Boycotting the Super Bowl

We decided to close the restaurant on Sunday, Feb. 1 because the Seahawks were playing in their second straight Super Bowl. The Legion of Boom had taken over the island, and we embraced the fan dome by taking an extra day off.

Since we actually had a Sunday off, we called up our friends Eric and Kate to see what their game-day plans were. Would we meet at the Coconut Grove in Bellingham? The Brown Lantern in Anacortes and Tyler and Eric would bike there like the used to? Was someone hosting a party we could crash? But they said something rather odd:

“Why don’t we blow off the game and head out to the islands?”

The thought had never occurred to me that watching the Super Bowl was optional. If you don’t have to work on that day, you plan on eating your weight in chips and dips, and consuming all of your liquids through beer.

But to boycott the event that sums up the entire football season? It seemed strange.

I’m a 49ers’ fan, Ty loves his Broncos, and Eric was still upset over the Packers’ loss to the Seachickens two weeks earlier. To hell with America’s day — we were heading to the Anacortes ferry first thing Sunday morning.

We caught the 9 a.m. ferry over to Friday Harbor where we feasted on a wonderful spread provided by Kate. As we savored our breakfast, you could tell all the other passengers were anxious to get to their game-day destinations. Some were pacing around in their Seattle jerseys, while others just sported team colors and sat patiently waiting for the ferry to dock. But us? We had no such plans.

If you get a chance, I recommend having an adventure on Super Bowl Sunday. No ferry lines, all the hiking trails are empty, and you can enjoy a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse with your friends on a beach without any intruders. 

And I think magical things happen. I got to stand in Spongebob Squarepants' house (yes, a pineapple, but not under the sea), and I saw a camel. What more could a girl ask for?

As the day went on it felt like we were survivors of a zombie apocalypse wandering around. The streets were deserted; all business had posted the same type of 12^th man signs on their front doors; and only the strange odd-balls were out roaming the streets. 

We didn’t boycott the championship altogether. We stopped in for a beer and caught the last half of the game. I guess there is something to be said for being sporting addicts. Even though we set out to have a football free day, we couldn’t rid ourselves of the innate desire to watch watch the culmination on the season. 

But it didn’t hijack our entire day.

Ted

We were sitting at the table eating tacos when Tyler made the discovery.

“Hey, I think Ted’s dead.”

I repositioned the fishbowl so I could get a better look inside to see our beloved beta deceased in the middle of the spider plant roots he loved so much.

I never expected Ted to live forever — he was four years old. Apparently the average life expectancy is three years. I cleaned his bowl almost every week, fed him regularly and never too much, and also talked to him. Not that our conversations we involved (they were one-sided) but it was nice to think that he was listening when my dogs were ignoring me. 

His death shouldn’t have surprised me. All the signs were there: Ted hadn’t been swimming as much, he stayed in the same place and didn’t eat a lot. 

I wouldn’t classify myself as fish person. I’m not really into aquariums. But after fish-sitting a co-worker’s beta for 10 days, I decided I wanted one of my own. I picked one out with the help my niece Mazie at a pet store in Boulder. Ted then traveled with us over a mountain pass to his new home in Vail. There he lived happily at 7,200 feet in our small apartment. He spent his days puffing up when I would torment him with a mirror, listening to drunken games of dice around the table, and patiently waiting for us to come home after work. Like any animal confined to a bowl, his life was easy and predictable, but had everything he ever needed, along with a pet owner who appreciated him.

After some time in Colorado, we decided to move to Washington. To spare the poor fish from the trek, I planned to leave Ted with our friend Kent. But Tyler — who never had anything to do with Ted — insisted he come with us because he was part of the family. 

To transport Ted without killing him, I cut a hole in the top of a plastic container so he wouldn’t suffocate during the 1,300 mile journey. He sat on top of the center console between me and Tyler, and our two dogs were in the back seat of the truck. We left our Rocky Mountain home at 8 a.m. and set off for the coast. To save money on gas, my husband refused to turn on the air conditioning. We drove through Colorado, Utah, Idaho and just across the Oregon border with only the windows rolled down to cool us. This was July: hot, sweltering summer. The dogs and I were suffering, but it wasn’t until I mentioned Ted’s declining health did we pull over to get an ice cube at a Wendy’s to cool down the water. Then we were able to use the air conditioning the next day - just so Ted wouldn’t die. 

But that wasn’t the end of Ted’s journey to our new home. He lived with us in a pop-up trailer for a month while we were looking for a house. His new life on top of the mini fridge gave him a front row seat to our down-sized life in a trailer park. He would keep me company while Tyler was working 80 hour weeks during the summer, watch over the place while I took the dogs for hikes, and snuggle into the roots at night when the mercury dipped. 

His last big move was from Deception Pass to Coupeville — his final home. Our first night in our house, he sat on the counter with Tyler and me because we didn’t have any furniture but a mattress on the floor. He swam around as we chowed down on frozen pizza, still flabbergasted that we were home owners. 

We soon moved in our furniture and he returned to his rightful place at the kitchen table. Listening to all over late night discussions about us and our future. It was there Ted first heard Tyler’s proposal to buy the Oystercatcher and have his own restaurant, and I said sure, not thinking it was actually going to happen.

Ted was able to see us make it through our first year of business, and hear us begin scheming about improvements for the second year. I’d like to think he knew we’d made it, and that we were going to be alright. 

We couldn’t continue eating our tacos with Ted’s body in the middle of the table. So we had to pause dinner and say a few words about his life while we flushed him down the toilet. About how he marked a crucial transition in our lives, and that we never would forget him.

