2022-07-02 - This Is My Fork And This Is My Knife

One thing a town like Gray Harbor has aplenty is unmarried men. The Black Bear Diner and several other pit stops and take-out places make good money on workers from the lumber mill, the factories, and the harbour -- but even more so on the many seasonal workers who are in town because of the tourist industry. Whether they're working as maids and drivers for the gated community of Ocean Shores, tending the slots and card tables at the Grand Olympic, or walking and sailing tourists around the national parks -- there's a number of them.

Coupled with the fact that Gray Harbor is an old industrial town where everything does seem a little lost in time, it's no real surprise that when somebody suggested communal cooking at the HOPE Centre on Spruce, it provoked two typical responses: One is an enthusiastic yes, please teach me how to fry my own eggs, and the other is an equally unenthusiastic don't be ridiculous, cooking is for broads.

Ravn Abildgaard is not a seasonal worker but he knows jack all about cooking too. Also, he kind of handles most of the centre's daily administration, and he's definitely in attendance. He's not one to be picky about food, but even he can see the advantages of being able to do at least the basics yourself, rather than rely on the local grease pits.

It is one thing to say yes, of course, I'd be happy to offer cooking lessons, and quite another to actually find yourself in a kitchen, with an audience who have voluntarily shown up for the purpose, ready and waiting for your instruction. Una Irving may be the 'kitchen cleric' by reputation, but she looks a little nervous, now that she's here, dressed in jeans and her green 'kitchen cleric' t-shirt, just for sheer appropriateness.

"So," she says, tucking her hands behind her back a little uncomfortably. "I figured we'd start off with something pretty simple: nachos. Cooking doesn't have to be complicated... a few ingredients mixed together can be just fine too, and I figure... who doesn't like nachos, right? Beans and meat and cheese and sour cream, and, okay, those of you who want to can add avocado, or you can skip the meat and just do beans, or vice versa and... anyway, they're really flexible."

She's gone a little pink. Teaching is scary, okay?

"I get his avocado," one burly man in his fifties murmurs and jabs a thumb in Ravn's direction. The Dane's distaste for the green fruits must be known. "And he doesn't get to tell us they're called cajones in Aztec because we already fucking know."

Ravn at least has the decency to just give him the finger.

"Whatever," says another man -- younger, probably a seasonal worker to judge from his suntan. "Let the lady speak, man."

All in all, most people there do know the very basics. There's some five or six people, and a couple who seem to just be hanging around for the sake of hanging around. The Centre is often like that; chaotic, no one really knows who's in charge of anything, and somehow, people seem to end up finding what they need. Sometimes they find out they need something else than they came in for, and that's all right.

"White guy nachos or real nachos?" asks Emilio from the lumber mill with a side grin at everyone present; he's from somewhere south of Tijuana, and he's got opinions about lily-livered anglos who wouldn't know a good chili if it walked up and rang the door bell. "Are we mice or men?"

"Squeak," murmurs the older man.

"Mice, definitely," Ravn agrees, and rummages around the cupboard for useful things like cutting boards, knives, bowls, and other useful paraphernalia. Nothing matches; everything is donated or found at the local thrift store.

There's the faintest hint of a smile on Una's face as she acknowledges the banter between the men, but she's as yet too nervous of this whole situation to be able to join in... even if she does, just for a moment, smirk at Ravn. Who hasn't heard about his distaste for the testicle fruit? She gives him a grateful nod for his cupboard rummaging, and says, "Yeah, okay, that's white guy nachos, but there's jalapeņos for those who want to add them after, and hot sauce, and of course you can add whatever you like if you're doing this for yourself at home."

She inhales, drawing her shoulders back as she does so, then, more firmly: "So we're going to start by pre-heating the oven. 400 degrees-- pretty standard. And while we're doing that... who wants to chop up an onion? We're going to dice it, so not too small, but we don't want huge pieces either."

She takes a chopping board and a knife, courtesy of Ravn, and sets them up on the bench, adding an onion on the top, then glances around expectantly.

And somehow, Ravn ends up with the onion, the knife, and the cutting board.

"Gee, thanks, guys." The folklorist chuckles as he gets silently voluntold to do the crying. And true to his word on an earlier occasion, he is in fact capable of peeling and chopping an onion. Or five. Or ten. Everyone's onions, apparently.

