Seattle 156, or Couch Surfing

It's not really couch surfing if you don't sleep on any couches, but that's basically what this is: the week between moving and leaving, with no space to call mine, except a storage unit on Lake City Way. My time is split between work, Secret Agent Lover Man, and these long mornings alone, working on poems with friends on the Internet in different time zones.

But I made dinner for Esther last night, since she's giving me a lovely place to rest my head and put my things while I'm still here. We did it together, drinking Mad Housewife Chardonnay, eating the sweetest wheel of Camembert from Port Townsend, sorting through her sparse kitchen tools and swapping stories about growing up.

I wish I'd taken pictures: creamy sunchoke soup with shallots and Gruyere, chicken sausage with sauteed greens and lemon, and for dessert, poached pears with balsamic reduction and hand-whipped cream.

We ate for two hours, leisurely, like Europeans, finishing the wine and licking cheese crumbs from our fingers.