Dear reader,
Every Tuesday at roughly seven o’clock, we come together at the ranch for our weekly house or “family” meeting. This meeting is likely the most important aspect of living on the ranch together; it’s how we stay abreast of the many happenings in our distinct lives, share our feelings, and coordinate ourselves to communally tackle the tasks required to keep our home happy and healthy. One of us spearheads cooking enough of something warm to feed everyone present at the table that night, based on our rotational weekly chores. Some of us volunteer to chop greens and mix dressings, while the rest of us trickle in from work, or surfing, or gleaning the field for Dahlias and the last tomatoes.
During my childhood and adolescence, being at home meant that I was mostly alone, sometimes for weeks at a time. My mother worked strange hours as a prep-chef and a personal trainer; in her time off, she flew to Italy to see her boyfriend. With his money, she hired an assortment of nannies through an agency to watch me in her absence, but when I turned thirteen I was deemed fit to take care of myself. Our apartment became very quiet without my mother, so I kept the television on to keep me company. I ate cans of Campbell’s soup and baked frozen chicken fingers and tater tots for dinner. When invited to sleep over at my best friend Rebecca’s house or eat dinner at Candi and Megan’s, I was elated.
Whether I have the capacity to sit through a two-hour meeting every week or not — and sometimes I don’t — the brief window when everybody arrives at the main house, but before we sit down at the table together, is one of my favorite times to be alive. It is hard to coordinate ten people, and it is rare that we are all on the ranch at the same time. But on Tuesday evenings, I sense everybody coming home, and can tell which of them are winding down the road by the sounds of their cars, save for Marysia — she drives a hybrid.
As we make our way into the kitchen, music plays while dogs chew on each other and cats wiggle and climb, vying for attention and food. The smell of bursting sweet potato rises from the oven — half forgotten; completely caramelized. Sticky water bubbles down the edges of the rice cooker. Personal belongings, like bags and oversized woven baskets, appear on every available surface, packed with old lunches, surf stuff, bushels of elderberry, sacks of acorns, roadkill venison, and books. We say hello with hugs and rotate around each other like whisks on a hand-mixer, completing our own individual tasks before collective needs take priority. Molecules of energy fill the rooms completely, and even when it’s overwhelming, I feel safer than I ever have.
Finally, the dinner bell rings (yes, the ringing of an antiquated iron bell that’s set upon a rotting fence post just outside the kitchen door signifies mealtime) and chairs from the library are dragged into the kitchen. We finish loading our plates with Ryan’s pickled onions, Lucia’s greens, and Swampy’s sprouts, assign a scribe to take notes for the meeting, and one by one we check in.