Night Blooming Dinner

If you told yourself enough times that the delight you felt in the sound of birds singing together at dawn, meant nothing. Or the love you had for the color of the young summer leaves when the sun shines through them. If you discounted this magic over and over because it didn’t stop you from feeling grief or pain, you might be in danger of growing into a gnarled, bitter stump of a person. You wouldn’t see yourself as the heroine of your own story, because you told yourself too many times that the tension of the awe in the easy, daily pleasure you experienced was mere whimsy. What would it take to finally convince you otherwise? A simple, small correction you weren’t even fully aware of? Or something more dramatic? I say, both are effective and have their place in this.

MONDAY:    

As a young woman, she often found bird feathers on her walks. Even in the city, there were velvety pigeon feathers, or white wisps of seagull fluff floating across intersections.  Or in the field, a single bright gold and soot finch feather swinging back and forth on a clump of thistle duff, as though on the smallest, finest wrought hinge. At the edge of the woods overlooking that field, a bronze belly feather from the neighborhood owl.

 Some years ago, she stopped seeing feathers all together. The reasons are their own story, and while she was grieving these other reasons, she lost sight of this other loss. 

She woke up the same way, and left for work at the same time. She took the same walk to work, and stood waiting at the same light across the street from her favorite bagel place. But today someone walked up next to her to wait, and a quick moment later pointed excitedly to the sky. “Falcon!! A falcon!” She glanced suspiciously over, and then quickly up at the fast arrow of steely feathers before it was over their heads and gone. Her head stayed tilted up, and her breath caught at the sight of one lazy, drifting, ivory and charcoal feather. The light changed, and the thought of getting in line for a poppyseed bagel with herbed chevre vanished. Instead, she nearly pirouhetted and followed this feather. For one block, and then another. It did land, lightly, like a boat brushing up carefully alongside a dock, three blocks later.

 She reached out to pick it up, with a reverence she hadn’t felt in so long it nearly made her dizzy. “Oh that’s a lovely one!” She looked up, already starting to feel embarrassed, and met the eyes of another woman. The woman was standing in front of a small, beautiful flower shop. “Please excuse me- I’m not sure what made me chase it down. I must look ridiculous- I haven’t followed a feather since I was young.” “You don’t look ridiculous to me. Not at all. May I see your feather?” It sounded as though the woman meant the feather had come from her. She almost laughed at the idea, and held the feather out. “I was waiting at the crosswalk back at State and Fig, and someone yelled and pointed to this falcon going overhead. Now I’m here.” “I had heard the falcons are here nesting this summer! I haven’t been so fortunate as to see one yet.” “You should keep it- I’m on my way to work and shouldn’t keep a feather on me. It’ll just get bent up in my bag all day.” The other woman paused, her eyes almost seemed calculating for a brief glance. “This feather has high value. I couldn’t just take it. How about a trade? My sister has a very special garden just across the river, and she’s hosting one of her supper clubs soon. I’m not able to go, and I think this feather is worth the ticket price.” “I couldn’t- that seems too much. I was thinking we could trade for a bouquet. Your flowers are beautiful, I’d be glad to have any of them.” “That’s sweet of you, but this feather is worth a month of bouquets. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to believe people when they tell you what something is worth to them?” Because the other woman was starting to look a little annoyed or offended, she relented. “Well, thank you. This sounds like a good trade in that case. What day is the dinner?” The date the other woman mentioned was in fact a day off for her, but she still figured she could just stay home and no one would know. “Excellent! I’ll go get the ticket!” When the other woman disappeared into the flower shop, she followed. The shop had several glass fronted refrigerators full of familiar and strange flowers, as well as terrariums full of fly traps and small, vibrant orchids. There was a beautiful black cat with one white ear curled up on what looked like a sheepskin draped over a wicker chair near the register. It blinked one slow, green blink at her before going right back to sleep. “Ah, I see you’ve met Cricket! She’s very good at her job. Here’s the ticket- you’ll need it for the boat across the river to dinner. I texted my sister and told her the situation. She agrees with me on the trade. And please come back soon and tell me how dinner was! Thursday afternoons tend to be slow for me, so we can have tea too.” She took the ticket, looking down at the name of a secluded and beloved private garden at the top. It was heavy card stock, with elegant calligraphy spelling out the location, date and when to meet the boat and at what dock. She had always meant to go to see the garden during one of it’s infrequent open houses, but every weekend seemed to find her under a favorite wool blanket rewatching a favorite familiar movie. Rereading a familiar favorite book. 

