Saturday, July 16, 2011

Gardening in Seattle... The payoff, Chick week, Levying a tax for bad manners, "Being Seattle".

Jimmy was out of town last week working. It fell to me to meticulously guard  the garden.  I watched as the snow peas  became many  and heavy , the flowers on the squash became fruit,   and broccoli became dinner.  Our garden ceased to be a  lady in waiting and became a viable  and plentiful food source. When Jimmy got home last night we celebrated with  a simple dinner of grilled vegetables over rice.  Baby crook neck squash, carrots, broccoli, snow peas, onions and garlic, seasoned with  rosemary, thyme, tarragon, parsley, a teaspoon of apple cider vinegar and two teaspoons of olive  oil were  sauteed  on a  blistering hot flat iron and served over a bed of white rice.  We added a bottle of daily red  for the perfect  'everything from our garden ' meal.  We had to make it a gentle meal because Jimmy  had a case of  'road gut' going on.  A week of eating  catered and restaurant  food with whatever  oil complies with law and is cheapest  .... not good.  But he's back home with  butter and olive oil and   fresh  organic ingredients.
I turned my week at home alone into a  delightful chick week.  Time spent with the Good Typist and Feral Jane was refreshing and soul soothing.  An incident with the Good Typist  left no doubt in my  mind (if there ever was one) that the Good Typist is a poet  of the first order.  An incident  that I cant  give you all the details  about  was summed up by her in one  sentence  and will live on  in history.   What I can tell you is that the whole thing started  when  an over moneyed visiting  ex pat PARKED on top of   my  10 year old  beloved camry  and when I asked for her insurance info  she accused me of .......  (exact quote here)  "Being Seattle" and then drove off.    You can be sure the woman took one look at me in my  paint splattered jeans and  red wings and flannel shirt cum jacket, glanced at my favorite  beat up old car and assumed that I was poor and uneducated and would be powerless in the face of her designer arrogance  and self perceived social superiority.   Fast forward to 2 hours later, when  she was in near hysterics and completely confused.  She had no  clue  about what had just happened to her or how  she dropped from the top of  the food chain to the bottom in a matter of minutes.    At one point in the process she demanded to know if it was more important to me that she get a ticket or pay for the damages.  I kept my tongue firmly clamped between my teeth so I would neither laugh nor tell her the truth:   'My goal here is something you would never conceive lady.    My goal here is to teach you some manners and ruin your day in the process.    My goal is to sharpen my teeth on your over inflated sense of privilege.  My goal here is to show you that ostentatious displays of wealth and power mean nothing in this town where millionaires and billionaires  drive used  subarus and still wear the t-shirts they picked up at alternative rock concerts when they were in college. My goal here is to have a good story to tell  the next time I'm drinking homemade wine with my friends.  My goal here is to effortlessly   take one step more than you are able to keep up with.  My goal here is to make this so painful and frustrating for you, that when you get back to Argentina, you will pause and think before  you  pull out the nasty on some struggling  shop clerk, who is just trying to survive.  My goal here is to show you  just how expensive a %##t tax can get.'
I would like to acknowledge and thank the citizenry of Ballard for the back-up.
That was on Monday. The rest of the  week was all about girl gossip and playing with the chickens.