Meanwhile….Life Happened.

One year ago I was working my second school season as a lunch lady at an elementary school near my home. The work was repetitive and boring, the food we prepared was uninspiring, and my workmate was often openly hostile. The kids however, made it worth it. Almost. They loved us, and the hot lunch we served them was much needed and appreciated. The smiles, high fives and hugs I received were endless. Watching the little ones tumble outdoors and literally frolic in the cold and wet at recess made me ridiculously happy. But only momentarily. So, in June, after serving the graduation lunch and tearing up as the outgoing grade seven class performed their beautiful and moving traditional dance and drumming, I quit.

I half heartedly looked for another job, then crunched some numbers, and decided to retire. Retire from what, I asked myself. My work life has been scattered and inconsistent. I have changed jobs often, and spent extended time unemployed, by choice (mostly). Never really had a career, in the traditional sense. The concept of retirement doesn’t really work for me. So, this is really just an experiment to see how I can survive, mentally and financially, without a job. So far so good.

My first goal was to try the snowbird life. I have travelled extensively over the years, chasing the sun, avoiding Canadian winters, but have never spent more than a few weeks in any one place. I chose Lo de Marcos, a small dusty and rusty cowboy town in Nayarit, west coast Mexico, to call home for three and a half months. I fell in love with my bright spacious house and friendly neighbourhood immediately. Within fifteen minutes of walking I could be on a jungle trail, on the palm lined beach, or in the sleepy plaza.

My daily life somewhat mirrored my life at my Vancouver Island home. Walk, stop, look at the birds, walk some more, stop, look at the flowers, stop for a coffee, pat some dogs, buy some food, cook, read, drink wine, go for a swim, listen to music, visit friends, not necessarily in that order. In my neighbourhood I could buy lovely locally made fresh cheeses, sustainably caught seafood, all the seasonable fruits, and herbs and greens from a local organic farm. Fun was had in my kitchen. Yes, there were lonely times. There were times I felt unwelcome. There was frustration with the random strewn garbage, spontaneous explosive noise, and sadness seeing the caged roosters destined for the fighting pits. But when I would walk down my street and see my favourite neighbourhood dogs vibrating in anticipation of a good scratch and a rumble, I was at peace with my life. The happy dogs of Lo de Marcos made me smile every day.

The most magical times I spent were at sunset or sunrise at the estuary, standing on the sandbar that separated the sea and the fresh water lagoon. Hundreds of birds flying home to the lagoon to roost in the evening, or flying off to their day jobs in the morning were a wonder to watch. Turn around, and there were the hundreds of seabirds, filling the golden sky above the ocean, skimming and diving for a meal. I love birds. All of them. I can’t really describe why. They just make me feel hopeful, and at peace. From the humble and sweet little juncos that are in my yard pecking in the gravel, to the clumsy but efficient pelicans, to the ever patient, long legged herons and egrets, they are all fine and noble. That they can just elevate themselves, see their world from above and move through the air is enviable. They have evolved to face the challenges of whatever environment they are in, and they have incredible skills. What is not to admire and love.

“A birdsong can, even for a moment, make the whole world into a sky within us, because we feel that the bird does not distinguish between its heart and the world’s.”

Ranier Maria Rilke

In my last days in Lo de Marcos I wandered the dusty roads, visiting the resident horses and saying goodbye to the magnificent iguanas that perched in the trees that provided shade for the horses. I felt a deep sadness, however, I needed to be home for many reasons, personal and otherwise. The recent and disturbing events happening north of the border made me uneasy. I know that Mexico is our ally, but it is a chaotic, and unpredictable country. My home in Canada is my safe place.

I was initially excited to be back. The sun shone and the air was fresh and crisp. I crunched through the snow into the intense green of the forest, spent time with loved ones, and became reacquainted with my couch and my cat. However, I miss my long walks and the warmth of the sun. But the call of the loons, the budding flowers, and the return of migrating birds following an instinctual and primal path, declare, spring is here.

I recently went up the east coast of the island to give my friend a ride to Buckley Bay and the ferry to Denman Island. On the way we stopped to admire the annual herring spawn. The release of spawn into the ocean is so intense, it changes the colour of the water from deep blue to a delicate turquoise. This abundance attracts eagles, sea lions, massive flocks of gulls, and of course fishing boats. It is an awesome spectacle, I sincerely hope the greediness of humans does not eventually bring it to an end.

On the way home I stopped at Mac’s Oysters, a much loved and sustainable business on a rough stretch of beach about midway up the east coast. I parked next to towering piles of oyster shells, the fresh and briny smell of the sea was thick enough to eat. I bought a pint to take home. What a treat.

I put some thought into what to make with these slippery pearly grey beauties. Meandering through my cookbooks I found a recipe for Oysters Creole in the wonderful Elisabeth David Classics. Elizabeth David has been in my life since before I started cooking. My mother was a fan and had two dogeared paper backs, Mediterranean Food, and Summer Cooking. They were well used, with plenty of mom’s pencil drawn comments and annotations in the columns. We used them often in our cooking adventures in her kitchen in Toronto. Beautiful memories.

When I first came to live in Victoria, I was perusing the cookbook section of the fabulous Russell Books (which thankfully still exists) and found a hardback compilation of those two books, plus French Country Cooking. I was ecstatic. Elizabeth David’s style of living, cooking and writing is informal and inviting. She started life in pre war England in an upper class family, but went on to live an unconventional life, living, travelling, loving, eating, and writing. She escaped cold, grey England in the 30s and spent many years living in France, Greece, Egypt and Italy. You can imagine the feeling of euphoria one could feel upon being released into the beauty and bounty of southern Europe in those years. She writes about her life, and recipes that are brief descriptions of ingredients, and methods that are often poetic, and open to interpretation. Oyster Creole calls for, “a suggestion of chives”. Her life trajectory is similar to another one of my loved and admired food writers, Diana Kennedy.

Diane Kennedy left England in the 50s to join her diplomat husband in Mexico, and never left. She travelled the country in her old claptrap truck, searching out traditional ingredients and recipes, and creating relationships with the women who held the family and regional knowledge close. She would travel days, sometimes with great hardships, to isolated villages and markets to hunt down the source of a particular seasonal fruit or herb, or the rumour of a particular recipe. She is an incredible source of information about the history of regional Mexican food and cooking.

I truly admire both of these women, who, generations ago, had the courage to flee the life of traditional, uptight, upper class mid century Britain, and immerse themselves in the freedom, the warmth, colour and the beautiful food of more salubrious climes. They both write beautifully of seasonal food and flora, their appreciation of their local sources, and a love of the people and culture of their chosen homes.

I too have been drawn to the colour, the flavours, the flora and fauna of warmer countries. In Mexico I walked every day through jungles, dusty backroads, and along the beach and estuary. Here I walk through the forest, through my friendly neighbourhood and along rivers and lakes. Instead of roosters and chachalacas, I hear loons and ravens in the mornings. In Mexico the beautiful purple Jacaranda are in bloom, here the purple crocus and pink cherry blossoms bring colour. Soon the tiny and delicate wildflowers of the forest will be sprouting amongst the ferns beneath the huge majestic cedars and firs. I will return to Mexico, but meanwhile, wherever I am, I will thrive on the natural beauty, and be inspired by the local sustenance. Life is a random gift. I am grateful for it every day.