Safety First

“I’m willing to go $75 on both of them”

I know that to many of you it may seem as if I’ve sort of vanished from the wine blogosphere, and for the most part I guess that is true. I’m not sure I ever belonged in that group to begin with actually, seeing as my blog is more of a personal diary of sorts. My life, my son, my relationships, my passion both before wine wrapped its textured tongue around me, swallowed me whole, and after. I write, um maybe wrote is a more accurate word considering how often I’ve been here as of late, (Been writing some soul searching and blisteringly raw pieces for myself but I have been woefully absent from this space) for the joy of finding my voice, sharing and maybe, just once in a while, making someone feel a little more comfortable tucked into their own skin in this complex and confusing world we all amble through. Felt like I was there for a bit but somewhere along the way I succumb to the awkward tugging of these pages, my bare flesh and emotion so exposed the utter nudity of my words making me both moist with want to do more and susceptible to the lashings from those that shamed be for everything from my lack of education to the insatiable gnarl of sensuality that haunted me until I found this place to unzip.

Messes with one’s head I assure you and as I have mentioned in posts earlier, I feel like I have been binding and gagging myself in some sort of emotional self-mutilation. So fucking cliché that I feel like I am preforming an act of flagellation by stepping out from behind my silent cursor to strip down to my most naked and defeated, all my blobby and chewed up bits unprotected for the bottom feeders to feast upon. Fuck you. Eat the poison you fed me. Those toxic little injections of anger, mockery, accusation and utter disregard coursing through my already collapsing veins sending me seeking new ways to nod out….silence my opiate of choice, until.

“I’m willing to go $75.00 on both”

I was sitting with my son at the restaurant I am currently owned by. We were scarfing spring rolls, our teeth tugging through the chewy skin to be met with sticks of vibrant cucumber, crisp greens, densely packed charred sweet shrimp and a layer of deep fried wrapper skin that has been tucked in the middle of the utterly perfect roll, you know, just for added crunch and craveability. The viscous orange sauce I’d seasoned with floral, and throat grabbing peppers, a blanket of hedonism and punishment. The Vietnamese crepe with its painfully delicate eggy crustiness balancing on our chop sticks as we folded pieces into cool lettuce envelopes that we would douse with a sour bath of fish sauce and sweet vinegar and fragrant purple herbs. The packet brought to our insatiable palates, bean sprouts and tender shrimp bodies melting and exploding at the exact same time. It was nearly enough, until.

“Have you seen this?!”

“I can’t fucking believe this”

“Are you okay?” 

  

The text messages started mid meal and that sinking feeling I had been feeling for a month, it was now an undertow that locked around my ankles and pulled me under so deep and for so long I was terrified that I might not ever breathe correctly again. Worse, not sure I wanted to considering the fact that hate actually won.

 Election night 2016. I spent it in one of my favorite spots, with someone I love more than any other on the planet, then I came home, threw up and emotionally passed out on my couch. Clothes on, my sickened breath redolent with the gin martini I “needed” before heading home and the bile stirred up by a momentary loss in my faith. I don’t read a book, I don’t pray at any alter. My faith lies in the oft kicked in the gut belief that most of us, no matter how blobby and poisoned, scared, scarred and uncertain, we are at our core decent. Trying to find my faith the next few days would prove, erm, challenging and at times painful but….

“You got them both!”

A Facebook message from my coworker Andy. He had been at the shop working our annual Su Casa event. Su Casa, a group that helps victims of domestic violence escape and begin a new, safe life. If there are more courageous and selfless people out there I don’t know who they are. Each year Randy and Dale Kemner, my bosses, offer up our space, provide wine and staff as well as a few snacks to Su Casa so they can raise awareness, and funds that will provide much needed assistance to families that just need that extended hand and safe space. Those of you that have been reading me for any length of time will fully understand why this cause is so near my heart. These individuals are what we should all aspire to be, people that care for those so in need that even just the slightest beam of brightness and hope will inspire their own inner superhero. Inspire them to reach out to the hand that is being extended to them and run from the one that has been pounding and reigning down upon them.

