"Thank you for supporting local fishermen," the sign read. The breeze was warm and brought with it that briny smell that ocean harbors have. Seagulls called and ship bells clanged in the wind.
The sense of calm and wonder that comes over me when I'm near the water...it never changes. I think I'm struck by something that's as old as civilization. Struck by the beauty of a boat on the water - grand sails harnessing the wind. I'm struck by the beauty of a house on the coastline. Struck that the harvesting of clams and gutting of fish and gathering of souls at a table and men on a fishing boat, raw knuckles on knotted nets, are as certain as the tide. For time on end, we gather what nature gives us, cook it, and share with open palms life giving life.
I'm struck that we cook our food. Why do we cook our food? I'm struck that mountains still cause wonder, that we hike, and look, and swim. The swell of waves is the great equalizer. Ancient men in bright green spandex, stomachs extending over the waistline float in the never judging green water along with children who never concern themselves with cold and have to be drug out all pruny and white by mothers who smother them in towels and wrap them in their arms until they kick and beg to go in again.
At the house -- boiling pots of water trying to keep the foam at bay as crustacean steam bubbles onto the floor splashing my toes. From sea to table. Outside my husband keeps flames at bay as he flips ribeyes on the grill. From farm to table. Two sticks of butter melted down to just enough to dip and pool and layer onto cooked flesh. Simple, so simple. Butter, lobster, steak. Hands reaching into the bowl, bitten down nails peeling shells, adolescent bare feet kicking under the table, a shell flies across the room, lobster juice on the wall, butter dripping down a sunburnt arm.
At home again. A different wonder. Chickens amble about the yard, the oldest hen herding them away
from the dog who circles wildly around me. The cat is stalking a butterfly. In the distance the rolling hills have turned pink like they do at sunset. I'm struck again. Eons of time have passed and yet it's the simple, unchanging things that we find comfort in, that we seek, that we celebrate.
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