Five years ago, on this day, on a deserted beach on Oahu’s north shore, M asked me to marry him.
Believe me when I say that I didn’t have the faintest clue that he was going to propose.
I mean, we had been together for four years, so it was inevitable that the topic would come up in conversation from time to time, and I knew that there was no one else in the world that I wanted to be with – I was just never one to think much about it.
Growing up, I never day dreamed about weddings, sketched dresses, or play acted happily ever after.
I just hoped to heck that one day I would actually have a boyfriend, and all that practice kissing the back of my hand in the shower would amount to something.
So when this beautiful, kind, brilliant man, kneeled in front of me, and told me “I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” I briefly stood there shocked, a befuddled statue.
My mouth opening and closing like that of a stunned trout.
And then I burst into tears.
I cried so hard and for so long that M actually had to ask me (quite nervously at that) if my tears were a good or bad thing.
“Good…thing…” I managed to croak, before the next wave of sobs took over.
M began to laugh, and eventually I did too (although it was through my tears), and then he took my hand and placed a ring on my finger.
My engagement band has three stones – one larger diamond, framed by two smaller ones. When he gave it to me he explained that he choose this ring because the two stones on the outside are meant to signify us, and the middle stone is our life that we have built – that we continue to build – together.
You can imagine how quickly my tears dried up after hearing that.
Yeesh.
(For real, I’m pretty sure that I severely dehydrated myself standing there on the beach that night.)
But it was magical.
The sun slowly setting, melting into the rich greens and blues of the sea; giant turtles sunning themselves in the warmth of the white sand; a young fisherman walking by with his multicoloured catch of the day.
When we arrived back at the house where we were staying, we surprised all of our friends by revealing the good news.
We phoned family back in Canada (waking up every single last person) before doing the thing that every good 21st century couple does – updated our profiles on facebook.
Good grief.
And then for the rest of the trip, we swan, sunned, explored, adventured, ate, drank, laughed, lived, and loved.
Here are some photos of our all too brief sojourn in paradise:
Lanai.
Sunrise.
Ninja surfer.
Palm-palms.
King and queen of the world.
Beach.
So we may always return.
So there you have it friends.
A memory for the month of May.
If you have stories to share, I’m all ears (and probably all tears.)
I live with a man to whom I have pledged my troth, until the sun supernovas, the stars fade away.
During the first month of our courtship, I flew away to Nova Scotia for two weeks, and during this time we wrote to each every day; back and forth we went, feverish, all firing synapses and tricky fingers – and often times very late at night (or early in the morning), so our typos, like our emotions, were plentiful.
I would love to share with you something he wrote to me – something that will forever make me laugh, something that will forever live in my heart.
An excerpt – Monday, August 25, 2003, 00:17:34:
As the evening progressed I began to feel more and more that I was part of some macabre Dostoevskian dinner party, wherein a carnivalesque ambiance lies so heavily upon the evening that I expect at any moment to have one of us drop down dead, or for Inspector Porfiry to burst through the door and proclaim me a student and a criminal in equal measure.
Finally we began to watch the Anniversary Party with director’s commentary. This was good because it allowed a dimming of lights so the rest of the party could no loner sit around awkwardly as my face watched my mind build and destroy lines of compassion and comradeship, leaving me on a sober island alone, being the only member of the melodramatic depressed monkey stock.
Finally I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and announced I was retiring for the evening.
Many sad farewells were exchanged, and then my door was closed and at last the misanthrope was safe, and glad that his room was devoid of mirrors and the curtains were pulled. Then I turned off the one light by my bed, and sat, and in the darkness.
I wrote, since I could not speak, and my fingers were the tongues of my mind, and true for once for they were too long steeped in the deception of my company.
Last Night: Because I spent an hour untwisting my phone cord, so I could lie where you lay that first night though miles apart; your heat a weir around my slippery heart; electric pulses shaping the darkness with the phosphorescent paintings of your words. And today I am order in my sock drawer, pairing and pressing, thinking of the arch of your strong feet trembling beneath my touch. You make me believe in a symmetrical world beyond my usual preoccupation with chaos; the gyre widens not forever – the hawk will tire, and bank, and glide in a descending inscription to the face of the world. To live forever in the heights of my mind is a beauteous peril, and folly. It is the loose loam between my toes, the touch of another, a lover, you who unquakes my weakness and fear of uncertainty.
