I liked making stews this time of year. Last year it was the seafood gumbo and Guyanese pepperpot, this year a pork shoulder braised with lemon, green olives and tomatoes. But I’m starting to sense the stews are more appreciated by me than others; the kids always ask with suspicion, what’s in it? Then they pick things apart with their fork and a look of mild disgust. Doubtful surgeons.

I had some extra pork shoulder from the Sunday sauce and tried cooking it in the pressure cooker. I always worry something will blow up when I do that. But the pork sloughed off the bone and was beautifully tender in no time. And with a stick of cinnamon, some fresh rosemary and the olives it made for an amazing aroma and flavor. (The recipe also calls for five anchovies. I used a whole tin.)

Cooking a stew is like building a fire: you take some time to prepare it, let it catch slowly, and then just let it do its thing. Then everyone in the house benefits. It’s my love language to provide, and more so these days to tend to things. I get that from Eberhard, a kind of father figure and friend I’ve known half my life.

We can have many father figures and I’m glad I do. My dear friend Brad who’s a bit older, my neighbor Gregg who used to be my VP, my uncle Jim: any loving guy who’s a wee bit older than you and knows more, and cares, I’m grateful for all my dudes. I try to think of these people when I’m out walking in the morning; I take stock.

Sometimes there’s an older guy named Peter I’ll see in the neighborhood with his German shepherd Molly. Peter is deep into his 70s, maybe 80s, but fit as a fiddle. I love the hearty waves and hellos he gives to everyone passing by. And to stop and small talk in the dark, in the rain, he’s always got a glow. Like he’s really happy to be alive (or maybe just happy to be retired, maybe both). He also has this attitude of not giving a shit. Like a kid on his first day of summer break, he’s free.

I can’t help thinking sometimes if that will be me one day shuffling around the block with my track suit and headlamp. Part of me thinks not. It would be hard to live here with our kids moved away and all these school buses and young families to remind me those days are gone. But maybe it would be alright too.

There was a time before we were married my wife and I would take our morning walks on the weekend to the local Starbucks. We’d admire the cute bungalows and yards and dream of owning a house someday too. Like most young couples we didn’t have much to speak of. It seemed so unattainable, the housing prices in Seattle. Now we’re living that life we imagined, 25 years later. Part of me still fantasizes about another chapter in a distant future, the idea of someplace new. Why is it so hard to fully love the thing right in front of you and think you need something new?

Past the horses in their stables there was a dim light on inside. One horse was in a coat and the other was getting brushed and groomed, waving its tail lazily. It looked like it was getting the hair and makeup routine before going onstage.

I loved the fresh air even when it was raining and dark. There was a bit of light coming on in the distance and some contours in the clouds. We were just a week out from Christmas and our oldest was coming home from Europe on Saturday. I had another stew planned and nothing in the world to worry about. That was worth writing down.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir

Tags: aging, Creative Nonfiction, inspiration, Memoir, pacific northwest, spirituality