Midsummer

It's the middle of summer and all is green 

the mosses are fat, the mergansers preen

I've braised chicken thighs about fifteen times 

I've hiked on the weekends and banged up my knees,

indulged in fine pastries and slabs of French cheese

I've paddled the lake when the wind will allow

and sometimes stay up late to gaze at how

the midnight sun sets in a grandeur of gold

and the flowers bloom boldly without getting cold

you can't see the stars as it doesn't get dark

-- for a few weeks yet, anyway --

we'll dance and joke and party and lark

'til we get to closing day 

It's been a rainy/overcast summer, but when we get a sunset it's usually pretty good.

shy damsels, I believe

camp spot, Grace Ridge

As the lake level rises (melting snow and glacier), the shoreline disappears and plants are submerged.

Carrot cake!

Luke atop blustery Grace Ridge

Tonsina Creek, Resurrection Bay 

Ante Antsy

I've been sitting here in my tent trying to come up with a compelling passage about character traits, how strengths bend back upon themselves into weaknesses.  I wanted to segue from a consideration of how Odysseus's wily cleverness curdles into hubris -- his tragic flaw that sets into motion so much adventure and calamity.  At times, adrift in the wine-dark uncertainty of dinner prep, I find myself spurred on and hindered by an innate sense of urgency.

The articulation of this phrase (and how true it rang) in culinary school was akin to finally receiving a diagnosis for a mysterious chronic condition.  Not an entirely threatening one, mind, maybe something like hyper-flexible joints that can benefit you as a gymnast but also can be arthritic.  Anyway, my default setting for "sense of urgency" is, like, 8 out of 10 for basically everything.  Which is a boon and a curse in the kitchen, and life.

I wish I didn't get so wound-up making vinaigrette for a bunch of rich people on vacation, but it is what it is.  It *is* gratifying when my favorite guide thanks me for an on-point meal and relays the (surely figurative) compliment: "They creamed their jeans over the pretzel rolls."

Long weekends are good.  I take a break from moodily pacing around the cellar, glowering at swiftly molding vegetables, despairingly brainstorming notes on scraps of paper such as: "hide in ratatouille," "smother into submission," and "pacify with mayo."  On weekends, I hike and take pictures of flowers.

Yes, I got ruffled feathers about starting the drive early and getting up trail in timely fashion to enjoy three-kinds-of-cheese-mac-and-cheez at a reasonable hour.  But I relaxed into the mountains upon meeting another guardian marmot at the alpine hut.  I yielded to the unassuming but human-swallowing 8-ft-deep cloak of snow that persists atop the foothills and tongue of Mint Glacier.  No amount of urgency can rush the flowers; they bloom at the right time.

Mint Hut + marmot

yellow guys!

Luke on blessedly solid ground after we floundered up to our waists in snow headed up the ridge

little guys!

some pound cake with RASPberry sauce and RASPberries and fried rosemary