I’m going to confess a weak truth. I never work this event. It’s too close and too hard for me. I look at the faces of the women that come in to set up. Prep food. Fasten balloons to tables and sign posts. Smell them heavily scented and feel their palpable excitement for the evening like a sweet stroke over long ago healed wounds, a whisper over my scars. I know I should be the first to volunteer but, but I don’t. I prep cheese plates in the back and before walking out the back door I look into our space, The Wine Country’s big welcoming embrace as newly glammed up women work together fastening name tags, prepping prizes for the raffle and shove big serving spoons in plastic bowls full of fresh fruit or mayonnaise dressed salads in order to raise some money for their sisters that will come, when they are ready. I soak it in each year and slip out the backdoor. Proud of the people I work for and amazed at the overpoweringly uplifting and, hopefully, inspiring nature of the whole scene. This year however…

Before I was running out, too afraid to look anyone too deep in the eye, not for how they might recognize my, edge, as much as for the fact that being in their presence tends to cause a reaction in me that most find unnerving. Watching a grumpy looking rock tear up is some sort of Hunter S Thompson level crazy and I find most would rather not. Can’t say as I blame them, can you? Anyhow, this time I took a few extra moments. Strolled the shop and decorations. Helped with affixing balloons and assisted a lovely woman with caramel colored skin, shiny jet black curls, cheerful eyes and full painted lips that stretched wide with every gesture that made her tasks a little easier. She was stunningly confident and comfortable and I envied her. Admired her. She had in her smile and wit something I was drawn to. A longing. A familiar flicker that made me feel at home. Safe. I followed her around with a tape dispenser taking deep breaths, hoping I could breathe in some of her hope.

Heading out just before the event was to begin and I was stopped, literally in my tracks, by two paintings. I leaned in close. Studied the lines like I’d seen people in museums all over the world do. My goofy uneducated noggin taking it all in. Hands folded behind me, back slightly curved as I inspected the work being displayed. Both pieces critically inspected I scribbled a, slightly low, bid on both of them before straightening up my spine and walking over to Randy as I grabbed my backpack.

“Randy, I want them. I’m willing to go $75.00 on both”

Randy’s big smile the kind of extended hand I was seeking. I knew, as I always know, he was looking out for me and would do his best to help me, help lots of us. Climbing into my car that night I knew I had an advocate, as a woman and as a person, in my corner and I knew he would raise his paddle as it were and fight for my instantly adored and longed for pieces genuine hope. 

So now? Now I get to wake up each morning, some easier than others but I wake up knowing that no matter how much hate there is out there, in my home, my homes if you include The Wine Country and this place, if y’all still want me, I have safety…and hope. 

Thank you Su Casa, Randy Kemner for all you do and thank you to Lamesha and Jose, your beautiful paintings full of honesty and hope grace my living room walls and remind me that as bad as things get, there is always hope. You give me the courage and desire to speak, loudly. Cry openly. Seethe secrety. Drink deeply. Love openly. Open my mouth and creek out my voice again, hopefully. 

 

Going Backwards To Move Forward

Back on the train, facing backward, the lush green of the Normandy we were just exploring passing on my left like framed pictures in a photo album. The pages separated from each other by the panes of the train window and not unlike flipping the pages of an old family album. The pictures evoking emotion and triggering my toggles, switches that brought racing back the aromas and flavors of each moment spent slowly roaming the countryside.

My body swaying gently to and fro, sort of rocking as that Paris bound train extruded me from the quiet and tranquil, apple skin and moss scented region where I drank gallons of semi-sweet cider alongside delicate but pungent crepes filled with cheese, stinging mustard, foreign spiced sausages and nearly alarmingly orange colored egg yolks that burst with the slightest brush of a fork tine. Sweating glasses of Menetou-Salon covered in oceanic scented finger smudges as we plopped slippery bivalves unto our palates and dug into the tiny spiral shells of various sea creatures to extract their briny meat. Meltingly creamy, salty and rich caramels d’Isigny expanding in a soft blanket across the palate before being washed away with the heady, sultry apple caressed Calvados that left my chest swollen and sweetly stinging with fire. 

