Reflections on mustard and ketchup

So I'm sitting in the driver's seat of the Plum, holding in my right hand-arm-armpit four empty drink bottles and a plastic wrapper. With my left hand, keys dangling from my pinkie, I reach across to pick up the plastic cup of cold, half-consumed road coffee with cream and sugar. And it tears. That's the best way I can describe it. The top half of the cup stays in my hand, the bottom half falls to the floor, slowly, and the coffee goes everywhere from my pants, to my seat, to my shoes to my ... yeah. Let's just say that it's very cold outside today and that is a good thing. Otherwise, my crotch would smell rotten. And... well....'nough said.
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Moonshine, I think, has some magic properties. First, I think the alcohol is faster. Second, I think they put hallucinogens in it. Third, I think it functions like Midazolam - known as VerSed - which causes amnesia of a sort...it's used for anesthesia. Finally, I think they put in a dose of truth serum.
Magic stuff. And I might add, I mightily enjoyed it.
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It occurs to me that communion is a powerful word. In the religious context, of course, it implies the coming together of the mortal soul and the immortal spirit through the rituals of the church. But isn't that really what we seek with each other?
I have struggled lately with a higher meaning for human relationships. I have searched for a definition that reflects the power of their draw -- that something that compels us to believe in them.
I have decided that what we all seek is the coming together of two (or more) people so that the whole is greater than the sum of their parts. And that this is my communion.
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Do you ever surprise yourself by saying something so new and different that it's as if you were listening to someone else speak? I have made many changes over the years, but this most recent shift, though not yet final, has brought with it the most amazing ah-ha moments. While at times, in the conversations I am referring to, there is drama, I am carrying on my side of the conversation without melodrama. And there is still the occasional foray into a very young and unresourceful state, but these moments are conscious to me and I can own them as outdated and usurp their power. I would say I have been proud, or even pleased, but the fear that plagues me is that I might lose this new voice. In a word, though, I am amazed. And I am grateful, too.
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I am not competitive. But I am communal. I do not want to win at someone else's expense. Nor do I want to hurt in my attempt to compete with someone, fuel competition with anger or resentment, or in any way leave the moment behind to strategize victory in the future. That is what makes me a firmly-in-the-back-of-the-pack trail runner. I said, however, that I was communal. Which means that I enjoy running these events in the company of and with the support of my friends. And that is why I race. The races are where we gather and the gathering is what makes me toe the line.
I do however, strive to achieve. So it was that I set a time for us (Rhonda in her first ever trail race, the Palo Duro 20K, and I in my hat -- kidding)... anyway... I set the 4 hour limit, hoping to really be done in 3:30 or so. It was 4:03. and something by my watch, when I crossed the line. I had been consciously holding myself back, not wanting to leave her behind -- alone. But the legs were rhythmic in their drive to the finish. Each step came purposefully after the next. And I was reminded of the difference between competition and mastery.
Is the difference clear now?
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Reason No. 3... because his desire is genuine.
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I nearly destroyed $25 worth of fish last night in 2 minutes because I managed to completely blank out something I've known for what seems like years. To poach a piece of fish, you cover it as soon as the liquid is added. But in a cast-iron pan that has been heated to the point that my stove heats, I always just turn off the heat and let it equalize and then I serve. I even outlined what I was going to do to the fish to Ben as he sat in the kitchen not sharing bread.
I had blended lemon rind and lemon juice with pitted dates and kalamata olives. These I sauteed in butter with cumin, tumeric, ginger, cinnamon and garlic. Because of hte chunky nature of the chutney, the fish did not touch the pan. But the sweet, salty, briny flavor of the sauce was lost except for the few pieces that rested atop Ben's fish. This magnificent combination of flavors, robust, and yet perfectly matched is a symphony upon the tongue. And all I can say it thanks, gods, for the miracle that saved the fish.