Possibly the best sandwich known to man.

Dear America,

Last week, I found myself in need of a 'main dish' to bring to a pot luck. I also found myself in need of something that would not require me to apply heat to food, since it's hot, America, it's hot, still, as it is still summertime, despite the fact that the community college teachers are back to work, the swimming pools are about the close, the days of perfect tomatoes and corn and peaches are, while upon us, numbered. Summer is almost over--kind of already is over--and yet it is still hot. Not that I'm whining. At least, I'm not whining more than I usually whine. Although really, who can verify that? What are the metrics? I ask you.

I considered my main dish options. Is tabbouleh a main dish? Is fattoush? They would be at my house. But I feared that, for purposes of the pot luck, they would be considered salads, because, in fact, they are salads. I was just about to venture down the road of the salad-main dish, prepared to make my argument (because that's a time-honored tradition at pot lucks, right? arguing over whether something is categorically a main dish or a salad or a side or an adornment or a garnish or whatever?) that a salad can be a main dish. But then, the idea of sandwiches came upon me and the debate was transformed.

Sandwiches, America, are a main dish. I submit to you the hamburger: clearly an item that is central to a plate. Accompanied, perhaps, by potato salad, or potato chips, or french fried potatoes--something something potato, in other words--and perhaps a pickle, and maybe adornments such as a sliced tomato or a leaf of lettuce or perhaps a slice of cheese. A hamburger is a sandwich, ergo a sandwich is a main dish.

Obviously, I would not be schlepping hamburgers in a  covered dish to a pot luck. But I could, perhaps, make the kind of sandwich that is built upon the baguette, and sliced into sections, a classic dish for a French picnic, such as Pan Bagnat, aka the Nicoise Sandwich, aka the French Fancy Tuna Sandwich of Glory. Also: a caprese sandwich. So two baguettes' worth of main dish sandwichery.

The pan bagnat is a wonderful thing. I had never made one before but I had a memory of a vegetarian version from the first The Vegetarian Epicure. Basically it involved stuffing a bunch of delicious stuff into the halves of a baguette with loads of olive oil, then pressing the sandwich firmly so that the stuff and the bread became intimately acquainted and not too fall-y apart-y. (That's a pipe dream, by the way, but anyway:). I Googled (as you do) 'Nicoise Sandwich,' the sandwich of the Niceans, hahaha, no: the southern French people who live in Nice, and found a glory of a recipe.

Dramatic reenactment of my sandwich

It was not so tidy as this one, but it 

also was juicier. I'm surmising.

One key factor: oil. All the oil. The bread will be madly oily and everything else with it: oily, too. That's a great thing, since oil carries the flavor and brings the bread into discourse with its destiny, which is to absorb and be the vehicle for all the sandwich's goodness.

So: the goodness: you take two kinds of onion, super thinly sliced, then add salt and pepper and olive oil and vinegar to it, and then you squish all of it together with your hands. For five minutes. Per the instructions: 'Do not rush this part.' Yes, I got all meditative with the onions, the oil, the salt, the pepper, the vinegar whilst all of it moved through my fingers and around the bowl.

A million minutes, or five, I guess, later, you take the oil-packed tuna--do not substitute your sad water-packed tuna!--and mix that into the whole situation, along with a squeeze of lemon juice, since lemon juice makes everything monumentally better.

Let me tell you, America, that tuna-onion-oil plus flavorings was already happening, as in, you'd want to eat it straight from the bowl. But wait: it gets better.

You sliced the baguette lengthwise. You open it up. You layer leaves of lettuce on one side, then slice tomatoes on top of that. It helps a lot if the tomatoes are amazing, as in, you picked them from your own vines or you bought them from the farmers market that very morning. The latter was the case for me. Then, you spread the tuna-onion situation on the tomatoes--by 'spread,' I mean 'dollop and gingerly edge outward'--and top that with: (a) slices of freshly hard boiled egg, (b) a strewing of sliced scallion, and (c) slices of radish.

If you happen to have Nicoise olives, you can also strew these. The recipe says that the olives can be 'pitted or not.' Hey, Nicoisians: I submit to you that an olive pit is not a nice addition to a sandwich. As I did not have Nicoise olives, I used a lovely olive tapenade, and spread it on the other length of baguette. Then, I put the olive-y baguette half on the tuna half, carefully, and wrapped the whole shebang in waxed paper and foil so that it could consult its own soul in a private hour, aka marinate in its own juices.