"Just be glad we don't make you eat the jalapeņos," Emilio beams. He's heard Ravn whine about that sort of thing before.

"Let me get those beans cooking," says Steve who was married for fifteen years and mostly just wants company now that his wife's moved back to Seattle with the youngest girl and the oldest is in New Mexico with her fiance. "You doin' fine, Ms Irving. Don't let these bachelors intimidate you none, ain't one of them as knows how to hard boil an egg."

"Sure I do," Jake the retired assembly line worker murmurs. "What I don't know is how to keep the pot from exploding."

"... exploding?" Excuse Una's momentarily wide-eyed stare. No. Okay, no. Let's not go there. She might freak out and this will never go anywhere. Steve, by contrast, gets a warm and slightly relieved smile.

Ravn's knife work gets an approving nod as well. "See," she teases-- that's a good sign!-- with a grin, "you're a natural. Easy as anything. Okay-- yes, olive oil, beans, and onions, and ground beef, and we're going to add some spices as well, but nothing too spicy: for ease, we're just going to use pre-mixed, because we don't need to be fancy with this. Steve, you want to get started on that? And--" she glances at Emilio. "You can start spreading corn chips, yes? Show us how it's done south of the border."

"I can show you how a lot of things are done south of the border," Emilio returns and wiggles his eyebrows in a ridiculous and quite comical fashion. "I can down half a bottle of tequila and pass out like a white man anytime."

"Ugh, tequila," Jake returns and turns to help the Mexican with the spread. "Tequila gives me the hangover from hell."

"Tell me about it," Ravn murmurs and reaches for the olive oil.

"Look," Jake says plaintively. "I put the egg in the pot. I put water in the pot. And I forgot about the pot. Took me an entire day to clean the stove, and the smell lingered for a week. Like burned sulfur. It was awful."

Una's cheeks go pink, though she grins anyway. "Tequila's the worst," she agrees. And, because maybe she's feeling ever so slightly daring, now that things are mostly going okay and she's beginning to unspool her tension a little, "You know what's even worse than tequila in general? Being so uncoordinated you try and drink your shot too quickly when doing the whole lime and salt thing, and ending up with tequila up your nose."

True story.

For Jake, she notes, "Set a timer. Eggs are nasty that way. Ok-- let's get all of that cooking, and while we do... who wants to grate cheese? You can buy it pre-grated, of course, but it's cheaper if you do it yourself. and that's important."

"Not it," says the lord of the onions. Choppety-chop; manly tears are being shed here.

"I guess that's up to me," Steve grins and reaches for the cheese grater. "Emilio, don't eat the bloody jalapeņos out of the jar."

"Why not? None of you people can stomach them." Emilio is unrepentant.

"I mean, he's not wrong," Ravn murmurs to Una. "And you're not wrong about the tequila either. Got drunk on that stuff twice in my life. The first time I proposed marriage to somebody and the second time, well, you were there."

Una does the rounds, checking in on everything that everyone's doing. The first of the onions in the pan, on medium heat with olive oil and pre-crushed garlic; ground beef to follow. Cheese, check. Jalapeņos-- well, no one minds that, really. Also check. She's amused, and significantly more relaxed, now; see, this is going well! Everything's fine.

"Was I there?" Una frowns, giving Ravn a curious glance. "I don't remember this. Was I drunk? I mean, there's good reason not to touch the stuff, anyway. Tequila ruins lives, I'm convinced of it. I'm pretty sure my nasal cavities will never be the same."

"I only remember small bits of it, but I think it involved drunk crying on your sofa." Ravn winces at Una -- or rather, at the memory. "I have no head for tequila."

"He's got no head for anything with taste in," Steve inserts.

Murmurs of agreement all around.

"You guys suck," Ravn murmurs, amused, and hands over the chopped onions.

"Only if you make it worth my while," Jake grins. He had a party with the choux cookies on Pride Day.

Una's wince by way of return acknowledges that, okay, tequila is probably not the way forward here, no. She glances over her shoulder, though, and eyes the rest of the group. "Have you seen his girlfriend?" she points out. "I'm not going to lie and pretend that his taste in beer is anything but abominable, and his eating habits are a crime against my cooking, but--" Her eyebrows raise.

But only for a moment.

