Some years ago at the end of summer, I helped make clam chowder...

Some years ago at the end of summer, I helped make clam chowder with two men, writers both, who happen also
to be confident in the kitchen. I let them jockey with each other over
technique and positions at the stove, and was tasked with scrubbing the clams, of
stripping the clenched shells of grit and mud. Humble job. At first I was aware
of the men behind me, heard the thunk of knifeblades through potatoes, of milk
getting glugged into the pot, of onions in hot oil, of the sizzle of fat
being rendered from flesh. The flashier jobs of the evening’s meal.

I could feel the energy of these two bodies behind me, and listened
as they talked. But as I scrubbed, that action faded against the scritching of
brush on shell, the cold tap water running over my hands, the specks of mud
that flecked the private parts of my wrist where the veins run blue and close
to the skin. My hips leaned into the edge of the sink and I removed from the
clams the residue of ocean murk. I scrubbed and scrubbed, held each clam in my
palm, and it began to feel as though I was preparing them for a funeral. Ritual
cleansing, sacred, grave. As clean as I could get them as a way of honoring
them for giving their lives to the meal. Thanks, small friends, I thought at
them as I placed them in a bowl one by one, cleaned and readied for their fate.

In the middle of the state last week, at a botanic garden on
a hill, a field was filled with daffodils, yellow horns blasting news of
spring. It was close to seventy degrees and the breeze was soft. Around the paths
and beds, new green, swollen buds, velvety petals, as plants emerged from the
earth with thrilling names: Siberian squill, Allegheny spurge, pink maiden. Swoon.

But we’ve slipped backwards into winter; it’s been snowing
all day long. I’m imagining spreading a quilt over all the flowers to protect
them from the white funeral shroud that’s been falling, white like the chowder
made that night. How to keep the warmth in? To keep them moist and ready, to maintain
their momentum despite the back-in-timeness of the weather? Did we see them in
their first and final days? I hope not. I trust the flowers aren’t so fragile,
that all the new stalks and tiny pressing buds know how to keep themselves
warm, to protect themselves while they wait a few more days as spring regroups,
tries harder.

The clams, scrubbed clean, opened in the steam, pouring
forth their salted juice. The buds and flowers fold into themselves, but will
spread again once the sun washes them in warmth to bring about another tender,
tentative opening and entering. The thing that marks each season’s shift:
eagerness. Eagerness and hunger, deep and almost frightening.