Hi, my pals!
We’re only halfway through November but boy, it’s been a month. The past few weeks have been hectic with work and personal travel, as well as some pretty big life developments. I’ll tell you about those soon. But since rummaging is a side project with no sophisticated editorial strategy (yet), it got pushed aside.
As I write this, it is half past five in the afternoon and pitch-dark out. I was able to squeeze in a brisk walk and get some sun before dusk, but I always forget how long winter nights are in California.
In my daydreams, I spend winter in a candlelit cottage next to an icy creek, tasting from a pot of simmering stew between bouts of writing. I wrap myself in some delicate, woven scarf from a friend and pad around the house with a mug of tea. The only visitors are snow-tailed deer.
The closest I ever got to this, I think, was on a trip to Portland, Maine, two Decembers ago. My partner and I took the train up from Boston — a peaceful, scenic route through frostbitten New England towns — and spent the weekend in a little apartment on the second floor of a walk-up. We quickly found our way to an art museum, and then to some deep-fried dumplings I still think about. They were shaped like a leprechaun’s bag of gold, and filled with crab rangoon and served with a chili jam.
Later that night, around 11:30, the carbon monoxide alarm started blaring. We snoozed the thing, and it went off again. Nothing we did seemed to work (not opening the windows, or fanning it, or turning off the heat). Concerned we might tragically die in our sleep from an unknown gas leak, I called the fire department. I’ll tell ya, I’ve never seen firefighters with more disdain in their eyes. These boys hated being called for an alarm at 11:40 p.m. They apathetically gave us the all-clear, handed the alarm to Lawson and said, “Tell your landlord to change the battery.”
When they left, he turned to me. “Did you hear that? They think we live here,” he said with a smirk. We’d been Portland-pilled.
A blizzard warning drove us out of the house the next day, to a nearby diner where locals said the storm was no big deal, and then to the store to buy gallons of water and snacks in case the power went out (I am, above all, Floridian). I also got some cheap gloves and a beanie at the pharmacy. And as afternoon fell, so did a veil of steadily larger and larger snowflakes. A large Christmas tree in the center of town got its coat of powder.
We stayed inside with mugs of hot tea and cookies, and addressed Christmas cards while listening to this playlist, and watching the fluffy snow pile up outside. At some point we made the journey to a dimly lit restaurant nearby, where we shrugged off our layers and tucked into a corner table for a warm meal. The snow fell at a diagonal. It was bliss, as cute as a winter scene in a classic romcom (we need to talk about You’ve Got Mail).
I finally understood what people spoke of when they said they loved snow.
Before the clouds had cleared, we started world-building: We could live here, right? It’s soooo cute. And I floated into the following day, which was all snowy sidewalks and lobster rolls and pie. I had my first espresso martini, which was a vile, flat concoction at a dessert-and-drinks spot with a nice ambiance.
By our last morning, the illusions I had formed about my own weather-hardiness quickly faded. Lawson was excited to take me to this special Portland donut shop within walking distance. But the distance to be walked was caked in snow, in ice, in sludge, for which we were ill-prepared.
Coffee-less, before 9 a.m. (there’s always a line, people said!) we trekked through it all to arrive at a completely empty donut shop. And then find out these donuts are special because they are made of…potatoes.
I’ve healed from that trauma, and am a stronger woman because I was afflicted by a Portland potato donut at an ungodly hour. And the core memories that remain are all snowglobey, misty-eyed, sweet — a vision of winter’s romantic promise.
Recommendations
Watched When Harry Met Sally for the first time. And then saw May December — without knowing what it was about. Unsettling! Natalie Portman’s so good.
Read The Cut’s feature on the history of bougie LA grocer Erewhon. Not a lot else outside of work reading! The year’s ending… I’m in my illiterate season.
Listened to I Do Love You by G.Q. (which I found through this very, very cool young woman who hosts a soul music show on the radio in Detroit).
Ate this chickpea stew, as I do every few weeks, served over rice. And wonderful meals from two of my favorite neighborhood restaurants: a lowkey Japanese joint with the best garlic edamame, and a nearby diner that first opened in the 40s.
Eating at a diner is simply one of life’s delights. And few foods are more evocative to me than diner coffee. Maybe I watched “Gilmore Girls” too many times — the show convinced me to start drinking coffee. But if I even see diner coffee onscreen, I say, without fail: “UGH. Yum. Diner coffee.” But not in a When Harry Met Sally diner way.
I hope you have a lovely holiday,
Isa