"Okay, let's stir these onions. We want them translucent. Maybe a little more oil?"

"You people and your fermented syrup." Ravn chuckles and reaches for the spatula, to brown those onions on the pan. Translucent? Sure, as long as the onions know how to handle growing translucent. All he knows is to stir them.

He has no comments whatsoever on the subject of girlfriends. None. Some men advertise their conquests. Others -- do not.

"Not just a little more oil," Emilio inserts. "It's okay if they end up dripping. The fat runs off but the taste stays."

"Delicious," says Una by way of return. Yummy fermented syrup.

She inclines her head quickly forward for Emilio's input. "Right. And when we add the ground beef, that'll add even more fat, but most of it won't make it into the nachos themselves. It's all part of what makes it delicious, though. That and all the cheese. And the sour cream. And the-- well, all of it, right?"

Una talks about food, even simple food, with the contented joy of a true devotee. She's also, now that she's gotten over that initial apprehension, not a bad teacher: lots of good, practical suggestions, simple language, and enough enthusiasm to encourage even the most reluctant person to at least give it a go. Nachos were a decent choice: not too complex, and yet once they're out of the oven, with sour cream and salsa (store bought, because, "it's totally okay not to do everything yourself") spooned on top, pretty appetising.

Emilio waxes nostalgic for a while, about nachos he has eaten, the places he has eaten them in, and experiences you young people all missed out on; the 1990s were where it was happening, man.

Jake and Steve and Ravn all seem used to it. They banter lightly, making fun of Jake's truly abysmal cooking skill; the man probably did manage to blow up an egg given the kind of damage he can do just rinsing off cooking utensils (don't worry, Denny or another volunteer will fix that faucet properly, later).

"The real trick to cooking," Steve feels the need to observe, "is not so much the actual cooking. It's cooking together. Anyone can eat alone or sit alone at the diner. Doing it together -- well, you don't feel as lonely that way."

"You need to go visit your daughter," Jake notes.

"It's true, though." Ravn nods slightly. "I never got around to learning because what's the point of being able to cook just for myself?"

"Cooking," Una agrees, simply, "brings people together. Food does, anyway, and the making of it-- that's special too. That's half of why I cook: because by feeding people, I'm inviting them into my life. It can be hard to say 'hey, come around sometime' but 'hey, I'm making spaghetti, come and join me' feels more natural. Of course," she grins, broadly, "saying 'hey, I just took a batch of cookies out of the oven' works well too, in my experience."

She reaches to pick up a corn chip, laden with toppings, gently extracting it from the mass of cheese on top. "I won't deny, cooking for one can be hard. For me, food is always communal, and it doesn't need to be fancy. If I have a guest coming over? We're probably still having something simple, because simple doesn't have to mean it isn't tasty. Fancy ingredients mean nothing."

Nibbling at her food, she considers the group. "What would you like to be able to cook, if you could pick anything?" she wonders.

"Proper elotes," Emilio suggests promptly.

Jake taps his chin. "Anything at all? Maybe a good pizza. There's lots of fancy food, but the thing I really want to be able to cook at home? A decent pizza. Deep pan style. Make an Italian cry, and an an Italian-American squeal."

"My wife and I used to make Irish stew," Steve reminisces. "The real kind, the kind that sits in a pot for a day, and you almost have to cut it with a knife."

"It's funny," Ravn says. "The one comfort food I know how to make? Cinnamon toast, the Danish way. We call them 'poor knights'. I have no idea why."

"Elotes are something I've eaten, but never tried to make-- maybe I'd better learn!" says Una, grinning, her expression briefly reminiscent. No, she's never been to Mexico... but also, kind of, yes she has? Life is complicated. "Pizza's a good one. A little trickier, because you need yeast and dough, but still not actually that hard. We can absolutely give that a go."

She leans forward, resting her upper body partly upon a recently-wiped-down counter. "I love a proper Irish stew. If I'm honest, my favourite things to make tend to be the ones that cook for hours and hours. Slow cooking really enhances the flavours."

Ravn gets a grin. "Okay, what's the Danish way? My comfort food like that involves mashed banana on toast, with brown sugar and cinnamon on top and then grilled until it goes all gooey. Cinnamon, though; cinnamon is absolute comfort in a spice, no question there."