“I’ll come back if I’m able to make it. Weekends can be busy for me.” “Well, I hope you’ll come back again anyway. The trade is made, do with it what you will my dear.” Again, she thought she caught a measuring look from the woman, but also, she believed her that she freely gave the ticket. An older gentleman walked into the shop, hat and cane tucked under his arm. “Bob! What will it be today?” At his answer the other woman grinned, and then turned back to her “My dear, I almost forgot, I’d like you to have this!” The other woman handed her a large, deep purple iris on a thick stem, wrapped in brown paper. “This is one of my favorite old varieties- they smell like grapes” She took the flower carefully, like it was made of thin glass, and held it to her nose “It does, it smells like grapes” At her murmur, Bob beamed at her, too. “I hope you’re able to make the dinner my dear!”  “Yes, thank you, bye then” She found herself back on the sunny sidewalk,  automatically moving toward work. Her stomach rumbled, but it was too late to stop for a bagel now. Somehow, the thought of having the iris in a vase on her desk for the morning made the thought of waiting for lunch not so bad. She made it to work on time, even though the morning somehow felt like a whole day of it’s own. And found that the manager had stopped at the bagel shop and gotten bagels for everyone. In the breakroom she found a poppyseed and caramelized onion bagel and loaded it with herbed chevre.

SATURDAY:

The day of the dinner was clear after the fog rolled back, and just cool enough to stay pleasant. She spent the whole morning in her robe, convinced she wouldn’t go. The predictability of the same weekend over and over, suited her fine. She cued up the movie, tea and cookies on the table at her elbow. For the first time she realized the movie was about someone going off into the unknown on a boat. And now the movie made her restless. She looked at the ticket for the hundredth time, and saw that if she left within the hour, and walked to the dock, she’d still make the boat. She went to the closet and pushed aside hangers of work clothes until she found her pretty grey linen dress. The bow at the waist was why she bought it.  Thirty minutes later she was walking the five blocks to the river, where a schooner shifted gracefully on its’ ropes. On board were a handful of people,  the crew dressed all in the same navy blue. One of the crew stood at the top of the ramp onto the boat, and she handed her invitation out to them. They glanced at it, and then handed it back to her. “We’re pleased you could make it. Champagne and appetizers are being served.” As soon as she stepped onto the boat, the crew pulled the ramp and within a minute the boat was easing away from the dock. A cold flute of champagne was pressed into her hands and during the half hour boat ride she had fried baby artichokes, tender asparagus wrapped in bright pink salmon that tasted like smoke, and little piles of confit duck on tender potato rounds. 

By the time the boat landed on the other side, the sun had set, and there were elaborate floral chandeliers on either side of the dock, dripping with candles that smelled like honey and lemon. Just past the dock was a tall, stately fence, draped in twisting vines, that itself was covered in pink flowers. The rumor was, the fence was to keep photographers on the river from seeing into the gardens. A gate blended almost perfectly into the fenceline, except for the camera pointed, and the sleek silver intercom. One of the crew entered a code silently, and the gate swung forward. Pink petals drifted onto the grass as the passengers moved quietly through. More chandeliers and sconces were blazing along the path. The passengers seemed to drift apart, lost in their own thoughts. She was glad of this, because she wanted to take in every detail without worrying about conversation. A low stone wall was around the next curve, and over it was a shrub covered in tiny white flowers, so fragrant she could have swooned. In this wall was another delicate looking gate, flanked with terra cotta troughs overflowing with petunias and scented stocks and nicotania, small votives of beeswax tucked in here and there to light the way. Beyond this gate was an old orchard. Small chandeliers flickered with more votives, hanging from the arms of apple, plum and pear trees. Under each chandelier were tables of various sizes, set with gleaming cutlery and china. People drifted toward certain tables, seemed to be familiar with the seating. She hung back, waiting to see, suddenly sure she should have stayed home. As though it were a talisman of courage, she looked down at her ticket again, turned it over, again. And there, on the back, in small print were the words “Green Gage, table one” She looked out at the orchard again and saw little signs at the foot of every tree “Mirabelle” “Wolf River” “Sweet William” “Transparent” “Italian Prune” “Gravenstein” and there, a beautiful little clawfoot table next to a sign that said “Green Gage”. Next to each sign was another large clay trough, and a vine snaked out from this trough and through each tree. Each vine was loaded with white buds, as large as an apple, and threaded through the fruits forming on the trees. The vines also reached out, clasping vine to vine, tree to tree.  

