The Kind of Woman Who Licks the Spatula

On borrowed dogs, hugs denied and hundred-foot cliffs.

Me and Willie, January 2024, Half Moon Bay, CA

I have a favorite beach on the coast of Northern California, just south of Half Moon Bay. It's tucked down a long dirt road that used to bounce along between fields, but they put up houses some years ago. One rancher held on to a bit of it, so you come out of a dip in the road to open land on either side and then the one-lane track ends and it's just you, the edge of the world and the expanse of sky.

You can't see the ocean until you get out and walk to the edge of the 100-foot cliffs, and I like to imagine this place hundreds of years ago before people and cars. 

I pulled into the muddy and potholed clearing that is the parking lot, and that's when I met Kevin and Willie. Willie almost jumped in my car, so I considered us friends, and Kevin offered to show me an easier way to get to the sand. Days of recent rain had made my normal cliff hike down to the beach harder than usual - when wet this ground turns to a slickery clay. The arroyo, he called it. I've been to this beach 500 times, maybe more, and I have only ever climbed down and back up one way. On the steep path that takes my breath away and leaves me at the bottom in awe.

But it was late, late afternoon, I'd slid down my trail the day before, coating my boots and hands in mud, and was ready for something easier. Kevin led me easily to the sand and invited me to walk with them. I'm usually a solo girl at the beach, I like to think and pretend my dog, Caly, is still here at this sacred place of ours with me.

Kevin had a nice smile and Willie was mostly my dog now, so I stuck with them. We walked and talked of the sand, the waves, the undertow, how often we get to this particular beach. In tandem we scanned for sea glass, Kevin giving me a small piece because I don't live there anymore. As we walked and threw Willie's stick, I found a cache of glass fragments the size of my hand. Kevin was impressed. I offered his shard back. He laughed.

The things I carried back from that day sit on a dinner plate on my countertop. It's not how I want to display this piece of my heart, but it's the best I can do for now and I am unwilling to put the sand, the feather, the glass and the crab carapace away until I find the right way. Sometimes what is, is good enough. 

I bought chicken livers the other day at the farmer's market. I almost didn't want to tell you, because people judge people who eat chicken livers. Don't deny me this truth. I've seen it happen. My mother makes them in a way where they melt in your mouth. I have not mastered this, maybe never will, but I found a recipe for paté that delights.

Also, I am supposed to eat organ meat. Something about not eating enough for too many years and bone density. So, paté. I rarely go to the trouble, because while baking is a communion with the Divine, cooking real food is a chore. I am always wishing to be doing something else while cooking. And today, I was already off my game. I almost dropped my plate full of sand and beach detritus as I moved it out of the way, and I did drop the jar I needed for the finished paté. It shattered into all the corners of the kitchen, all the way to the pantry and out to the wall behind the table. 

We have a kindness in our house, which started with my Before Husband. If someone spills something and the other person is around, they come clean it up. Nurturing in action. My Now Husband heard the crash, or maybe it was all the f***s. Maybe both. Either way, he came down in his sock feet and cleaned up the mess for me. He offered me hugs as well, but when I am feeling angry at myself, it is almost impossible for me to accept love. Being the Most Patient Human, he offers every time. Once, I gave in and it was wonderful. It felt like being safe. Safe from the world, safe from myself. Maybe I can remember that next time he offers. But not this morning.

Then I spilled my tea. I read the recipe wrong and had to start over from halfway through. I sprayed water all over myself and the floor. Do you see? 

But here's where I know something has shifted in all the work I've done over the last 13 years, since I left Before Husband in bed on a Saturday morning, blindsided. 

Instead of throwing the paté out, (the voice in my head screaming if you can't get it right you can't have it at all.)  Instead of watching myself ruin it with water – I hovered there, blender in my left hand, faucet handle in my right. Instead of punishing myself, I walked away for a bit. Went outside into the sunshine. Let a dog jump up for pets. Said hello to a stranger. Listened to the ducks quack and tried to feel grateful. Sometimes it takes longer than others. I sat for nearly 40 minutes. 

When I was 10, my father locked me out of the house one day when I got home from school because I'd forgotten my key. Because I'd interrupted him. Made him come out of his office to open the door for me. He wanted to teach me a lesson about making mistakes, about forgetting and how you must pay when you ruin someone else's day. I don't remember the particulars of this incident, but it hurts my heart to think of that ten-year old girl knowing how angry her dad would be, but knocking on the door anyway. Because this is home and she wants to be let inside. Relieved and grateful but also scared to hear his footsteps coming to the door, not sure he would. But then the hatred on his face, the rageful explosion of words. I wonder if she tried to sneak past him? Did she feel the warmth from inside pour out towards her? Did she dare to hope he would just open the door? Did she cry? Beg him to let her in? Apologize and say she'd never do it again? What did she think about on that step for hours until her mother got home from work and pulled into the drive, headlights on? Why didn't she go somewhere? Over to a friend's house? Say she forgot her key? Because they all knew her dad was home. Shame as co-conspirator to disappearing oneself.

So I let the paté just sit. I did not throw it away or ruin it. I left it in the blender on the counter for two hours while I did other things around the house. And then I made some toast from the fresh loaf of rosemary sourdough we bought yesterday morning. I spread some paté on it. I put on a jacket, carried my toast outside to sit in the sun and took my first bite, then my second. I came back in and licked the spatula.