"That actually doesn't sound half bad." Ravn tries to conjure up what Una describes to his mind's eye. Then he reflects on his childhood treat. "It's a slice of white toast bread -- but not toasted. You dip it in milk and sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar, and then fry it in butter rather than toast it. It becomes extremely sugary and greasy, to no one's surprise."

"That doesn't sound too terrible," Steve agrees.

"Horrid," Jake murmurs. "Toast bread is meant to be toasted. It needs to be crunchy."

"Banana toast," Una has no better name for it, and, well, it works, right? "is delicious. More filling than plain toast, but still easy on the stomach and not too heavy. My mom used to make it for me when I was sick, and now I make it for myself. Food is all about memories, isn't it? Like that Irish stew. Like that pizza you ate with someone important, once. Like-- well, lots of things, right?"

She's interested in Ravn's description of his cinnamon toast, eyes lighting. "So not quite French toast," she concludes, "but not that far off. I mean, anything that involves frying things in butter is good by me. It sounds delicious."

Ravn laughs slightly. "There's something about sweet and greasy that just says welcome to a safe space, isn't there? My nanny used to make this, when the weather was terrible. We'd play tea party and, well, have those cinnamon toasts."

"I used to do that with my girls," Steve reminisces. "Not with cinnamon toast but with buns or muffins. My wife would have them fresh out of the oven, and we'd build a blanket fort in the living room. They grow up too fast."

Emilio and Jake exchange looks. Neither of them feel any need to contrinute to this part of the discussion. There is such a thing as over-sharing. Manly men gonna man.

The softness of Una's expression is plainly for the reminiscences of Ravn and Steve, both of which are ooey-gooey enough to warm her (already full, let's be honest) heart. "See?" she says. "Food is full of memory. And that's what I love about it... aside from it tasting good. I mean, cookies. I love cookies. I'll never stop loving them. Simple, and yet--" She shrugs.

How can she possibly explain what's so awesome about cookies? They just are.

"So," she says. "Who thinks they'd be ok to make nachos for themselves, next time?"

"Going to be honest and say, I don't think I'm going to be cooking for myself at home," Ravn admits with a small smile. "But I think I might not freeze in terror if somebody was to suggest we cook nachos together. And that's kind of the point, at least for me."

Emilio smirks. He probably knew perfectly well how to cook nachos.

Steve looks sheepish. "I mean, I kind of agree. It's about the company. But I think I might cook these instead of so many other things that are decidedly less healthy."

"I'm going to count that as a win," declares Una, with a laugh. "I mean, I'm not expecting anyone to change their habits overnight. But-- I'd be happy to do more of these, you know? Maybe we'll teach Jake how to boil an egg properly somewhere along the way too."

She grins at Jake.

"Maybe we'll do pizza dough. Or a good stew... though that'll need to wait for winter, probably."

"I'll start bottle feeding the lamb." Steve must be joking. And then again, maybe not. He's got a large yard.

Ravn chuckles. "I think that's a pretty safe conclusion. So what is the trick with an egg, anyway?"

"Ha!" Jake gloats. "Knew I wasn't the only one who doesn't know how to boil an egg!"

"Pizza dough," Emilio looks thoughtful. "You can buy that pre-made too."

No one is really surprised find Ravn only picking at his nacho. Everyone would be surprised if they found him doing more than pick at his nacho. But he does sneak one into a tupperware box -- probably for quiet consumption later on, back on his boat.

"Going to do the slaughtering too?" wonders Una, grinning enough that she probably has taken it as a joke.

"Depends," she adds, of the eggs. "Hard boiled or soft? We laugh, and yet... actually, it can be a tricksie business, getting it right. It's not as if you can check if it is cooked right before you crack the shell open, and no one wants a bunch of row egg oozing out. Pre-made pizza dough is okay, sure. It's not quite the same, but... look, cut the corners if you need to. That's completely acceptable."

"Egg. Cooker." Watch Steve spell things out slowly for the bachelors. "You fill the little measuring cup with water. You pour it into the cooker. You put the eggs in the cooker. You set the timer. Hard, soft, runny."

Jake cants his head. "Smart."

Ravn reflects Jake's movement. "Really. Quite."

Emilio gathers up plates, chuckling. "Or you learn a song. Five verses of my favourite hymn, for a hard boiled egg!"

