I write around things,
Fire Island Diary Entries:
We walked along the empty beach to have dinner in The Grove,
Some times, for no reason at all, I look around at the sky here, or breathe in the sweet air, and laugh out loud, as though I had got away with something, and realize that this is the most wonderful magic place on the planet, and it's my home. We are all so blessed and lucky to be here.
Last night we had a surprise sunset. The sky was overcast with heavy clouds, and it looked as though there would be no sunset at all, but as the sun's hot orange ball slipped into the narrow space between the heavy cloud blanket and the horizon, there were a few miraculous moments of the most brilliant light and colors imaginable. I knew it would happen, which made it even nicer, because I am starting to learn those secrets the island only shares with those who love it.
Rich dark purples
not the blacks of late fall,
offset the pastels. Wow.
Look at a sunset,
think it's only the blazing red ball
sinking into the bay,
now look over your shoulder
at the sky over the ocean,
see the colors which have emerged
quietly,
after the brilliant star has disappeared.
Last night we had a palette
of plums, peaches, apricots
and soft pastel colors
who were so marvelous
they had no names.
July 18, 1999 Sunday Morning
It seems we’ve been spending a great deal of time together since we got here, which is unusual since my friend usually loves to run around meeting other people and having new experiences. The morning light was overcast, and there was a pinkish hue to the surf as the glint of the sun back-lit it from the southwest. Thoughts of John John Kennedy, and his pushing his envelope made me talk about it, -- my friend listened quietly, but reminded me that I too push envelopes. We caressed, and exchanged kisses, and sat silently for some time more. The sweet green-scented ocean air was restorative and cool. There was groaning as my hands found my friend’s ears and began to massage them.
I could see way along the shore to the west a man walking his dog and the dog was jumping into the surf. I mentioned them, and my friend turned and saw the couple. That was all she needed. She ran the quarter mile to join the other dog, and the two dogs took off leaving me by myself and with my thoughts. I felt completely okay with Blonde’s departure, knowing she’d be back. The sight of the two of them playing made me, for one moment, be able to exist inside my dog’s soul, and be there with her running and swimming.
It was a moment of reflecting. I sat there thinking of the man far away who I never met and how I came to believe in his being the one I should love and be with. Words will not come, but I just KNOW. I am looking for reasons why I am doing it. Logic says there a dozen reasons why not to. My Heart is a slow learner, and often rules me. I’m glad. Heart tells me there’s a soul I need to bond with in this life, and that this may be the mate I’ve been wanting to find all my life. Logic tells me he’s a continent away, it’s silly, and that if you tell him this he’ll run right up a tree and stay there like a cat. I’ve seen it. Also he swoons over men he meets sometimes. Good. Let him know them all, then he’ll see you all the more as the treasure you are.
Diary, Fire Island, Friday Morning, July 22, 1999
I awake today feeling uneasy. Oh, I’m glad to be here, and it’s beautiful, as always, but the island is different somehow. The curtains over my door next to my bed are voile. Gauzy light, they blow to and fro with the light breezes which come into my room. They have been brushing across my exposed body to waken me for half an hour. My eyes are still closed, I’m only hearing and smelling. The air smells cool, green, yes air can smell green, and damp, woodsy and fresh. There’s only the sound of a distant boat on the bay and a wooden gate closing somewhere. It’s eerie, the silence. What I hear is what is NOT heard. The birds. Where are they? My favorite bird sound, the mourning dove, always there to wake me up. And the others - why aren’t they screaming loudly to wake up today! Is there some reason they are so silent? All I hear is that now deafening hum of my hard drive, and the fan in my PC. Somehow now it seems less of a friend and more of an intruder. I decide it must be shut down at night from now on. That would change a lot about my life, I think. Sounds I love - laughter of a man I love, the sound of water schlusshing in a brook, the surf in the distance on the beach. The scrunch of leaves under a deer’s foot, in the woods, where you can’t see them, but know they’re there.