Tonight I will sleep deeply; I may not dream.
But when I wake, I live a life of magical reality – this man and I, sewn up in a sea of soliloquies and stardust; tulips and tea.
The nose-less sphinx, straight roman roads under pumice and ash – I could have been a statue if I hadn’t met you.
I wish you all beauty and brilliance, this windswept day, and always.
This is my morning view. Also how do people take photos before eating their treats? It is almost impossible for me.
My cat (who is in stealth mode in the above picture) is currently tearing about our home (which sadly means she is also tearing up our carpet each time she reaches both the top and bottom of our stairs.)
If I wasn’t so madly in love with her, there would be repercussions.
When she gets into these scamp moods of hers we like to say that she’s “riding her little horse” because of the way she gallops about the house (and the way her gait sounds like that of a young steed racing around a track.)
We adopted Ms. Nymeria from the SPCA a little over four years ago.
I had been badgering M forever to let us get a cat.
She is giving you five.
Being a remarkably patient, and loving man, he withstood this constant bombardment quite well (and with much grace at that.)
Because seriously, anytime he inquired about gifts, I would immediately, without thinking, blurt out: “A CAT.”
Hey Ethel, he’d say. What do you want for Christmas this year?
A CAT, I’d respond.
Hey Ethel, what would you like for your birthday this year?
A CAH! I’d say, not bothering to swallow that bite of my sandwich before taking the time to respond.
Hey Ethel, what do we need to pick up at the grocery store tonight?
A CAT! I’d answer. And milk, bread and cheese. But mostly though, a cat.
(That joke was always a laugh and a half for me, but obnoxious as heck for him. Still, I couldn’t stop myself.)
Lovers in a dangerous time.
Come February 2008, M ever so nonchalantly asked me to come over to his computer. He picked me up, sat me in his lap, and together we looking through the pictures of the kittens that were currently available for adoption over at our local SPCA shelter.
Now, I don’t know about you folks, but there is a very limited time frame in which I can stay on one of those websites and remain a functioning, coherent human being.
Just looking at all the little ones that need homes thrusts me into sensory overload, and I become overwhelmed between two very conflicting reactions.
These are: MUST SAVE ALL THE KITTIES – and – OH NO THERE ARE TOO MANY KITTIES TO SAVE I AM POWERLESS IN THIS FIGHT.
It’s like all of my life force swells to epic proportions but is simultaneously sucked out of me. Like I turn into a superhero just before being administered a Dementor’s kiss.
Luckily, it wasn’t before long that we saw Nymeria’s picture and we both fell head over heels in love.
A go-to pose.
At the time she wasn’t Nymeria. She was Faye, who – “didn’t play well with others.”
We knew immediately that she had a touch of both Rhoyne and direwolf inside her.
The next day we went to the shelter, and along with the help of two stellar friends of ours, adopted the little Miss into our arms, heart and home.
And she’s been there ever since. Snuggling, purring, meowing (she talks, like, all the darn time), furring up furniture, ripping up carpets, going absolutely bat shit crazy when she sees other cats, sleeping on my feet, and sailing 1,000 ships to Dorne (just like her namesake of course.)
The beauty cat. And M's hair pants.
I always joke that Nymeria is my daughter – and while there is a healthy dose of both tongue and cheek in this statement – she is a dear, dear part of my family.
She was with us during our engagement, our marriage, both of our post-grads; she forgave us for going to England without her (that one took a while, let me assure you).
She is with us when we wake up, and when we sleep.
And I love her. (Even if at the moment she is scoping out my lemon bar.)
So what about you dear readers? Who are the furry friends in your life?
I’m not sure what the temperatures are like where you find yourself bopping about, but as of late it has been absolutely blinkin’ freezing around these parts. Currently, there is wet, wet snow, whirling its way around the downtown core and the majority of men and women scurrying about on the sidewalks look, at best, downright miserable.
A park close to our house. One word: BRRRR!
This morning as I walked to a conference I was attending (a hot topic of which just happened to be climate change – go figure!) I narrowly missed being walloped by a fellow pedestrian’s umbrella, as it tried to make up its mind whether to take flight, or just turn itself inside out.
Yikes!
