Yesterday Elly and I made the lovely wild ride to Marshall on Tomales Bay, through the redwoods, over the ridges, beside the old rancheros with pastures baked to a golden crisp, cows and horses and falling-down barns, to Hog Island. I took the Jeep (of course!) to savour every heart-pounding moment on the curves and pot-holes and bucking hillocks on our way to – oysters.
We bought a bag of fifty Sweetwaters and ate a fair old few with lemons and Acme bread from the Ferry Terminal, on a little point jutting into the bay so we could see the open Pacific at the far end. Since other people had had the same idea I also scored several dozen shells already picked clean by ants and bleached by the sun, because of course my ulterior purpose is: the oyster chandelier.
We ate the remainder over cocktails with Carolyn last night while the waxing moon rose over the water, and I bagged the shells but left them on the deck outside the front door, knowing how they smell – and that bloody raccoon opened the bag and has strewn them all the way down the path and the precipitous slope to the water, even broke some!
Three steps forward, maybe just one step back.