I greedily wish for the scent of a man nearby.
The sun is up now, and I’m holding my coffee on the deck at the bay’s edge. it will be a warm day. thanks for the cool breezes, they must be roasting back in the city. It’s still very quiet. Two white swans glide past the bulkhead escorting six gray signets. O’Joy - the swans are back - I had missed them all spring and now I know why, they were being parents! A duck was also showing her 4 ducklings the ropes a hundred or so feet away. So proud, so busy with her brood. The bay seems alive again today, there are crabs living at the bulkhead, the beach last week was alive with Man o’ war’s and the plankton are back, the sand was red again, and it glowed in the dark when you walked on it..
There are Blackberries that taste like real fruit on the bushes growing by the harbor, and down the road on the way to the post office I will find ripe blueberries - I’ll take a bag to collect them, I always eat what I find, - and of course the store-bought ones taste pale compared to these wild ones. There’s a message to me here. Life is busy going on with itself.
The mourning doves were back this morning, and Blondie and I will jaunt to the beach, where she will join the ranks of all the other dolphins, which she is, and I will have to try to figure out how to keep a soaking wet dog out of "our" bed until she dries. An impossible task. I’ll use the heavy movers’ blanket and set it on the bed. There are no guests at the house this weekend, I’m alone with my thoughts and chores. The largest one is to try to organize myself. I have mail to assemble and the post office is only open until 1 so I need to get boxes and paper, and get busy.
LOVE LETTER
I left the house after speaking with you,
and walked the few hundred yards to the beach,
realizing how wonderful it is to be here at sunrise.
The clouds were dramatic,
pink-peach shades
with stark bright white highlights,
there was a warm mist,
a few guys were amorously crawling home from the disco,
arm in arm, -
their bodies shiny with body lotion and dance sweat.
I felt a part of that scene,
my white boxer shorts wet from the water,
transparently clinging to my body,
and revealing my body’s physical response
to the beauty surrounding me.
I found a discarded plastic Poland Springs water bottle, half-filled it with water, and threw it into the now warm surf for Blondie to catch, oh, around three dozen times till my arm wore out. At one point she swam so far out I got concerned she’d be unable to get back, but I needn’t have worried, she’s a great swimmer -- a water dog.
I didn't NEED anything else
to make this beautiful,
but your being here,
we together,
would have made it perfect.
I want you.
Late August
The beach again, we’d had every kind of weather you can imagine inside of 24 hours. Fog, overcast, heavy humidity, reminiscent of the Cape where I grew up.
SOUTHERN FRIED CHICKEN IN A HURRY -
or, How I decided to be a book writer
copyright Michael Safdiah 1999 all rights reserved
Fire Island, it was last October, 1998, the season was near ending, the beaches were deserted, the water was still warmish, and I was running on the beach with Lulu. I saw Tommy Tune doing his stretches on the beach in front of his house. So graceful. He’s recovering from an injury, and getting ready to go on the road. He looked as beautiful as ever. There was no mistaking him, even from a distance.
He has that striking octagon house designed by the late Earl Burns Combs, also a friend of mine, It holds dominion over it’s space like some giant light house overlooking the ocean, it’s tall windows, eyes looking owl-like at the sea.
The Pines is a place where you rub elbows with just about everyone, yet still give them their space, but I knew Tommy, and ran over to say hi, and I asked him, boldly, (as I usually am),
Great. Hoo waa it was a date. What to serve! The man is from Texas, so it’s either going to be every Texan’s favorite, Chicken-Fried Steak, or Southern Fried Chicken. I decided on chicken, in case Tommy wasn’t a red meat eater (he is).
I ran to the Pantry, the best gay resort grocery store in the world, grabbed a few chicken pieces, some yogurt, there was no buttermilk, shit, how do you tenderize chicken with out buttermilk, a quart of Haagen Dazs vanilla, a few large lemons, and some broccoli. The rest was in the ‘fridge’, and in the freezer.