Una's expression is caught between horrified and vastly amused. "Shit, really? They'll make gadgets for anything... it's not that hard. Room temperature egg, drop into boiling water. Five minutes for a runny yolk and set white; 10 minutes for properly hard-boiled. Unless of course your eggs are enormous, or particularly small, and that's when no gadget will save you, either."

She abandons horrified for grinning. "The really tricky kind of egg is poached... and that's why if I want a poached egg, I eat out."

Ravn opens his mouth. Then he closes it. Then he opens it again. "Okay. I give in. A poached egg is -- not an egg that's made me lie in wait in a hedge all night with a hunting rifle. Right? I don't need to sneak it back home without the fish & wildlife officers finding out?"

No, Ravn. It's not a bald-headed eagle egg. Language is hard.

Una can't help herself: she begins to giggle, waving one hand in a gesture of apology as she attempts to recompose herself. "No," she agrees, grinning at the Dane. "Fish and wildlife officers won't hunt you down for a poached egg. 'Poaching' in this instance means cooking in simmering liquid. So for an egg, you'd break the egg into a pot of simmering water, try and make sure it doesn't lose all structural integrity, and then fish it out again. But you can poach all kinds of things: fruit, chicken, whatever."

"Oh, that makes more sense." Ravn tries hard to pretend he doesn't feel quite silly, demonstrating his complete ignorance in front of the other three.

Jake at least has mercy on him. "I had no idea about that either. I like the idea of lying in wait in a hedge somewhere, waiting for an ostrich. Let's try it."

"Dibs on the drumsticks," Emilio grins. "There's good eating on an ostrich like that."

And that, for some reason, provokes a frown in Ravn though he does not object.

Only a bit later, when dishes are being rinsed off and the other three are talking about Steve's eldest girl and last night's game does he murmur as an aside to Una, "Scullin found herself some kind of giant killer ostrich in a Dream. Hope for their sake they don't try to eat her."

"You found many ostriches in this part of the world?" wonders Una, not unamused, but moderate nonetheless. She's picked up on that frown from Ravn, but draws no attention to it; nor does she stop contributing to the conversation.

Still, that aside, later-- it draws a longer glance, and a short, sharp nod. "I can't imagine that going well," she agrees. "Ariadne and the bird would defend themselves, I bet. Did she name it?"

"I don't think so. Yet." Ravn winces slightly, remembering the giant pink and yellow bird with the beak that could cut through a coconut -- or a skull -- without much effort. "She convinced it that I was not food at least. Small mercies? Woman's got a good hand with animals."

"She does at that," agrees Una, evenly. She's noted that wince, too, and drawn her own conclusions from it. "We did an experiment to see if I could communicate with Sam mentally, since she's at least partially convinced she can-- and I bet she's probably right-- but I couldn't. You probably know that already, I guess. About her and Sam, I mean. Anyway, it's probably not a bad thing, if she's got a big bird that can defend her, if she needs it. I like the idea."

Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "No, can't say I do. But then, I don't understand the mind-stuff so I suppose I'm not the obvious person to discuss it with, either. But I am not going to look very surprised if you tell me she can communicate with her dog because I've never met a woman who owned a cat, a dog, or a horse, and didn't think she could secretly talk with it."

He hitches a shoulder. "Just, in this town, it may be true."

Una's mouth makes an 'oh' shape, but she doesn't properly verbalise it; a shrug follows. "I mean," she admits, "I'm pretty convinced the kittens understand me perfectly well... they just ignore me. Well, Athena does. Athena mostly just likes Della, I think. Though I suspect this is more the usual kind of communication, at least on my part. I'm not," she shrugs, "especially skilled in that way, I think. Go figure."

"Kitty Pryde cheerfully ignores everything I say," Ravn agrees with a small chuckle. "Until I think she's not paying attention. Then she leaves a dead mouse in my socks just to remind me who's in charge. Cat's gonna cat."

He waits for the other men to file out before wandering over to put on the kettle for a couple of cups of instant coffee. Not every subject is suitable for a wider audience; Steve, Jake, and Emilio are all nice blokes as far as the Dane is concerned, but none of them share that special little something.

