Familial shores
Never got to mention what a good time I had this weekend, on retreat on the shores of Lake Huron. The weather was cooperative; providing us with cool nights which made it wonderful to find oneself in front of the huge, flaming bonfire. And the sunrises were astounding; painting Lake Huron in pale yellows and blood-orange reds.
Friday night I reacquainted myself with the kitchen, storing food and setting out things that I would need in the morning. Stayed up until 2:30am, chit chatting with friends, which made the 6:30am wake up hard. It was amazingly refreshing to walk out of the cabin, hair still damp from a shower, into the cool low 50s air, just beginning to see the tinges of crimsons and gold on the distant horizon. I walked over to the lookout over the lake and stared in awe at how magnificent the colors were, and how majestic the lake looked in the first throes of dawn. It was a different lake than the one that I had seen the night before under a setting sun, and eventually a star filled sky. As I said before, being near water is like going home to this daughter of a sailor. Closing my eyes and listening to the gentle lapping of water on the shore was an embrace I felt all weekend, as comforting to me as the hum of a lullaby.
I was the cook for the weekend meals, a role I was eager to take on; a glimpse into my former life where I fancied myself a cook on a farm. Some days that part of me seems so long gone, that I am sure it was just a pleasant dream.
The meals were simple, yet remembering the rules of my former boss Flava Flav, I didn’t allow anything to look less than its best going out of the kitchen. Tear. Flava Flav would have been proud in my self-created colorful bacon, mushroom, broccoli frittata; the way that the lunch trays glistened; my creamy red sauce over penne noodles; or the fluffy pancakes that could shame the Roadside café.
I spent a lot of the weekend (when I was not cooking) wandering around and reflecting on many things. I was able to walk the shoreline of Lake Huron with my jeans rolled up to my knees, and my shoes in hand. The cold water slapping over my feet, surging up past my ankles, and at times nearly as deep as my knees, was miraculous. Each rush of water seemed to draw something out of me, ensuring a sense of security in my surroundings, and a calm which I haven’t felt in a while. I was also able to get out my journal, and pen 7 pages of incomplete thoughts, details of life, and other ramblings queries. These are the moments that I am so happy to get, since lately it seems that all I write is something to be turned in for school.
The weekend ended, as weekends and good dates always do, too quickly. It was hard to clean up after breakfast on Sunday, mentally saying goodbye to the sight of an industrial sized kitchen where the instruments of the trade are as familiar to me as family, though I think I get along with the Hobart mixers and convection oven better. After I packed my car I wandered over for one last look of the lake. Life should be as simple as that, I thought: the sky above and the lake below.
Friday night I reacquainted myself with the kitchen, storing food and setting out things that I would need in the morning. Stayed up until 2:30am, chit chatting with friends, which made the 6:30am wake up hard. It was amazingly refreshing to walk out of the cabin, hair still damp from a shower, into the cool low 50s air, just beginning to see the tinges of crimsons and gold on the distant horizon. I walked over to the lookout over the lake and stared in awe at how magnificent the colors were, and how majestic the lake looked in the first throes of dawn. It was a different lake than the one that I had seen the night before under a setting sun, and eventually a star filled sky. As I said before, being near water is like going home to this daughter of a sailor. Closing my eyes and listening to the gentle lapping of water on the shore was an embrace I felt all weekend, as comforting to me as the hum of a lullaby.
I was the cook for the weekend meals, a role I was eager to take on; a glimpse into my former life where I fancied myself a cook on a farm. Some days that part of me seems so long gone, that I am sure it was just a pleasant dream.
The meals were simple, yet remembering the rules of my former boss Flava Flav, I didn’t allow anything to look less than its best going out of the kitchen. Tear. Flava Flav would have been proud in my self-created colorful bacon, mushroom, broccoli frittata; the way that the lunch trays glistened; my creamy red sauce over penne noodles; or the fluffy pancakes that could shame the Roadside café.
I spent a lot of the weekend (when I was not cooking) wandering around and reflecting on many things. I was able to walk the shoreline of Lake Huron with my jeans rolled up to my knees, and my shoes in hand. The cold water slapping over my feet, surging up past my ankles, and at times nearly as deep as my knees, was miraculous. Each rush of water seemed to draw something out of me, ensuring a sense of security in my surroundings, and a calm which I haven’t felt in a while. I was also able to get out my journal, and pen 7 pages of incomplete thoughts, details of life, and other ramblings queries. These are the moments that I am so happy to get, since lately it seems that all I write is something to be turned in for school.
The weekend ended, as weekends and good dates always do, too quickly. It was hard to clean up after breakfast on Sunday, mentally saying goodbye to the sight of an industrial sized kitchen where the instruments of the trade are as familiar to me as family, though I think I get along with the Hobart mixers and convection oven better. After I packed my car I wandered over for one last look of the lake. Life should be as simple as that, I thought: the sky above and the lake below.
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