 

As the train rolled on I caught a glimpse on the other side of the tracks. One of the many simple roadside signs, flat brown with rudimentary drawings of attractions awaiting those sliding past us going the other way. The drawing a little seaside town with boats tied up at the docks. The sign now out of direct sight but my mouth began to water as I flashed on an afternoon spent on a bench in the town of Saint-Vaast-La-Houge. The sun heavy and proud in the perfectly blue sky, the villagers taking a post lunch stroll along the marina. The pink-cheeked, well fed children tucked into perfectly draped scarves and lapping away at tiny waffle cones piled high with various colored and flavored ice cream you just knew had to be the best you would have ever tasted if you could negotiate yourself a taste. Parents looking about, nodding at passers by while investigating who was working on their boats and who was just returning from one of the oyster farms that were stacked just beyond the marina, whistling and “tisk-tisk” tisking at their small dogs that were running beneath my bench to retrieve any dropped bits of my thrown together bench picnic, goodies found at a funky Maison Gosselin market in town. 

Oily, thinly sliced cured meats, butter cookies that shattered delicately when you took a bite, the crumbs that made it upon your palate melting pure butter and just the proper amount of cooked sugar. Cheeses washed with Calvados, funky, stinky, and sticky and just the kind of thing I love to scrape from my thumb with my teeth, feeling the fatty texture roll about in my mouth. Olive oil potato chips, yeasty, flaky, petit baguette ripped off in hunks, (get those crumbs wee puppies) dunked in tarragon mustard before we piled ribbons of salty meat on top. Washing it all down with not cold enough smuggled cups of Ricard and water…the ocean, the oyster shells, the croaking of being repaired boat engines, reprimanded doggie sounds, sea birds above, black licorice and aggressive cheese hanging from my lips.

As the train continued to rock me I felt something come over me. Something so very familiar and for so many reasons. One of the most primal, desired and hated feelings I can remember from my childhood. I was hungry. It came over me so fast and so powerfully that I couldn’t tell if I were truly needing food, if the memories of Normandy were fucking with my head or if it was a whole other kind of hunger gnawing and clawing at me from the inside and demanding I pay attention. I took a sip from my water bottle and the answer was becoming clearer by the second. Oh sure, I could have used a quick bite before our planned 9:00 PM dinner in Paris but it was not food I needed to fill me. I took a moment to truly reflect about where I was, in my second week of a month long trip to France. There for family, friends and getting swallowed up by new sights, but it was wine I was on my way to reconnect with and my hunger pains were growing ferocious. 

I felt my chest inflating, almost as if my breath and excitement were rushing over me too fast for me to catch up. It had been too long since I felt this level of want and it was deliciously devouring me. I heard the announcement come over the speaker in our nearly empty car on the train, less than ten minutes and we would be back in Paris. I thought of the years I would sit on the porch of whatever place my mother could afford to rent, blowing bubbles which I would emotionally fill with my hopes and wishes for the future, watching them float down the block and disappear like I wished that I could. The nights escaping to the silence of an empty pool. The sneaking out of my bedroom window to head to parts of town full of its own saturated sadness where longing souls stood around in groups on the street corners, their own hunger, of every kind, inspiring rash decisions and unwise grabbing. The clumsy fumbling of young hands, fingers, lips and inhibition ….I had dreamed myself out of a million ugly places but never could I have ever imagined my hunger would bring me here. To this place in my life. To this place on the planet. To this place where I could literally feel myself spreading open my hungry heart to wine all over again. 

It’s stirring

I’m vibrating

Ready to feed…..