Gatherings and Glimmers
what to eat when democracy teeters
In a life imitating art moment, I’m ensconced on a beautiful piece of property at the wind sports haven, the Columbia River Gorge, with my husband and two other couples. For the second time, I am attempting to read Gary Shteyngart’s book, Our Country Friends, billed as one of the first pandemic novels of the 21st Century, which is also modeled after some Russian classics. In it, a Russian emigré couple and their adopted Chinese daughter form a pod with old friends, newer friends, and a temperamental, yet beautiful actor. There’s a lot of talking, a lot of reminiscing, and a lot of eating (plus some sex, not all of which includes the actor). One of the friends is a masterful chef and, supplied with ingredients from his anxious-to-please host, he prepares gourmet meals.
The friendships in our pod, which expands and contracts based on each night’s dinner guests, date back 60 years, 40 years, 30 years, 30 minutes. Though we have no temperamental actor to catalyze us (the wind does that), we are witnessing history in the making. So we prepare gourmet meals and then we eat, we drink, we reminisce, we dissect, we prognosticate.
It’s inevitable I guess that once you reach a certain age, you can’t help but think fondly of “the good old days,” and it’s comforting to be among friends who remember the words to the same classic tunes (which you can listen to on a Spotify playlist with a wireless speaker), the alfalfa sprout-laden sandwiches, and most of all, the feeling of post-Vietnam war hope. How did we fuck things up so badly we wonder, while acknowledging that there was more going on beneath the surface than we were aware of or acknowledged at the time. My friends who rely on data remind me that we are currently living in unprecedented times of innovation, increased life expectancy, global health, and so much more. That’s true. But as has been said many times before, what’s missing these days besides hope, is civility, a principled commitment to public service, reasoned discourse, and the façade of claiming to care about the greater good.
Summer vacations have their own kind of rhythm that includes playing hard all day amidst scenic beauty, eating festive communal meals, luxuriating with books, doing jigsaw puzzles. At the Gorge, most of us do yoga each morning, not for the spiritual enlightenment we may have sought in the ‘70s, but because like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, our aging joints require regular lubrication. We keep Ibuprofen and Voltaren handy.
Like last year, C makes sure we non-wingfoilers stay active and I am pleased that in its ninth month of breast cancer treatment, my body is up for the challenge, even in the extreme heat.
I hike, I bike, I paddle, I swim and, even though I crash sometimes after exertion, I am impressed with my level of activity. “Glimmers,” my physiatrist called this stage of feeling good about feeling good. And she reminded me to rest when I need to. Even my dog, who has congestive heart failure, gets in on the action. We rest together.
I made paella for our first big communal dinner, in a pan that was too small on an induction stove that was too fussy to cook evenly. It didn’t matter. Like those lasagne-fueled easygoing group potlucks of our college years, we had all sorts of offerings to take the edge off, including a cold pitcher of margaritas and two huge, bounty-laden salads that made me wistful for alfalfa sprouts.
But, as the week progressed, despite all the conviviality and activities, I couldn’t help myself. I checked the news each morning and evening and doomed-scrolled X to see what pundits were saying. I got tired of the term “inflection point,” but “vibe shift” didn’t seem to adequately capture the gravity of the moment.
We kept eating and drinking — tacos, and Cambodian baby back ribs, and Moscow mules, and gin or white port and tonics, and Greek orzo chicken with the biggest Greek salad I’ve ever seen, all with the backdrop of awe-inspiring sunsets. Our visitors for Greek night had fascinating and hopeful stories of life trajectories that spanned from being a childhood runaway who did a stint as a bricklayer before returning to college and later med school, to his wife’s experiences as a Vista volunteer. We also got a glimpse into what really happens at a Quaker meeting.
That’s the cool thing about aging. You get to witness stories unfold — not just your own, but other people’s too.
One day, we may be asking ourselves, Where were you the day someone tried to assassinate Trump? I was cooling off in the swimming pool with a Millennial and his Zillennial girlfriend. As a fellow-cusper (though I’m technically a late Baby Boomer, I identify as Generation Jones), I appreciated her takes on politics, online dating, and series worth binge-watching. Then, we raided the fridge for leftovers. The M/Zillennials didn’t seem to lack hope, but they definitely had an air of resignation. I wished my Gen Z daughter was around to remind us that the system needs to be rethought and remade.
One generation passes away, and another generation comes; But the earth abides forever. The sun also rises, and the sun goes down, And hastens to the place where it arose.
Ecclesiastes 1:4-11 and The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
Each year when we come here, I look forward to diving into one or more “Gorge books,” savoring uninterrupted reading time with engrossing novels. I read the Sun Also Rises many times before I ever came here and now I think I should bring it with me next time.
According to my Kindle, it’s only at the last 25 percent of the book that Our Country Friends took on some major (including one foreseeable) plot twists, accelerating the narrative so that memories came fast and furious and were interpreted in ways that redefined relationships and shaped the future. That’s what pissed me off about the book. The ending felt rushed and sometimes implausible. It did not rise to the level of a “Gorge book.”
Still, our final group dinner at the Gorge looked like something out of a Russian novel. To escape the heat of the deck, C and B moved the dining table down to the pool, where the receding daylight gave off a gorgeous golden glow. We feasted on the Famous Bombay Chili-and-Coriander Chicken that I have been making here for years. Always clever B regaled us with an A-I tune he commissioned to celebrate J.’s feat of achieving a record number of linked jibes while wingfoiling.
On the drive back to Seattle, J. and I listened to Trevor Noah’s podcast, What Now. Co-host Christiana Mbakwe Medina pointed out that American politics has become plot-driven. And with apologies to Gary Shteyngart, damned if not long after that there was a major, if foreseeable plot twist in the last 25 percent of the election story that has reimagined the way we think about the future of our country.
A few days ago, I watched a friend of mine, whose ambassadorial confirmation had been held up for two years by some craven politicians (including one currently in the spotlight) get sworn in as ambassador, taking the oath of public service that still means something to some people. I love that she was wearing a pantsuit.
I’m thinking about glimmers again and enjoying how good it feels to feel hopeful.
Some of the Best Things I Cooked on Vacation
Ginger, Garlic, and Honey Grilled Baby Back Ribs
Bademiya’s Justly Famous Bombay Chili-and-Coriander Chicken
J.and I have been coming to this property at the Columbia River Gorge for the past 23 years. What started as novelty has become tradition and there are certain things we always cook.
I found our recipe for Ginger, Garlic, and Honey Grilled Baby Back Ribs in Costco Connections magazine many years ago. This version is nearly identical. Note that you should plan on two racks of ribs, 2-2 1/2 lbs each.
Famous Bombay Chili and Coriander Chicken came from the NY Times, back when cilantro was referred to as coriander. The full name is Bademiya’s Justly Famous Bombay Chili-and-Coriander Chicken and you’ll find the recipe at the end of this article. Be sure to make the Coriander Sauce. I abandoned the tamarind sauce long ago, but my recollection is that it’s good. You can also find the recipe in the Essential New York Times Cookbook.
Mumbai’s Bademiya food stall apparently closed last year, after 75 years. I’m sorry I never visited it when I lived in that city.
So enjoyed this post and happy to be connected. The subtitle is what drew me. And held me.
I was so disappointed in the Shteyngart book. I enjoyed Super Sad True Love Story and Absurdistan, and had looked forward to reading it when it came out. So disappointing. Happy for your glimmers, though!