Open Letter

This probably should go on the Portland/Portland blog I share with Jake (yet to be viewed by eyes other than our own), but I figure Jake hasn't posted in it lately, and neither have I, so oh well.

This is also a brief "break" I'm taking on my NaNoWriMo project during the home stretch.

... and reading through it, it may as well be an advertisement for the Oregon Tourism Board along with a "get Jake to come to Portland" campaign from how many businesses I link.

As much as I complain about being cold, I have to admit that autumn is my favorite season. It's the perfect weather for leather jackets. I now have three thanks to my rather doting father. I have two short ones I bike to work in that just go to the waist: one in black and the other in a patchwork of browns and tans that is a bit more suede-y. Then there's my black leather trenchcoat. As much as I love strolling around the Southeast side, watching the leaves cascade to the ground and smiling at occasional passers-by, I enjoy it much more when in the black leather trenchcoat. Yes, I'm a dork, but I just can't help but feel completely badass while walking, hair blowing in the wind, but not feeling cold since the black leather shields me like armor.

I get home from work by bike, glad that it hadn't rained and extremely grateful for the driver who stopped on MLK, causing the other lanes of cars to follow suit while I made the crossing. The sun had set as I was biking down the Eastbank Esplanade. I like passing through the bronze archway and I usually say hello to Vera (or at least the bronze sculpture of her sitting by the Main Street turnoff, considering they named the Esplanade after her) as I cruise by.

It is dark and a slight wind had picked up. Still warm from biking uphill the rest of the way home from 12th street, I switch from my black short jacket to the trenchcoat, sort of like Mr. Rogers, but without the cozy cardigan. I grab an apple from the kitchen, rinse it off and depart once more. I have to pick up some things at the produce tent on 23rd and Hawthorne to prepare for dinner Friday night (post-Thanksgiving). In particular, acorn squash and the brussels sprouts still on the stalk that I had been curious about the last time I had been to the produce tent, a couple of days ago when I got the apples. My squash stuffed with succotash experiment (lima beans, corn, sweet potatoes and spicy fake sausage) seemed to have worked out, so I figured it would make for a nice offering for our post-Thanksgiving potluck.

My boots feel much heavier as I walk on the ground than on my bike. For some reason, I'm much more comfortable on the bike with heavy shoes than my usual light pair of chucks. I crunch into the apple after locking the door. It is sweet with a bit of bite to it. My lips automatically press together, sinking my cheeks inward. I can barely hear anything over the chomping sounds, bits of apple grinding against my back teeth before I swallow. Tart juice runs down my throat and stinging my slightly chapped lips each time I bite into the apple.

I cross the intersection at 18th and Madison diagonally, perfectly in line with my theory of pythagorean walking. Even though I wasn't that hungry when I got home, I take large, gouging bites out of the apple. When I had pulled it out of the paper bag on the kitchen table, it was probably one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It was round, flat at the top, tapering to the bottom. The mottled red and green shone even in my dim kitchen light. Then again, it was probably just as beautiful when I was rummaging through the basket of honeycrisp apples in the produce tent, checking each apple for bruises or spots, occasionally smelling them. I remember when I had been walking home from the store hugging my reusable bag out of the risk the straps would rip from their seams due to the weight. The paper bag of apples sat on top, right against my nose and I could smell their sweetness.

My boots make whispering sounds as I shuffle my feet through the yellow leaves on the ground. The leaves seem to follow me once I get to a clear patch of sidewalk. A block later, I try to stay out of the way of the lady raking her yard, stuffing rake-fuls of leaves into a tall brown paper bag. It was around here that I thought about how much I wanted to share this all with you, the taste of the apple, the pavement beneath my boots, that somehow I should write this all down or tell you about it the next time you're online. So, I did.

I figure it's the next best thing to actually having you around.

At 20th, I turn for Hawthorne. I usually take Madison to avoid the noise of traffic, but the lights draw me out. I wait to cross in front of the CineMagic and Coventry Cycle Works. The new James Bond movie's playing, but I wasn't too keen on seeing it. Also, the guys at Coventry managed to save my precious bicycle twice when I managed to mess up the shifter cable and when I somehow screwed my new pedals onto the crankshaft wrong, resulting in the threading getting completely fracked up (not to mention the steel from the new pedal sort of cut through the aluminum crank as if it were made out of cheese).

