Sunday’s Cake, Friday’s Cocktail…and a Room with a View

Okay, I’m back, and it’s time to get into the groove with a blog entry, right.  So, here we go.

Friday’s cocktail almost didn’t happen because . . .

Wait, what?  Oh, you want to know about the house?  Well, just hold your horses; let’s do this in order.

So, like I said, Friday’s cocktail almost didn’t happen because the symphony chorus had dress rehearsal.  But then a good friend suggested we walk across the street to a wonderful place with a stupendous bar (hey, anyplace that has Old Scout Smooth Ambler rye is stupendous in my book).  We hung for about an hour; closed the place down, and it was fun.  I have definitely decided that Old-Fashioneds are my new go-to cocktails.  (Runner-up is dependent upon where I am: almost anyplace can make a halfway decent Belvedere martini, but only a few understand how to make a proper Sazerac.) And, yes, I am hitting a high A.  (We’d also closed down the place, so I didn’t feel too terrifically inhibited either.  Or maybe that was the rye.)

***

Sunday’s Cake came the day after our concert, which went well.  (I also got pretty tearful on the way home; see below.) was still bummed on Sunday but needed to get back into a routine, and on Sundays, I make cake.

This week’s Brown Butter w/ Roasted Blueberry Butter Sauce smelled great, and the sauce was to die for, particularly after I added a splash of maple syrup then gussied it up further with a quarter cup of Grand Marnier.  The cake did not rise very high, though; that is, it’s smallish cake, and I should’ve figured that out when I saw that the recipe called for only two cups of flour.  Looking back on it, I could easily have made this in a 9-cup pan or even an 8-cup.  Ah well, live and learn.  I’ve not gotten the official verdict yet, but if you’re interested, the recipe can be found here:   http://www.sugardishme.com/brown-butter-bundt-cake-with-roasted-blueberry-sauce/

Now, who’d have thunk you could roast blueberries?

***

And now, the house.

It was yet another really hectic week–we were in Ottawa the weekend before last, got back Sunday afternoon, and then at 4:00 a.m. Monday, I was headed back to the airport to fly down to Huntsville for more house-hunting.  To be honest, I was kind of losing hope because I’d seen everything, and our realtor–a very sweet and patient woman who should’ve been a shrink because she is that good at reading faces and moods–unearthed this one last house on Monte Sano.  Complete fluke.  I saw a couple pictures, felt this little thrill but was afraid to get too hopeful, and she arranged for us to see it the next day.

There has only been one place I’ve ever lived where I just knew the fit was right.  That was back in Virginia.  I even remember the moment, too.  The husband and I had finished walking through the house, which was in this very nice, established neighborhood close to both our offices.  It was a fine house–nothing grand or contemporary but a very comfortable, well-lived in space–but it wasn’t until we went outside and onto the deck that I felt this thrill.  The house backed up to parkland, so there was an expanse of wooded yard and then thicker forest that seemed to go on and on.  I remember hearing birds and enjoying how cool the air was.  (You know, that fresh, green kind of cool air takes on in deep woods.)

The husband and I just looked at each other–and we knew that we could live there.  This was the house we were meant to find, and vice versa.

Driving up to this house on Monte Sano actually didn’t provoke that ah-ha moment.  From the front, it’s a pretty modest-looking brown ranch.  Nothing really jumps out at you.  From experience around here, though, I know that a lot of places on Lake Michigan are also unprepossessing.  You wouldn’t think there’s anything special about them at all . . . until you get into the house and realize that everything important is what you can’t see from the front.

Same thing here.  The house faces mountains and valleys to the southeast.  All that green space is a combination of land preserve and state park.  (There’s also a three-tiered deck that perches on a fifty-foot bluff out back.)  That great room is also pretty spectacular: nice kitchen; lots of open, airy space.  Best yet, there’s another room with an equally spectacular view where I could write.

So, yeah…it was kind of a no-brainer.

A lot of people are happy and excited for us.  A few wonder why I’m not more excited.  I mean, the house is great and all.  Is this house perfect?  No, of course not.  On the other hand, neither was the house where we live now.  Only after years of living here and changing things to suit has it become a home.