"The mind-stuff confuses me," he admits. "And it frightens me a bit. I've only seen it used in two ways: To pacify people -- the thing I call Mind Xanax, where somebody essentially makes you so calm and indifferent that nothing matters. And to hurt people, or at least put them in a position where they could hurt themselves. I do know of at least two instances where mentalists intentionally burned somebody's mind so bad that they probably never will recover from the shutdown. Those were bad people, but I'm still wary of anyone who's judge, jury, and executioner."

Una grins. "Kitty Pryde's definitely her own creature," she agrees, cheerfully. The department men get a wiggle of her fingers and a cheerful acknowledgement-- 'this was fun! we'll do it again'-- and then she scoots herself up onto one of the clean countertops, much like she would in her own kitchen, feet dangling some inches above the floor.

"That's..." she hesitates over her answer, watching Ravn with the kettle. "Uncomfortable," is what she evidently decides on, ultimately. "Because both take away personal autonomy. I mean, I like to hope that people aren't Mind Xanxing people at random, right? But it could just as easily be an offensive action, couldn't it? And the burning out a mind... that's worse, a hundred times worse. I know I can cause damage, but... physical damage. People's minds are different. It's-- I'm not sorry it's not one of my strengths. I feel like it would be so easy to abuse it. Influence an emotion here; nudge a person there."

Ravn nods. "That's where I am at. I can probably drop a car on somebody. But I won't plant false memories in their mind until all they can do is sit in a corner and drool. Of course it's possible to argue that either can be lethal."

He shrugs. "Anyhow, maybe this is not the time for deep, existential angst. Do you take anything in your coffee? I don't usually ask about the mind-stuff because it terrifies me. I would be very tempted, if it were me, to make tiny changes, all in the hope of making life better. Just a nudge. Change somebody's perspective just a tiny bit. It's a very slippery slope."

"Just coffee is fine. I've been experimenting with cardamom, but-- no, just coffee. Thanks." Una's expression remains troubled, and suggests she's thinking her way through a complex thought experiment, or, if not something so specific, at least something complicated.

Finally, "I think that's my big thing, yeah. Once you've made one change, seen how easy it is... what stops you from doing it again and again? You'd really need to police yourself. It gives me the heeby-jeebies, knowing a person could do that and no one would necessarily notice. But you're right, of course. No deep existential angst, please. Today did go well, right? I did okay?"

"I think you did fine, and I know for a fact that I enjoyed myself." Ravn offers Una a small smile; one of the rare ones where he shows a few white teeth. "I also look forward to eating my nacho, later. Some day, I swear, I'll get over these issues but there is no way I can get it down in front of three grown men."

Some people apparently feel safer than others.

He pours hot water into mugs that don't match and adds instant coffee. "I think there's more to it than just cardamom. The preparation process, maybe. It's not just empty the spice shelf into the coffee pot. I tried too."

Then he settles on the counter next to Una's and offers one mug over. "Everything has been a little hectic lately. Between Rome, and Pompeii, and giant ice age chickens, and my dead ex making an appearance, I feel like -- well, like I'm constantly running. Like I need to breathe out."

Una's pleased by this summation, and at the apparent success of her first venture into the world of education. "Good," she says. "I'm pleased. Don't worry-- I'd've been surprised if you had eaten it, or anything. There's no pressure from me, I promise."

She rolls out her shoulders, adding, "I think you're right, with the coffee. I'm going to research, see if I can properly replicate it. It was-- something. That was a good trip, as these things go." Her nod is clearly thanks for the coffee, and the mug gets picked up, nursed between both hands.

"I know what you mean. This summer has been pretty overwhelming, and it's barely July. It's... a lot. Everything is. I'm hoping to just get to chill over the holiday weekend, at least."

"Yeah. The thought of just going sailing for a few days has occurred to me." Ravn sips his coffee. "Not disappear for weeks but just a few days on my own up the Sound, maybe, or down the coast. Just to remind myself who I am. Sometimes, this place makes you feel like you are constantly trying to catch up. Or that everything is happening around you, and somehow, you never get the newsletter. I'm a very introverted person. I'm not used to spending time with people every day."

He laughs softly. "Hell, used to be weeks where I'd not talk to anyone except to buy a bus ticket or order a hot dog."

