The All You Can Dream Buffet (6 page)

Ginny blinked and headed back to the Jeep, trying to equate the Tina of her imagination—a forty-something, maybe plump and ordinary housewife—with this vivacious ball of energy. She grabbed her camera bag, locked the door, and double-checked the trailer.

At least she wouldn’t have to talk much.

Tina drove them down a farm road, going quite a bit faster than Ginny would have, chattering, fiddling with the music. A long bank of cottonwoods lined the fields in the distance, marking the path of the Arkansas River, and in between were thickly planted fields—some cottonwoods, but mostly the cantaloupe for which the region was famous. “I hope you’ll find something to take pictures of this afternoon. We have all been baking our heads off. We used a lot of your recipes. Have you ever done this before, met any of the people who go there, to the blog, I mean?”

Ginny started with the first question and moved through the comments, as if she was online. One at a time. When the comments first began to multiply, she’d been overwhelmed—forty per day, then a hundred. How could she answer all of them? And yet the commenters had each taken the time to
come to her blog and say something in response, so she did her best.

“I’m sure I’ll have so many choices that it will be hard to decide which one to use,” she said. “I’m thrilled that you’ve used some of my recipes—and, yes, this is the first time I’ve met any of you.” As she spoke, she found that the Ginny of the ordinary world was slightly overtaken by the Cake Ginny, a more confident person who could make witty asides and genuinely loved the watering hole she had inadvertently created. She smiled. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

Tina smacked her palm against the steering wheel. “I’m just so honored! Ginny, from ‘Cake of Dreams,’ right here in Rocky Ford!”

Her house turned out to be a large, beautiful modular plopped down beneath a copse of elms in the midst of a vast expanse of fields. A vegetable garden spread out in a green checkerboard behind the house, and a clothesline stretched between two tall trees. Brave pots of red geraniums were stationed on the porch, as if to stave off the loneliness creeping in from all directions.

“Did you grow up on a farm?” Ginny asked.

Tina nodded. “And I swore I wouldn’t live here when I grew up, but you know how it happens—I fell in love and got married, and, sure enough, he was a farmer from right here in town.”

“Were you high school sweethearts?”

“I knew him in school, but, no—I actually managed to get away for a while.” She opened the back door to let Willow out and looked toward the horizon. “I went to school in Fort Collins, got my teaching degree, and I was going to live in Denver, but I came home for the summer and that’s when I met Tom.” Her shoulder twitched in a shrug. “He’s a good man.” Her smile
was wistful as she added, “He’d never let me do what you’re doing, drive across the country by myself.”

Ginny met her eyes steadily. “You might be surprised.”

A woman slammed out of the house to the wide porch. “Tina, stop hogging her!”

They all went inside.

Later, Tina drove Ginny back to the trailer. “Would you mind—would it be too imposing to ask if I could see inside?”

“No, not at all. She’s my pride and joy!” Ginny pulled her keys from her pocket. “I love showing her off!”

“It was so much fun to follow the journey on the blog—the search, then when you found it. Was it Lavender who helped you find it?”

“It belonged to her friend.” Ginny opened the door and waved Tina in ahead of her. “Ginger Holmes was an artist in Carmel-by-the-Sea. She died just last year, and her daughter was trying to get rid of the trailer, so I got lucky.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” Tina sighed, putting her hands on her heart. “Look at all the decorative wood and the special touches. Do you call it Art Nouveau style?”

Ginny nodded, seeing the space with fresh eyes. She heard faintly the sound of some tinny music, caught a waft of ocean-scented air. She imagined sitting on the beach at dusk, a mai tai in her hand, watching the sunset.

Tina moved, touching the stove and the little sink, peeking her head into the bedroom. When Tina turned around, Ginny could see she was close to tears, and she impulsively hugged her.

“I am so envious,” Tina whispered. “I’d give up a lot to be doing what you’re doing.”

Ginny pulled back and looked her in the eye. “I’m scared out
of my mind,” she confessed, and they both laughed. “But I’m also very glad I’m doing it.”