This weather is just one giant yuck-hole.
In fact, the more that I think about it someone should totally wake up all those lying, bastard groundhogs and let them know that I (and probably the majority of the folks living here on the West Coast) are suitably unimpressed.
Early spring you say? Early spring my foot!
In an attempt to remind myself that life is so much more than just rain drops (there are of course, whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens) may I present to you, dear readers, one of my favourite things:
(Edit: “Favorite things” can also be read as strange, idiosyncratic activities that fill me with more pleasure than they probably should. And I’m okay with this.)
Onwards!
Peeling vegetables/fruit.
For real, I LOVE doing this. I could peel yams or apples until the cows came home.
I’m not sure what it is about this activity that I find so fab – a lot of it probably has to do with my sense memory, and what I automatically associate with the peeling of potatoes, or peaches, or pumpkins, or pears. Peeling fruit and veg is, for me, a reminder of a holiday.
It is Thanksgiving; it is Christmas. Two celebrations that remind me of family, and fireplaces, of laughter and light; rooms that smell of rosemary and cinnamon, and spiced cider and cloves; it is Mr. M’s cranberry-kissed lips, and his gravy stained oven mitts; frosted windows, overlooking gardens, both green and white, from dustings of snow.
It is love (which is strange I know – but it is true!)
So today as I travelled home on skytrain, I thought about the different things I could make that would require me to peel, peel, peel (I have three different utensils to choose from when I take on this task), and many different kinds of veggies at that.
So I decided that the perfect antidote to both this soggy, sunless day and my now urgent need to, well, strip legumes of their skin, would be to make a frittata, Ethel-style (aka with sweet potatoes, instead of regular ol’ tubers, and two kinds of cheese!)
I was introduced to the frittata by the brilliant and hilarious Barefoot Contessa (Ina Garten – how good is that?) and while I have never quite yet achieved her level of fluffiness, it is something to which I aspire.
I picked up the goods that were required for the task (plus a few other treats, such as fresh strawberries and whipping cream) and Mr. M was lovely enough to pick me up at New West station, relieving me of the burden of walking up the (ridiculous) Eighth Avenue hill, in the rain, laden down with food stuffs.
Ready to rock! Chop! PEEL!
And they say chivalry is dead!
As soon as I got home, I put on my professional cooking outfit (my Dr. Seuss t-shirt and stripped pyjama pants.) This is after all, serious business.
BOOYAKACHA!
The first thing I did was infuse my oil as it warmed up in my cast iron pan.
Bottle this scent and sell it!
I started doing this a couple of years ago, and it is a method that I highly recommend. I learned this from my genius chef-extraordinaire sister – I add garlic, salt, pepper, basil, and chilli powder and I promise you, as the oil heats up the smell of all the different herbs and spices coming together is something pretty special.
Also, it saves you the time from adding flavour later, and if I may so myself, it just always tastes better doing it this way.
Love these colours. They sure taste good too.
(But then again, this could just be a sensory reaction that I have, due to the awesome memory of cooking fried potatoes with my two sisters, three summers ago while we all vacationed in New York together. A late morning, after an even later night, spent sipping home brewed espressos and nibbling on fresh baguettes, slathered with nutella and peach preserves.)
But still, take my word for it and try it!
Green with hunger.
Sometimes I cannot believe how quickly time seems to be passing – a blink, a skip of a record needle, a missed alarm clock, or a late dinner date – three years have passed since that trip but I feel as though I just got off that plane yesterday.
A marriage made in taste heaven.
So I peel carrots and sweet potatoes, and chop onions, and grate cheese – because during this simple, self-satisfying activity, time slows. It doesn’t stop, but a lovely lethargy sets in, that allows the world to sit back, and breathe.
EGGY.
Time also slows when I dance about our kitchen, singing Rod Stewart, and Mr. M breaks it down in the living room, in front of the fireplace, his shadow looming large, flickering on the adjacent wall.
Nymeria, sits watching, intrigued by our antics, and perhaps perturbed (but not enough to move us from her line of vision.)
CHEESY.
And so on this windy, wet Wednesday night, Mr. M and I will peel, and chop, and dance, and we will wrap ourselves in memories and time, rhythms and rhymes, eating a frittata, dreaming of spring.
Rant and Roll 