Una lets the corners of her mouth twist upwards. "Me too," she says. "The introversion, not the rest of it. I don't have a boat to sail on, and-- well. You know. There are days when things are all a bit much, and I just need some alone time. And it's hard, because it's not as if I ever had a house to myself back in Seattle, but I also wasn't close to the people I lived with, and in either case, it's not like I want to tell people to clear out and give me some space. Though," she acknowledges, then. "Jules is rarely around these days anyway."

She inhales the steam from her coffee mug, though it's still far too hot to drink. "I miss the quiet. I love the community, and I love having people, and yet, sometimes, I just want everyone to go away for a little while."

"Sounds like you need a boat." Ravn chuckles. "Or some other place that's off-limits to others. There's a part of me that misses it -- just living on the road, looking at the horizon, and picking a direction. Never look back, never talk to anyone. No responsibility. No past. No concerns beyond whether it's going to rain and whether you can make it to the next bus shelter or hostel. But it's also easy to romanticize it. I was horribly lonely, I just didn't know how to be any different."

He sips his coffee (steel-lined mouth for the win). "And for some reason that reminds me to ask. Do you have a piano somewhere in that old, inherited house of yours? If you do, I think Scullin would just about trade her right arm for playing privileges now and then."

Una's expression turns distinctly amused for the idea of having a boat, but there's a more thoughtful, cautious nod about the rest of it. "I was lonely, too," she says. "In my old life. I think that's what I always have to remember: even when it's all too much and I want some space, I'm so incredibly grateful to have people. It's possible to find quiet when you need it; it's not possible to find community out of nowhere when you need that. Not in the way we mean, anyway."

She pauses-- and then grins. "It needs tuning, probably-- is that the right word?-- but yeah, there's one in the living room. I tend to forget about it, because we just don't sit in there very often. I'll have to tell her. It's funny, you mentioned piano earlier in the week, and it never even occurred to me that, duh, of course I have one."

Ravn nods. "I think she'd like that very much. She misses playing. Hell, you might make an evening out of it now and then, a bit of music, a bit of good food, girl's night?"

He makes a face. "I found out today that it takes upwards of four months to build a violin from scratch."

"You've forgotten how deeply unmusical I am," points out Una, flushing pink. "But yeah. I'll suggest it. And maybe you'll get your chance to play with her, so it's less weird?"

Though, of course, she's registered the rest, too-- and winces. "Four months. Is that what you're going to do, though? Get something custom made?"

"I guess that's how it is. Either you buy what's available here and now, or you wait." Ravn nods. "I haven't decided. I mean, I only play for myself. I don't need a custom-built instrument. Maybe this is some subtle hint from on high or wherever that I'm getting a little too comfortable. I used to have a very firm principle that I would not spend money I had not earned on the road. I mean, that's why I don't own the Vagabond -- I rent her. But then I woke up and found I'd bought a house, and maybe I've been, I don't know, slipping."

"Maybe," says Una, though she doesn't sound particularly convinced. She blows on the surface of her coffee, little good though that will do for cooling it down. "But playing the violin is something you take joy in, I think. I'm guessing. Why not have an instrument that makes you happy? It doesn't need to be a-- uh, one of the famous ones? I don't know. But,"

She inclines her head forward, just once. "Maybe the point is to try out a few and find one that speaks to you. Something will feel right. And if not--" A shrug. "Then you get something made."

"I'll probably end up just buying an off-the-shelf piece. I don't need a Stradivarius, and I wouldn't need to worry much if something happened to it -- like some Roman asshole grabbing it and abusing it." Ravn laughs softly. "There are advantages to not owning fancy things, you know? After the house, I bought my motorcycle, and maybe this is kind of -- a reminder. Don't get too settled. Don't get dependent -- mediocrity does have certain advantages when it comes to not showing the enemy your soft underside. There's nothing the Veil can't take away from you, and the more attached you get, the greater the chance that it might. Detachment is not always a bad thing in this town -- people and things get Lost."

A small smile flits across the man's face. "I enjoyed tonight. It's not a big deal to some, but it's a pretty big deal to these blokes, and to me. "

Una looks, for a moment, as if she'd like to argue the point-- but she shakes her head and lets it go. Another time.

"Good," she says instead. "I'm glad. I enjoyed it too. Maybe pizza next time. I don't know. We'll see."

Her smile is smugly satisfied. A successful venture!