She walked up and a crew member pulled a chair out. She saw that there was one other setting at the table, but no one else from the boat drifted her way. Secretly she was glad. She wanted this strange experience all to herself. No sooner was she sitting, admiring the flowering vines and berries on her plate, than a small silver dome covered plate was placed before her. The dome was lifted away and a small, delicate pastry shaped like a flower was before her. It was filled with basil cream and a curled slice of the first tomato of summer. 

By now the sun was gone, and the moon on the rise above the orchard. When the first moonflower opened, the people at the tables around her laughed and clapped. She sat in wonder, a feeling from so long ago that at first she felt suspicious, but clasped her hands to her heart all the same. A moonflower above the chandelier in her tree opened and she did laugh then, in pure delight. The tomato was followed by a dark green and red wedge of lettuce draped in evening primrose flowers and oil, and then followed by a thick pork chop dusted with dianthus flower petals, salt and pepper. And throughout the meal, moonflower after moonflower the size of the dinner plates kept opening. Moths the size of dinner plates swooped low to each flower, passing nectar and pollen between them all. Bats fluttered just over the tops of the trees, whisking away mosquitos, and the gnats that wanted to drink from the wine glasses. 

The candles in the chandeliers dipped low, and the last plate was placed before each guest. A deeply caramelized sugar lattice cage sat above a creamy meringue that absorbed the scents of the flowered night. Depending on the diner, the meringue tasted of jasmine, petunia, primrose, nicotania. There was no sound above the cracking of a spoon on the sugar dome to release the confection within.

She sat in contemplation of the dome before her. She had read years ago, that jasmine green tea was a result of the tea absorbing the scent of the jasmine before it was picked, but in the years that had passed just assumed the story was mere marketing. At her first bit of meringue and cream, she knew this magic was real. Her heart rolled in her body, glad to finally be awake again. She cried quietly, and a tissue box appeared at the edge of the table, along with a small fine cup of tea. The scrape of spoons against china, and an occasional sniffle into a tissue or hanky was how the meal concluded. By now it was fully dark, stars competing with moon and flowers for consideration. People rose reluctantly, and moved carefully back down the path that dripped with beeswax and flowers. On the way back across the river, each table sat with themselves. Mostly just leaning into each other or holding hands. She sat at the rail, watching the moon, realizing at last that the misery of heart ache of the last years had not been more real than tonight. That her delight at the feather had lead her here. She knew her heart still had a road ahead, but her ability to find awe and beauty in anything was not random. It was what held her legs up every day. And helped her heart beat through pain. She wasn’t sinking before, but she wasn’t fully awake either. The lights of the city across the water drew closer and that didn’t bother her anymore. 

THURSDSAY:

The leaded glass door was shut against the fog coming off the river all day, so when she opened it, the bell jangled with cheer. Inside, she saw a small table near Crickets chair, set with a tea tray, a curl of fragrant steam rising. The other woman looked over and smiled “I was hoping you would be here today! Tell me, how many moon flowers did you see at dinner?” Next to the second tea cup and saucer was a heavy stock card, gold calligraphy gleaming.

                                                        Winter Blooming Dinner

It Read.