I bought a few breasts with the bones in, of course, and a few thighs. (Forget boneless chicken, there’s no flavor. The nearer the bone - the sweeter the meat.)
If you want the recipe, you can skip down to the end, or you can read how I got started as a book writer.
Tommy shows up with a chilled bottle of Champagne Veuve Clicquot, well of course, honey! I mean, what ELSE? Somehow it seemed appropriate, beer would have been fine, too. The chicken turned out really well, the Champagne had a warming effect, and Tommy let me read some of my writings to him after dinner. He was actually one of the first people I ever read them to. He was so graciously attentive. I was in heaven. I mean, he was really listening.
After a few pieces -- I know I read them way too fast, not wanting to burden him with my junk -- he takes a reflective pose, stretches out his way-long legs, leans back, and drawls,
More encouragement from this wonderful man I’d admired for years finally made me believe it might just be possible, and if I was ever going to do it, now was the time. He spoke about how it began for him in the middle of the night after a dream (I think) about his father. He said that he just got up, sat down and began to write. ( I hope I got that right, the widow’s Champagne had got me foggy.)
I decided, with his encouragement, to begin the next day, and in no time I was swearing at him all the next month - oh, not really, I owe him so much because it was he who made it get started for me. Now he’s gone to Vegas. I stayed up all nights at the computer, not bothering to sleep, not bothering to do any damn thing, just to keep writing. I was staying awake eating frozen chocolate chip cookie dough from the freezer, and jumping back all the time adding to and shaping things I’d written before. Once I began, I couldn’t stop! I owe him for the motivation he gave me to begin. I wish to hell he hadn’t sold his home here, I really loved knowing that I might run into him any time.
I owe him at least, an enormous colossal ‘thank you’. I’ll beg him to write the intro if he will, and if he doesn’t I’ll dedicate the book to him anyway. That’ll fix him.
Love, Michael
The Recipes:
The skin was peeled off, (this time) and rinsed, dried and tossed into the yogurt, along with seasonings:
ground black pepper,
cumin,
curry powder,
nutmeg,
tabasco sauce - a few dashes, to taste
worcestershire sauce to taste, 1 tb to start with
Soak the breasts for half an hour to an hour, the idea was to tenderize the chicken in the lactic acid in the yogurt, we always used buttermilk, but this was a pinch -- there was no buttermilk, and Indian cuisine uses yogurt as a tenderizer, so I grabbed at the hunch it would work. Always improvise, and shoot in the dark as long as you think it through you usually can’t lose.
I took a few cups of flour, added some black pepper, some paprika, and when the hour was up, I took out the chicken, and dropped it into the seasoned flour, and turned it to coat the chicken with the flour. I left it there in the flour for a few minutes to coat it well. Lay it in a tray, with wax paper, one layer. Then I placed it in the refrigerator, and let it stay there until I was ready to fry it.
While the chicken is soaking, I prepared:
Into a Teflon skillet which you pre-heat, add a few tablespoons of olive oil, and fry the broccoli over medium heat until it gains some color, turn once cook the other side, and set aside in a plate. Sprinkle with fresh lemon juice. This is an easy dish to do with any dinner, where you can do it ahead of time and serve warm.
The real trick with the chicken is now: Into a deep skillet which I could cover, I put half an inch of vegetable oil, (I prefer peanut, it fries best at higher temperatures). When the oil is hot, gently place he chicken pieces into the pan, all in one layer, being careful to avoid being splashed. It helps to have a pair of tongs. Let the chicken cook, undisturbed, uncovered, till it colors on one side, and then turn it. Now cover the pan, lover the fire, and leave it too cook around 20 minutes more, but test the thighs, pierce with a fork and check the juices, you want them to run, clear, if they are pink, keep cooking, and if no juices, you cooked it too much, go back three spaces. Lift the chicken pieces out and place on paper bags or paper towels, and let the chicken cool slightly, sprinkle the chicken with some fresh lemon as well, and serve.