“I’ll be following along.”

“And maybe imagining what your adventure will be?”

Tina squeezed her hand. “Maybe.”

The Flavor of a Blue Moon

a blog about great food…

 

FETTUCCINE WITH CASHEW CREAM, GREENS, AND BEANS

Serves 4–6

Start with the cream, and the rest should go easily—pasta, greens, then combine. If you are not using canned beans, they will need to be prepared the day before, too. This is a very, very nutritious dish, but if you don’t tell your friends, they’ll never know.

Cashew Cream

Blend until smooth. If you don’t have a monster-style blender like the Vitamix, strain the mix through a sieve. Heat on low, adding salt to taste and soy or plain almond milk if it gets too thick.

Cook it according to package directions, approximately ten minutes. While the water is getting ready to boil, prepare greens, below.

If cooking them, start the day before. Check out the basic recipe
here
.

Greens

Heat the oil in a heavy skillet and cook onions on medium heat until translucent, then add garlic and stir for two minutes. Add the greens and cook until wilted. Add beans.

Place hot fettuccine (warm it under hot water if you like) in a large bowl, add greens and beans, then stir in cashew cream. Serve!

When Ruby awakened, it was dark. Not just evening dark, but the kind of full, silent dark that falls after midnight. She had to pee, which was not so unusual these days, but when she stretched out again on her bed, nestled into the three pillows she most liked to have—one under her head, one to hold, one between her knees—she realized there was no way she was going back to sleep. Her mind was cheerfully awake.

It happened sometimes. With a shrug, she tossed off the covers and stood in the doorway. Her view in daylight was a row of blue mountains on the horizon and rolling green fields in between. Now there was only velvety darkness, broken here and there by a lone light shining over a barn or a porch, maybe, far away.

The air was soft and cool. Ruby slid her feet into a pair of waiting flip-flops, took the key to the trailer from a hook by the door, and stepped down, turning her head up to look at the unclouded dark sky, lit by millions—no billions!—of stars. The Milky Way swayed down the middle. The moon hung low to the west. Wonder swirled through her.

And hunger. She was absolutely starving, her imagination dancing with visions of bread and sun-dried tomatoes, or maybe some fruit, or maybe even more than that. Maybe she wanted to cook and play and enjoy this beautiful moment, with her baby
in her belly and the stars shining and night like an enchanted cloak over the land.

She pulled open the screen door to unlock the trailer and stepped up, turning on the light by the door. Gleaming stainless steel greeted her—all the accoutrements of a professional kitchen, only mini-size. She and her dad had scoured the city and the Internet to get the fittings just right. The base was a 1968 Airstream Bambi, easily hauled by her camper.

With a loan from her father, Ruby had the trailer gutted, the axles and floors redone, and all the minor refurbishments for the frame completed. Then her father jumped in. He fancied himself good at most creative tasks and loved helping her find efficient ways of refitting the trailer. He was the one who’d found the storage units with shelves that slid out. He found the stove, a six-burner in a miniature size, from a company in Europe, and helped choose the materials for interior safety and beauty. There was a double oven, since vegan baking was all the rage these days, and a bank of refrigeration along the back, divided into sections for energy efficiency, so Ruby could run some or all at a given moment. At the other end were a table and two bench seats, where she could sit to prep food.

On a long shelf over the pass-through window was her collection of cookbooks. Tonight she reached for a favorite,
Moosewood,
spattered and waffled with use, and flipped through it for ideas, testing her body for what it wanted. Which also had to correspond with what ingredients might be available in the cupboards. She’d stocked up on the staples—pastas and nuts, dozens of spices and herbs, grains, flours, dry and canned beans, and bouillon. The fridge was nearly empty, since she’d planned to shop when she arrived, just to keep the weight down in the trailer. There was a large carton of soy milk and some
fresh parsley and her ever-present lemons, onions, and garlic. She let her imagination swim toward what she wanted, seeing fettuccine, garlic … cashew cream. Just right. She began to hum to herself.