Where to begin. So much and not enough time as I said in my last post. In fact my desk is still a lovely mess, the sourdough starter hasn’t moved an inch on the counter and yet is now awaiting its first feeding (twice daily for 2 more weeks), the Italian prunes (plums) still shriveling in their bowl on the table. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to some of that today. But first, onto writing. I heard another brief interview with Michael Chabon and he talked about his 1000 words, how just like packing his kids lunches and getting them out the door each morning, that writing is something he has to do and the satisfaction he derives from both is the same. It is also necessary. So, I’m working on that. Bear with me and stay connected, I’m relying on you.

It is cold and gray this morning, not a hint of blue skies with a storm looming in the forecast. Just the right kind of day for not going anywhere and not trying to do anything much more than rooting oneself inside–cooking, baking, sorting, making–all that I love to do and so ingrained in my gestalt.  It’s also not a school day, so there is no rush out the door with barely a sock on, cup of coffee only half drunk; no worry about time in that kind of way.

My daughter in fact is already at the park, babysitting, and texting me, if you can believe it, and this is what she says: “Can you bring me a double, non-fat Chai from Peets and something to eat? It’s cold and I’m hungry.” Only this generation, or only my daughter. And I will, because I can and sometimes, not always, I’m that kind of mom and it is cold and yes, I’m shaking my head too. Oh well. It’s one way of staying connected to her, being in each other’s good graces.

And my son, who might typically be burrowed under the covers with a good book on a day like this, surprised me by taking the train north to see his older brothers. It felt a little surreal saying goodbye to him at the station yesterday, even if it is only for a couple of days, or rather as he says: “For as long as I want.” No doubt a harbinger of what is to become a normal routine in our relationship. Me here and him there, wherever his life leads. And that in itself is strange and curious and to be expected.

That brings me to my own path and the sweet spot of my story, in fact where all this story-telling really began for me, and the title of this post. It was at Henry Miller’s by then run-down house on top of Partington Ridge in Big Sur–where he raised two of his kids and and I briefly raised mine–that I had my first brush with a quince tree and its fragrant fruit, and around his hefty hand-hewn redwood table where I first began to scribble my thoughts, put words down on paper, and begin to seriously think and question its process. Could I be, and how do I go about it?

My kids were just 3 and 5 at the time, sleeping in a bunker-like room painted a sunny yellow by an old curmudgeon of an artist that lived at the top of the hill in a pocket-book sized shed. He was a talented but mysterious painter and lived somewhat of a cobbled life, ravaged by personal loss and age. At one time it was said he and his wife baked bread on that same spot and sold it up and down the coast to make their living; this was many years earlier and long before she left with his children. We befriended each other, perhaps out of necessity or shared concerns; he would paint and do other odd jobs and I would make him meals. It was an ideal exchange for as long as it lasted. Once he showed up at my door with a painting under his arm–a festive dinner scene–I gave him a jar of my quince jelly.

I have a dozen or so quince on my table right now, given to me by a friend, who was given them by a neighbor, and can’t help but think back to that magical year living in Miller’s house, to the old gnarled tree that gave me one of my first lessons in food history and jelly making; to the unlikely view that on a good day Miller likened the blue of the sea as rivaling that of the sky; to the meals I made and shared around his table with friends, the gleaming jars of rose-colored quince stacked against the bright orange windowsill; to my children’s fanciful games in the overgrown garden next to the ramshackle bathhouse, the mosaicked pathways and hidden treasures tucked throughout the property; my own story and how I got there and to where I am today.

It wasn’t that life was so perfect then, in fact it was an excruciating time for me in many ways, but something about the connection to the land, Miller’s own insistence on writing out and into our lives, and the fellowship of my neighbors and friends that kept us going, made it the sweet memory that it is.

Look for my quince jelly recipe next.