When I unwrapped this sandwich at the potluck to the tune of a great swarming of yellow jackets--yet another of the glories of summer--it was perfectly delicious and fresh tasting. Because it's supposed to marinate, it also can keep for a couple of days if you pack it and keep it cold. In fact, I just ate the last of this sandwich for my own workaday lunch, and it was still splendid.

Sandwiches, America! I salute them at the end of a summer and recommend this one to you, along with good wishes that the last ears of corn you buy be sweet, that your tomatoes be juicy, and that the remaining watermelons of August open with a promising crack.

htms

Letter to the end of summer.

Dear end of summer,

I know you're not here yet, not quite. Today, there was a family celebration held under a spreading catalpa tree, with blankets on the grass and food under the patio shelter and everyone lingering despite the fact that it was noon, and then past noon. There was an afternoon catnap at five. There was an ice cream social in our friends' back yard, with children's ice cream cones melting in their hands and everyone chatting as the sun went down, the trees marking our horizon glittering with the falling light, the air cooling, the party lights coming on. Summer. We're still in it.

I suppose, though, that the relevant fact of August means that we must look out for you, as inexorable as the weeks passing, the now noticeable every day minutes-earlier sunset, the way that even the warmest afternoons now predict that they are numbered. That soon enough, we'll be remembering them, coming home from work at dusk, snugging up inside as the evenings get cold.

A friend noted, recently, that summer had gone by too quickly, which she could tell by the fact that they hadn't even finished one jar of mayonnaise. I replied It's not over yet! And I meant it, and mean it now. It's not over, but over it will be, and soon enough. And the fact of its immanent end adds sweetness to every last moment: to the ceiling fan ticking over our sleep. To the flowers that have sturdied and kept blooming in the yard even under the sternest sun. To our evening walks with the dog. To our plans, and how they seem so much more finite now. To the harvest which has not yet reached its peak, though soon enough it will.

End of summer, I hope you will keep your coming steady. I hope you will not rush. Be gentle, end of summer. I want to mark, record, enjoy every moment still left.

htms

Notes from underground.

It's August. Even though I think of August--always have--as still high summer, you can see the end in sight. I have made a note on my little calendar, counting down to school, that says, "*start preparing." That note is more than a week away. School starting is two weeks away. I am putting things off. I am trying to make these days last.

I have, without exactly saying so, made quiet the object of my seeking. Without exactly acknowledging it, I have been unfolding, letting my mind wander. I think that's what the morning out in the backyard is about. This morning I listened to the traffic beyond the field, and a rooster that was crowing rather late, and the breeze, and the wind chimes. That's noise, but it didn't feel noisy. It felt still. Whatever business it contained was far away from me.

My son, the youngest, is leaving for China in a few weeks. "Twenty days," he says, precisely. He'll be there a year, and maybe longer. Without making a big deal about it, I want to be around to help with whatever would be helpful, but also just to appreciate the house, our household, with him in it. The flux of his friends coming and going. The chance to go to a movie or eat something together. I felt the same way about my older son moving to Tempe for grad school. Not that I was crucial to any part of their plans, but I wanted to be there to help, and to have the occasions to be with them. I count it one of the best parts of this summer that I could go with them to Arizona, to help get them moved in and to see their new place, the start of their new life. How lucky that was, to be able to do that.

When I think of this summer, I will remember that we went to Scotland and spent two wonderful weeks there. This is the summer I listened to Daft Punk almost all summer, on and off, in Scotland and England, here and in Arizona. This is the summer I visited my oldest friend in Sonoma County. This is the summer I drove to Arizona with my son and his family and my youngest son as well. This is the summer I watched The Killing and Top of the Lake and Justified. This is the summer I read The Woman Upstairs and Ender's Game. This is the summer I spent time with most of my children and grandchildren. This summer, I spent time with my friends, did some writing, kept quiet time nearly every day.

Between now and when I go back to work, I hope to work on my second manuscript, write a poem or two, and make a couple of video projects. I want to buy and eat more watermelons. I have been eating the most wonderful strawberries from the farmer's market--I hope there are more of those. I want to make a pie, and preferably more than one pie. I hope to sit on my porch every morning and dream a little. I like spending time watching Justified with the historian, and I hope to do more of that. I don't see any reason not to think of these last summer days as infinitely elastic: I want them to extend and expand to contain all the beautiful morning and evening light, the little gray bird that landed on a branch of the cherry tree this morning, the wind sifting in the chimes, the drift of my thought, the culmination of my efforts, and the steady hand of quiet that has sustained and held me all these weeks.

Summer vampire.

(not) Counting down.