The little white man in the walk signal flashes on. I wait for a bicyclist to turn, but it seems like they're going to just go straight and pass me. There's some construction going on where a huge church used to be. Someone had written in sharpie "Ask about affordable housing" on the "For Rent" sign. Large tarps flap in the wind as I pass. Nearby a set of condos loom, slightly taller than the surrounding houses down the block. I casually toss the core of my apple into their bushes. It's biodegradable, so I don't really consider it littering. I lick the remaining drops of juice off the palm of my hand, but it still remains slightly sticky. A block later, there is broken glass all over the sidewalk. It glitters, menacing, like a false reflection of the night stars. A girl cautiously passes me on her bicycle and I almost instinctively shout to her, advising she should check her tires when she gets back to make sure none of the glass got embedded in it (yeah, that's another way I fracked up my bike), but I don't. She probably knew that anyway.

I soon pass the Bakery. A woman passes by me in a long black wool coat, munching on something in their familiar wax paper. It might have been a scone or a croissant or even one of their cinnamon rolls. The apple was gone, but not forgotten enough to the point where I would feel like noshing again. I remember many a time I had walked home from the bakery with the original intent of just picking up a como loaf and ended up picking up something sweet or buttery as a snack, tearing into it as I walked back home, not in the least bit self-conscious that I was getting frosting on my face or crumbs all over my chest. I couldn't help but almost relive that sort of simple enjoyment after watching that woman bite into whatever was concealed in that wax paper.

Then I think about when I was searching online for things about Cannon Beach. Apparently, there's a Cannon Beach Bakery that makes a signature bread called the Haystack loaf. It was modeled after Haystack Rock. If you come out here for a visit, I might rent out a zipcar and drive you up there. I hear there's a good plenty of hiking spots and getting you here might give me an excuse to finally get a decent pair of hiking shoes and get some proper use out of them.

Across from the bakery, my destination. A good number of people trickle in and out, picking up supplies for Thanksgiving dinner. I saw a lady carry out a rather large bag of chestnuts. I said hi to a friend of a friend who lived in the building next to my old apartment. He waved, gathered his change and produce from the clerk and left.

There were only a few acorn squash left, but I made sure to pick a couple of small ones along with a different squash for good measure. It was small and orange, like a pumpkin, but smoother and without the ridges. Apparently it had "the distinct taste of chestnuts," so that piqued my curiosity. At 89 cents a pound, it didn't hurt to be curious. Then I fingered through the standing stalks of brussels sprouts. They were more or less identical in greenness, but I ended up picking one that had an additional partial branch off from the bottom, picking another one that did not have additional branches, then going back to the original one anyway. In a brown envelope were printed recipes for grilling them. I probably should have picked up the recipe for the strange new squash I picked up, but I figure all else fails, cutting it in half, putting a bit of olive oil on it and popping it in the oven at 350 degrees for about an hour should work well enough.

I linger a bit, even though I don't really need much else, since there's a line at both check stands. I pick up a couple of sweet potatoes for good measure (yay sweet potato fries!). As I wait in line, someone stocking fruit behind me points to the other check stand, letting me know that I can go there. The guy behind the counter comments that I made it easy for him since everything I picked (except for the brussels sprouts stalk, which was $1.99) was the same price per pound. I hadn't realized that, but that was pretty awesome.

The stalk is a bit awkward in my bag, so I end up holding it in one hand, leaning into my shoulder like I'm holding a rifle. I walk home with the thought, "I'm safe. Should anyone attack me for whatever reason, I am armed with brussels sprouts." I also muse that I'm pretty much preparing a good amount of post-Thanksgiving dinner food for at least four people for less than $10.00. Although, to be fair, it is a potluck.

Of course, no one attacks me, or even gives me a peculiar look for carrying a stalk of brussels sprouts with pride. When I get home, that's pretty much right about the time you came in to read this.

For all I know, this just bored you out of your mind. I know that in all truth, it is just a mundane exercise, going out and picking up food, coming home from work. For some reason, I can't help but dwell on it sometimes, the fact that the actions, while similar, are never exactly the same twice.