even deep in the cheap seats

Fourth day straight of rain.

Today it has eased off a little, though you could still term the precipitate a steady drizzle. Yesterday I woke late, dragged myself out of bed, yanked on some clothes and headed out into the amazing downpour (if you stood at the top of the stairwell leading down into the basement you could hear water pouring in through the window wells like a someone was running a bath) for some gratuitous self-celebratory post-birthday consumerism.

There's something in the foolhardiness of venturing out into inclement weather purely for the sake of one's own gratification that renders the whole trip deliciously adventurous. True, I needed to venture out regardless, as my supplies of toothpaste and food had run out; but I made sure the food I planned to purchase went toward a dish that never originated in the United States, which allowed it a degree of self-indulgence. I planned my list according to what I like to do best on cold and rainy autumn days: Burn candles, drink tea, listen to music, cook, and eat dinner in front of a TV show on DVD. Since I was lacking the candles and food, and hadn't listened to or watched anything new in months, I drove into the wastes of Indiana's neon-colored suburbia to stock up.

The parking lots were incredible. I congratulated my pragmatic eschewance of shoes in favor of flip-flops; had I elected to dress according to the temperature, I would have sloshed through the trip in water-logged socks (ew); instead I freely strode through the rivers rushing over the asphalt, and before I returned home my jeans were soaked to the knees. My umbrella might as well have been made of paper, and my water resistant jacket gave up all resistance. I laughed as my faithful Corolla whooshed her way with blind determination through the choking streets.

When I returned home, armed with, of note, three new Yankee Candles (all fall scents, mmmm), the third season of The Office, Conor Oberst's latest solo album, toothpaste, and a whole chicken, I set to work making the rainy day as perfect as I knew how. I listened to the music, danced while I washed dishes, burned the MacIntosh candle, love-talked the Simon, drank jasmine tea from the teapot given to me by my sophomore roommate, and turned the chicken into a Moroccan masterpiece of succulent flavors.

The cooking was especially fun because I finally got to break out and play with the preserved lemons I had set to pickling in July. (Basically you cut a bunch of lemons crosswise into "flowers," stuff them with sea salt, cram them into a jar, pour lemon juice over, and refrigerate for six to eight weeks.) The taste is pretty distinctive -- far more potent than anything lemon juice can achieve on its own. Add a couple of these, with a cup or two of green olives, to a whole chicken stuffed with cilantro, garlic and lemon juice; rubbed down with and marinated in garlic, ground ginger, black pepper, saffron, grated onion and olive oil; and simmered in the marinade, with water and a cinnamon stick added, for about an hour; and bake the whole thing, preserved lemons, olives and all, for about twenty minutes, and you have a phenomenal dish to eat with a helping of couscous. The chicken fell right off the bone, the gravy was exquisite, and the cat glared at me jealously while I settled down in my big comfy chair to enjoy the fruits of my favorite hobby.

So, though all was dark and flooded outside, inside The State of Denmark all was, for once, not rotten, but warm, glowing, full of peace and light. I painted my toenails, sipped tea, and savored a piece of Meg's cake.

And tonight...tonight there are leftovers. Ahh.

I have no spare change. I'm not rich. I'm still young, powerless, anonymous and poor, still with big dreams of castles and clouds while going on nothing but a handful of beans. But I can live alone, asking no one for help; I can eat well; I have a lovely purring life-companion; a nicely decorated living space; all the heat and light I need; good friends in books, movies and music; and better friends, and family both natural and of the heart, circumnavigating the globe. I have a good mind, growing plans and a clearer heart, and like Mary Lennox, I have begun to dig away the dead leaves from the sprouts in the Secret Garden to let them breathe, and through the tapping of the rain I can hear the robin singing.