The other day, driving home from the movies:

Me: ...and I just hate thinking in actual, concrete, numerical terms about things, even when those terms are realistic. Like when you say, "You still have six weeks left of summer!"--and I know, there aren't six weeks left, not even close to six weeks--thinking that way just drives me crazy, because it feels like things are shutting down. And I hate that feeling! I would totally rather lie to myself, and say, like, I still have half the summer left! or a lot of the summer left! because it makes me feel like things are still possible. Even when it's not true.

Historian: (drives. He already knows this about me. He is a concrete thinker. He is a realist. It is good for a person like me to have a person like him--in a word, him--around.)

Me: ...I don't necessarily think everyone feels that strongly about it, though.

Historian: (pauses) ...no, maybe not.

Despite my strong commitment to fantasy-calendaring, I am getting real with myself. I am thinking not in terms of weeks but parts of weeks, for cramming in the stuff I want to do before I need to get even more real with myself, and start preparing for classes.

Today was a good day. It was a quiet day. I gathered my wits. I took a bike ride in the morning and then I worked on my photo essay. I thought about the things I want to do over the next fractions of weeks. I tried to get a big picture of my day-to-day, so events won't sneak up on me and give me a rude surprise.

We are putting bags of stuff on our curb tomorrow for a charity pick-up. At the store, I bought cherries and stuff for granola and carrots and Izzys. I mailed a package. I washed the sheets and the duvet cover put them back on the bed. My granddaughter called from Scotland to chat. I worked on my photo essay some more. Tomorrow is a deadline day. Another quiet day, a day on which I will get some stuff done, yo.

In other news:

The historian: Did you know they used to have poetry readings at the Olympics? Not just at the ancient Greek games, but back when they started the Olympics up again, up into the 1940s.

Me: Well, if I were in the Olympics, the best I would do is semi-finalist or finalist. I would never win.

(Whiny, right? But the good news is, the revision and re-titling of my manuscript I did in the spring has paid off, in that this manuscript is now getting a lot of semi-finalist/finalist action. Not actually winning, but closer.)

...and lastly, today nouvelle vague filmmaker Chris Marker died. I already posted this on Facebook, but if you have never taken a half hour to watch La Jetee, I highly recommend that you do. You can watch it here.

A handful of decisions.

1. Some of my shorter skirts may be a bit too short. Alas. *

2. Purple faux suede shoes? Brown brogue-ish heels? Endless pairs of slightly uncomfortable ballet flats? Gone.**

3. I am willing to pay money for someone to make my window wells less dungeon-y.***

4. New dishwasher? New swamp cooler? Completely worth the money.

5. When you're feeling a little bit bereaved, it is completely okay to do whatever you want, as long as it's summer and you're pretty much letting no one down.****

*I can feel myself talking myself back into those skirts. As we speak. Maybe with tights, for instance.

**Although, since they are still stacked in my hall (as opposed to in and around my closet), maybe I'm speaking too soon?

***Calling all sons? or their friends? Cash money!

****i.e., wandering the aisles of stores and buying nothing; watching the end of Season 5 of Lost, then launching directly into Season 6; taking a nap; eating crackers and drinking iced tea.

After the shouting.

This week, after the departure of my brother and his family from the region, and after my folks came down from the mountain, aka their condo up in Park City, I have accomplished the following:

• saw The Dark Knight again (with singing son)
  
• mailed my manuscript to a friend who very kindly offered to read it and give me advice
• saw The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants 2: The Streets (with make-up artist daughter)
• read three novels
• took several naps
• made cookies
• cooked lots of vegetables
• sat outside in my chair to observe the morning
• taken daily morning walks with Bruiser
• bought a beautiful yellow shirt
• bought purple moccasins at Target, which, according to The Sartorialist, everyone is wearing (although the ones on the blog aren't from Target)
• had lunch with make-up artist daughter, her husband, and the darling grandson
• rode my bike to the post office and the bank
• saw Pineapple Express tonight with the historian
  

It has been, in other words, quite a wonderful week. It's the kind of week that could persuade one that ambition is for suckers.

This morning, when I was walking Bruiser, listening to Le Fil (Camille) on my little shuffle, the sky was trying to make up its mind about raining or not. The whole time, it sprinkled, and I had a wonderful feeling, made up of equal parts of pleasure in the coolness and the music, a sense of physical well-being, and a measure of unspecified nostalgia, maybe as a result of the fact that it's late summer. Something about the weather also made me feel a change in the air--though there will still be plenty of sun and plenty of heat.

Maybe I'll figure out a way to make a poem of that, maybe not. But right now, I have to get back to my novel.