BUCOLIC NASCAR COUNTRY

Few things are more welcome than that elusive agreement of mood and surroundings. It's great to be content where you are. This occurred over the past few days, a period of time that some call Memorial Day weekend.
A three-day weekend, first of all, is the shit. I've never appreciated time off work so much as I do now. I love to get away from The Sorrow Mines.
Lindsey and I left Raleigh Friday evening. I had worked both jobs, so I was worthless and unmotivated. We shoved some stuff in our bags and got in the car. Traffic sucked.

Hey, North Carolina Drivers:
1) There's a slow lane and a fast lane, not just two slow lanes.
2) Stop tailgating me.

Hey, All Drivers:
1) If you slow down to stare at an accident, you should have your eyes gouged out.
2) How do you feel about having that cellular phone shoved into your rectum sideways?

Anyway, it was still a hell of a lot better than San Diego traffic. We arrived at our destination in Davidson, NC. It is a condo on Lake Norman. Things got a whole hell of a lot better.
Lindsey and I found ourselves sitting in Adirondack chairs on the sand, sipping wine in the company of her excellent parents and their excellent neighbors. The sunset was, well -- I was in the mood for it. The clouds, minute by minute, kindled themselves into a sky-filling swirl of colors that have no names. Orange, pink, red and yellow won't quite do. It was finished in fifteen or twenty minutes anyway. The sipping and talking continued.

I awoke the next morning to sweet rolls and a complete lack of work. I luxuriously drank dozens of cups of coffee while sitting on the patio watching ducks, ospreys and boats. I made an omelet for Hub, my father-in-law. I paddled around aimlessly in the kayak, and I didn't capsize. The day continued like the curves of a woman lying in a hammock. Swimming, eating, drinking, sand between the toes. Phil, a neighbor, was the recipient of a surprise birthday party that evening. Food, alcohol and conversation abounded. Everyone was nice, and I met new people. My miserable skill at retaining names is less of a problem around nice people. A bit of rain interrupted, but without much effect.

The next day dawned, and yet more coffee met its demise. I watched Hub fly his radio-controlled airplane. Phil, the birthday boy, set two full coolers out behind his patio. He said that a great deal of beer was left. It was still ice cold, and he insisted that I help my self to as much as I wanted. Such rotten luck! A veritable ocean of Heineken, Guinness and numerous other refreshments. We amused ourselves with a sailboat that had washed up in a previous storm. With a little work and scavenging, it was seaworthy (tame lakeworthy, to be more precise). Swimming and shopping occupied the day, and even work made an appearance, albeit in a friendly guise: wallpaper stripping. Hub and Andie are redecorating. I sipped beer all day. My eyes moisten with happy tears at the mere recollection of it.

I cooked dinner that evening. Cooking for a willing audience is one of my very favorite activities. Here's the rundown:

I puréed some fresh pineapple with soy sauce, onion, ketchup and pepper. A bit of oil, too, I think. I poured this goo over sliced pineapple and boneless pork chops. I marinated it for four hours.
I baked some sweet potatoes, wrapped in foil.
I heated up the grill and soaked some mesquite chunks in water.
I quartered some zucchini lengthwise.
I put all the marinade goo in a saucepan and heated it up to a slow bubble.
I put a metal smoking pan in the lava rocks and grilled the pineapple and zucchini.
The smoke was coming on strong, and I moved the produce to the upper rack. I grilled the pork chops. I toasted some ciabatta on the grill, too. We dined on the patio, overlooking the sparkling lake.
I served the bubbling goo on the side as a pineappley, salty barbecue sauce. We slit the wrinkled skins of the sweet potatoes to reveal their orange flesh. Andie served a bottle of La Crema Chardonnay, a tasty bottle (not too buttery, nice and dignified). The pineapple slurry did its job; the swine was nice and tender.
Later, when we regained the power of movement, we made s'mores. I continued to sip complimentary beer. My inner cheapskate, glutton and wino were all content.

Anyway, this briefly summarizes a very satisfactory weekend. Not much was anything but divine. My inept attempt at giving Lindsey a sailboat ride comes to mind (Aeolus, the god of winds, did not wish us to get further than fifteen feet from our point of departure). Hub and Andie's incomprehensible differences of opinion about drapes were only amusing. Something about seams. The moral(s) of the story:

1)This blog is not all bitching.
2)Free beer is terrific.
3)Work sucks, and you should do what you can to avoid it.