Laundry at the Beach

We cleansed our condo. One of those cleanings, the ones that leave your home a fresh sanctuary and palate for life.

I was struck by a memory of my hard-working mom saying, “There are a few things I can do: the cleaning, the laundry, and the driving.” A woman of many skills, she said this often, because at least 4 loads of dirty laundry piled up every single day! Every day, every day. With 5 kids, it was never over, but she did it because, for life in the family to keep working, it needed doing.

I am not so gracious; I quickly become a vexed experts at the daily chores of my life, a begrudging master of the ordinary.

I read from a monk this week who understood that much of our lives are spent getting tasks out of the way in order to get to real life: enjoyment and peace.

Scrub the toilet so you can finally sink into your couch with a cup of tea.

Do the dishes so you can run out the door for a cocktail. Get through! Get 'er done!

However, if I harshly and spastically scrub the toilet, how will I suddenly calm down and onto this sacred place on the couch? This revered monastic said we will never find peace in that cup of tea if we don’t also find it in the simple, mundane duties of the day.

What a refreshed idea: to soak into our chores because they can be a spiritual and useful practice - a place to connect - instead of rushing frantically through to the other side. The chores are our lives; the mopping, dishes, laundry, garbage duty and re-organizing. There is so much that is unknown, uncertain, but you know that when you start with a mop and bucket you will walk away from a sparkling floor. Satisfaction. Job well done.

After hearing my mom talk about her daily cycles of cleaning and laundry for years – chores that are never done – I decided to make at least one of them a bit more enjoyable for her. I took a seashell from her favorite beach, put her grainy laundry detergent in a blown glass gar, and offered for her to visit the beach every time she walked to the washer. Dipping her shell into the sands, she provided clean clothes for her five children, and made an ordinary task a moment to enjoy.

(Flying a kite at the beach I mentioned, Oregon Coast, 2008)

For me, it was buying a cute pair of green rubber gloves.

What will make your daily tasks more enjoyable? Why not slow down a bit and make them a conscious, satisfying, slow part of your day?

(Skylark Cafe & Club)

One of my favorite little luxuries is live music, especially unexpectedly talented live musicians.

I happened upon an artist's myspace account the other day, and was completely mesmerized by the melodies and lyrics coming from my computer.

I laid down on the couch and listened to the whole EP.

Digging a bit, I found he was actually coming to a dive bar near me a day later. So, this past Sunday night, The Non-Scotsman and I ventured out like trolls to Skylark Cafe under the West Seattle bridge to hear James Coates, a local of the avoidable Sumner, Washington.

(My dad always told me the Rainer "R" stood for my name, Rachel. I still believe it.)

We walked into the near-empty bar to find a thick, curly-headed giant belting his heart out on stage. Between rustic harmonica arrangements, folk guitar, and a bloody piano smash, he kept me on the edge of my frayed and plastic seat for the whole 30 minutes set. His voice cascaded between lyrical gentility and raw, painful force. I was most impressed by the fact that he let the emotion WIN the struggle over perfection. He let his voice waver to show sadness, let the keys slide to the wrong note as if in trouble. I adored it because he loved performing it. There's nothing better than watching someone lay it all out there, exposed to the drunken old man in his fedora in the front row. Real life for real life.

Give it up for James Coates, everyone.

(James Coates at the Skylark Cafe & Club, 2010)

Go for the Dough

Sometimes you just love part of something. Not the whole thing, not the whole experience. You just love one little thing about it, and that is enough to make you come back for more.

I have had two of those experiences in the last 2 days. One was music, one was pizza.

I will share the music part tomorrow.

Today, we will discuss the pizza.

I determined that, after all the hype, I needed to try Delancey, the pizzeria darling of Seattle these days. (Rachael Ray even included it on her list of best pizza joints in the nation, and she claims to know her pizza.) I have perused the owners' blog, Orangette, for years and have made their "Big Bad Banana Bread" a few delicious times. This restaurant is the baby of a creative couple in love with food; why not try it?

Friends and I didn't go there for banana bread, though. We went for pizza - and pizza we had. Three of them.

I don't remember their names; something with mushrooms, something with house-made sausage, and something with pepperoni. I don't remember their names because none of the pizzas were unforgettable (which means they were forgettable, so I forgot). The sweetness of the tomato sauce on each did make me dream of summer, though.

What did strike me, with every bite, was the dough. Sensational dough! (I think the old advertising word, "sensational," needs a comeback, don't you?)

It was somehow crunchy and stretchy and light and dense all at the same time.

It retained it's texture from the outer regions to the center of its universe.

You know a restaurant by its basics, and if pizzas were to have a "basic" I think we can all agree it would be the dough. Delancey has that complex "basic" down pat. It is memorable, like a run-in with Lauryn Hill on the street is memorable.

So, you may not go here for the meats, the exquisite herbs or pungent cheeses, but go for the dough.

*On a side note, who can't help but love a restaurant that serves beverages in tiny bottles?