But that’s what I have to just live with now: this letting go of home, a place where I’ve constructed my own narrative and story.  In a way, the feeling’s similar to the moment you know when you’ve finished a book.  The story’s done, but that doesn’t mean the characters don’t linger.  You’re happy; it’s a rush; but you’ve also lived and breathed (and, in my case dreamt) this story for months.  The story has occupied every waking moment, whether you’re aware of it or not.  So, after the initial exhilaration–that sense that you’ve done it–there’s a let-down.  Well, at least, I always feel that way.  Kind of mopey and depressed, a little restless.  The excitement just isn’t there anymore and you’re casting about, looking at starting something new all over again.  Even after you begin, some time has to pass before you’re caught up in the new story, and I’m at least convinced that anything I write at that point just can’t be as decent as what I’ve done before.

This is similar.  Right now, I’m still focused on what I’m leaving behind.  Some of that is material: furniture we can’t find room for and really don’t need; books that are incredibly outdated or ratty old paperbacks I’ve hauled from one house to the next but never really look at anymore.  My lovely garden.  Even “my” birds: the rose-breasted grosbeaks showed up yesterday and I spotted the first hummer at the feeder, too.  I know that means that little indigo bunting that comes by for a visit every year can’t be far behind, and then a few days later, the orioles will show up.  (Well, provided that the weather cooperates; it’s turned cold enough here again that the turkeys have reappeared at the feeder.)  But I was having my coffee and watching the birds and the strangest thing . . . I started to worry about what would happen to the birds when I go.  Will whoever lives here next feed them?  What will it be like for them to come to an empty feeder?  Yes, yes, I know they’ll find food; they won’t die.  Of course, I’m anthropomorphising here, but I expect they’ll be confused.  Like, Ilsa . . . hello, what the hell?

It also hit me that this was the last spring I’d see those grosbeaks; the last spring I’ll spy that indigo bunting.  (And it’s always just the one and only for a day or two before he moves on; it’s so funny because I imagine that bunting’s got this checklist: Okay, Ilsa saw me; take that off the old to-do.)  The last orioles, the last phlox, the last time I put in potatoes (finally did get them in last week) . . . etc., etc.  You get the drift.  I felt the same way this past Saturday for what I knew was my last concert with the symphony chorus; I said on Facebook that virtually no one knows I’m leaving, and I’m fine with that.  I don’t tend to advertise, and it’s not like I know tons of people. But, by and large, I have loved singing with this chorus for the last seven or eight years, and while Huntsville has a symphony chorus . . . well, they either don’t look at their emails, or maybe I went to spam because I haven’t heard anything back.  (So, Ilsa, dear . . . this is why we have these inventions called phones.)

I remember that when we moved here fourteen years ago, we made this decision that we’d get more involved.  Know our neighbors, have friends, that kind of thing.  But I am a pretty self-contained person, and shy.  So long as I’m working, I’m good.  We’ve got bridge buddies; I know people at the market and gym.  I have a few friends, but I’m fine with that.  My social circle is wide enough.

You know the funny thing?  Now that I’m leaving, I’m actually socializing more than before.  Like going out for a drink with some chorus buddies . . . why did we never do this before?  I’m having lunch with people, and I’ve never done lunch!  We’re seeing other people for dinners . . . know what I’m saying?  What have I been doing, where have I been for fourteen years?  Is it only as you approach the end of something comfortable and comforting that you realize how great and rare it’s all been?

Cakes and cocktails and a new novel (yes, I really aim to start one) aside, I expect the next few months will be rocky.  The prospect of starting all over again and finding a comfortable place is a little daunting.  (And don’t get me started on selling this house.)  Just writing this makes me all teary and choked up, and then I get impatient.  Like, oh, for God’s sake, get a grip and stop yer whinging, ya big baby.  People in Huntsville have been nothing but nice.  Truly.  My soon-to-be neighbor across the street popped into Messenger to introduce herself just this morning.  I’m already corresponding with a couple other people, and I know at least one fan who works in the library.  I know that people down there are thrilled that the husband and other folks have chosen to work there when they could’ve gone anywhere else for, say, more money, prestige, etc.  It’s hard to explain, but it’s kind of a vision-thing.

I guess I just have to wait for this part of my story to play itself out.