A few days later, I couldn’t take seeing the empty spot at our kitchen table anymore, and needed to fill the void. I needed a new listener. I needed a new fish.

When I walked into the pet store for a new beta, it didn’t take me long to find one. I immediately spotted a fish from Ted’s school - same coloring, markings and what I perceived as attitude. 

So now we have Teddy — a younger, sprier version of the late Ted. He moves around a lot more, and likes to puff up and attack your finger if you put it to the glass, just like Ted used to do. I think he likes his new home, and will adjust to his way of life here just fine. Now that we’ve settled down, I don’t think his life will be nearly as adventurous as Ted’s, but I do know that we will never leave him behind. 

Happy Thanksgiving

We have a lot to be thankful for this year. Not that we haven't been previous years, but I don't think so much has happened in such a short amount of time. In less than five months, we've bought a house and will sign the papers for a restaurant next week. I finally feel like we are home, but we couldn't have done it by ourselves.

To our families — without your love and support through all of our moves, we wouldn't be here today. From helping us financially, unloading boxes, or cleaning our apartment to get the deposit back, you've always been there even though we were moving farther away from you.

To our friends — I wish I could see you more. I'm lucky to be friends with incredibly funny people (even though most people find our humor highly inappropriate). I miss laughing like that on a daily basis. Whether it was turkeys flying over Costa Rica, turkeys being thrown on the floor, or everything else that doesn't involve turkeys, I miss you guys.

To our coworkers — I am thankful for the coworkers who have become my family over the years. I know without my restaurant families I wouldn't feel ready to take this on. Everyone who worked with made me feel at home taught me more about the business.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone and I hope I can see you all sooner rather than later.

Goodbye, Beulah

Beulah at our wedding in 2010.

Note: I started writing this a couple weeks before she passed away at 6 a.m. on Oct. 22. I kept hoping that she'd stick it to the doctors and surprise us all.

Normally after working a wedding the night before, I’m exhausted. It’s the only time I can ever sleep in.

But not today. I didn’t need an alarm to make sure I was on the road by 9 a.m. My body already knew.

I called my brother to let him know I was on my way, and that I would be on time to the hospital right outside Portland. I had coordinated the trip with him earlier, primarily because I knew I wasn’t strong enough to do it on my own. I needed him there to make sure I kept it together.

The rain came down. Four hours of the fast, constant rhythm of the windshield wipers keeping time with the mile posts as they went by. As I drove closer to my destination, I started to panic. This was my goodbye, most likely. The final time I’d get to see her.

She was weak. Her breath short. Raspy words floated lightly in the air. Still ornery, but very weak. This was the woman who showed me the coffee cup and liquor trick at my aunt’s wake; who taught me how to slurp spaghetti; who never, ever stole a single point from me in cribbage; whose infectious laugh around the campfire let you know you were in for an awesome, hilarious time; who I consider to be my family. And there she was: tiny, defenseless against the cancer wreaking havoc inside her. And extremely angry at the doctors for not letting her nurse her pain away with some brandy.

Beulah might was well be called my other grandmother. When I was little, she would stay in a trailer on our property during the summer. When I was 3 years old, I would drag my little brother over there to visit her. As got I older, she stopped coming up and stayed in Washington. We’d visit her, and go on all sorts of camping adventures to Long Beach, or we’d hang out by her property in Woodland that was on the lake. With all of her grandkids around, we felt like one of them, accepting swimming challenges across the lake, combating one another in croquet, and playing hide-and-seek in the dark while camping.

I’ve lost people before, but never made the trip to actually say goodbye — to know that was the last time I’d ever see them. My aunt’s death came too soon, and my grandmothers were too far away to go visit. I’ve had the luxury of not dealing with that final goodbye, and experiencing that last time you’ll ever be with someone. I’ve dealt with the loss, and knew that it was coming, but never had I tried to face it bravely. Distance had always saved me before, but now that excuse was gone.

When I left her hospital room I lost it. My brother walked with his arm around me, saying it was OK, and Mikayla was their supporting us both. I was in a daze the whole drive back up — breaking down between DJs clinging to summer singles like"Blurred Lines" by Robin Thicke, and "Get Lucky" by Daft Punk. I'd snap back to the present and realize I was in a traffic jam, or that I'd made it to the ferry.

Beulah died some weeks later. None of us were supposed to be surprised, but there's still a little piece of you that thought maybe she could be the exception. If anyone was stubborn enough to prove everyone wrong, it was her. To sum up losing her, all I need to do is quote my brother: "It sucks."

Chez Rockwood

As many of you know, Tyler and I have moved to Whidbey Island. Between the time he was offered the executive chef job at Captain Whideby Inn and our recent departure, only three weeks passed. Now I'm living in a trailer down by the beach.

Chez Rockwood is an excellent little home — larger than what we were expecting, but small enough to motivate the permanent home search. I can honestly say I didn't think I'd be living in a RV Park anytime soon, but that's what makes life fun and exciting.

When you buy an old, inexpensive pop-up trailer, there's bound to be a few problems. So far the trap under the sink is cracked, we've found a a few drafty holes in the canvas, but overall the recreational unit is in pretty good shape. I can't seem to figure what's wrong with the propane pressure for the indoor stove, but at least I have my trusty Coleman to come to my rescue.

And the dogs are adapting surprisingly well to the new lifestyle. Moses has identified his sleeping areas, and Aspen loves the proximity to all of the food. And a hike to the beach everyday probably doesn't hurt either. Ted, our Beta fish, is in his own little world.

I must apologize for this poorly written post. Today was Tyler's first day of work. He left at 8:15 a.m. this morning (they start lunch at noon) and won't be home until late. At least I have free wifi to distract until he comes home.