Chapter Nine
Mimi had the pool put in the summer George and I were nine, and in true Mimi fashion, she spared no expense.
It’s in-ground and lined with tiny blue and white mosaic tiles.
There’s a diving board at one end and a row of lion-head fountains along one length.
I take off my T-shirt and walk to the edge of the board, then dive in.
George and I spent untold hours swimming here, racing through the water, playing Marco Polo with my brothers, drinking grape pop, and slurping Popsicles. I can almost see our wet footprints on the patio stone and hear the shouts of “Fishy out of water!”
Our birthdays fall early in September, and for our twelfth, we had a joint pool party. It was such a hit with our friends, it turned into an annual tradition. The last big social event of the summer was George and Frankie’s birthday bash at the Big House. This pool has seen a lot.
But I don’t have gills like I once did. After a few laps, I dry off, spread out on a lounger, and pull a cookbook out of my canvas tote.
It’s Michael Smith’s Farm, Fire & Feast: Recipes from the Inn at Bay Fortune.
The photography—both of the food and of Prince Edward Island—is stunning.
The recipes are from the heart. Personal and deeply connected to the seventy-five acres of PEI upon which the inn and its organic farm sit.
A familiar envious hum vibrates in my chest.
I kept a punishing schedule as a chef, and aside from a four-week stage at a restaurant in Barcelona and a couple of all-inclusive trips to Mexico and Costa Rica, I haven’t traveled as much as I dreamed I would.
While George’s assignments let him explore the world, cookbooks became my passport.
In my early twenties, before I was overwhelmed and worn down by work, I read them compulsively.
When I was too wired after a shift to sleep, I traveled to eastern Africa with Hawa Hassan and Julia Turshen’s In Bibi’s Kitchen.
On Saturday mornings before I headed in for prep, I’d ride my bike to the Evergreen Brick Works farmers market to wander the stalls.
I’d buy a paper cone of herb-flecked french fries for breakfast and find a bench to travel to Southeast Asia in Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid’s Hot, Sour, Salty, Sweet.
When I was envying George’s monthlong stint in Norway, I learned about its culinary traditions in Nevada Berg’s North Wild Kitchen.
My favorite cookbooks are just as much about food as they are about place, but it’s been a long time since I curled up with one. As I flip through the pages, I feel that little flutter of yearning again.
Ignoring it, I take a photo of my feet and the turquoise water beyond and another of the view. Mimi has a sprawling property—an open field lined with trees at the far end, where the creek runs. I send them both to Aurora.
Me: Who needs Tofino?
Aurora: Damn. That really IS gorgeous.
I couldn’t see it when I was a young girl, dreaming of adventures far away from here.
But every change in season breathes new life into Old Stone Road’s nearby forests, marshland, and lakes.
I don’t share my mom’s and George’s reverence for nature, but even I marvel at the magnificent display of autumn leaves—the red, rust, and gold bright against evergreen boughs and crisp blue skies.
I can appreciate how otherworldly our field looks after a night of heavy snow—an uncreased blanket twinkling under the watery winter sun.
I like it when the nights are cold and the days are warm and the maple trees run with sap.
The smoky-sweet smell of a sugar shack is close to divine.
I love the big melt in the spring. The way the creek trickles one day and then rushes with water the next. I like the fragrance of lilacs and orange blossoms, and the chirps of baby birds in their nests.
And then there’s summer, now well underway. The days are as expansive as the sky, stretching languorously into evenings of marvelous sunsets and moody dusks. There is constant activity in the field—grasshoppers, crickets, and fireflies working in shifts.
It’s a quieter landscape than Vancouver Island’s dramatic beaches and rainforests, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.
I’ve never been to Tofino, but Nate visited once and said he couldn’t imagine a more romantic place in the world.
He booked us a villa at a luxury resort, but otherwise, we’d made no plans.
I figured we’d mostly eat and stay in bed.
Maybe take a walk between meals. I thought I’d make dinner a few nights.
Explore local markets. Experiment with different flavors.
It strikes me that although I’ve spent plenty of time wondering what went wrong in our relationship, I’ve stopped dwelling in the memories. I thought today might stir up some longing, but the twelve months I had with Nate seem like someone else’s life now.
Maybe that’s because I was someone else when I was with Nate.
I had spent my twenties climbing my way up to sous chef at one of the city’s most prestigious restaurants.
Night after night, I performed under extraordinary pressure to exacting standards.
I was on a roll. I was on fire. I survived on adrenaline and two a.m. ramen.
I chose romantic relationships that were casual and demanded very little of me so I could save my energy for what mattered: success.
I stopped dreaming of faraway places. I no longer had time for reading cookbooks or browsing farmers markets. Work became the adventure.
But in the end, I crashed and burned. All it took was one terrible customer to push me over the edge.
He’d brought a server to tears, berating her for an overcooked steak.
I’d walked into the dining room, slapped a raw sirloin on his plate, and before he could react, I strode back into the kitchen and quit.
When Nate came along, I wanted nothing to do with the stressed-out, fire-breathing person I’d become.
For the year we were together, I was a new Frankie.
Adventure was the last thing on my mind.
I needed to recharge. I needed a life outside of a career.
I craved calm. I let go of the things that bothered me in our relationship. I wanted peace.
Now, there’s nothing but peace. Reasonable work hours. Slow-cooker recipes without sizzle or flame. The days bleed together, and I feel like I’m eight years old again, desperate for something, anything, to happen. I want adventure. I want excitement.
I slip on my sunglasses and close my eyes, imagining I’m fourteen and that George is inside getting us grape Crush. Summer stretches before us, glittering with possible escapades, and my biggest problem is squeezing them all in before August comes to an end.
I must dream it, too, because I hear the snap-hiss of a soda can being opened, followed by a familiar low laugh.