipe they have ever tasted. But it doesn’t matter at all. You’ll never have the dish any other way.

Oh, how splendid my trout was, so much that I was sure it caused me to find that Stop Making Sense, a documentary on a Talking Heads’ concert that I’ve been searching for years to see, was available on HBO! About the time I had scooped up every morsel of trout and poured another glass of wine, David Byrne was dancing with a floor lamp. Who cared that I sang along off-key and whirled about in my baggy sweat pants and paint-stained shirt? How delightful it was that my carousing shook the little house until I collapsed into bed.

Along about three, maybe four, in the morning I heard an enormous thud from the room across the hall, the one with the sliding glass doors that led into the secluded yard. I always thought the room made a perfect entry point for a serial killer. Less likely, the sound could have been the ladder falling over. Either way, I shifted over to the empty space where my husband should have been and pulled the covers over my head.

Alive and well rested the next morning, I bravely went forth to investigate. The ladder remained firmly against the wall, nothing was out of place. Then I pulled the curtains back and discovered two conspicuously large paw prints imprinted on the glass door. They appeared to be close to my shoulder height. One of the trash cans was toppled on the deck and its lid thrown aside. The bag I stuffed into it just hours ago spilled out all its contents, minus the trout’s head, tail, and every paper towel I had used to cook my dinner. The empty ice cream cartons were shredded beside the glass doors.

What a considerate visitor—to have come for dinner, found a good meal, and left without disturbing my solitude!

---