The Widower’s Rant: Oh Beans! (and Boots)

Part I

That second glass of wine can be a cruel mistress sometimes. If there’s an argument for sobriety, it’s to not feel the feels that the second glass occasionally, and unexpectedly, uncorks. But good cooking deserves a nice glass of wine, and after toiling away on my tax prep, a glass or two seemed appropriate. And without so much as a knock on the door, waves of emotion burst into my home. 

Thursday and Friday were such fun days. I was demoing skis in fresh powder on Thursday, then under brilliant blue skies on Friday. 

Curtis came up Friday afternoon so we could catch a few runs together. After a powder day and four sessions, I was spent. I’m pretty sure I cost Curtis a run that day, having to wait for his old man and his 62-year-old depleted muscles. 

After our runs, we went to the pub for a quick pint and a chat. Extreme sports were on the big screen, so we decided to have unhealthy snacks and a second pint. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with my adult son, laughing at fearless athletes who plunged their mountain bikes down the sides of rocky cliffs, was such joy. I didn’t have that kind of relationship with my dad. I’m so lucky to have a different relationship with our kids. I’m still a father, and they will always be my children, but the simple pleasure of enjoying one another’s company while enjoying something we both enjoy was, in a word, enjoyable. Yet, as I sat in my empty home after, I was so sad about the circumstances that enabled us to have that simple moment of joy. 

On the chair lifts, I rode with a few couples, many older than me, enjoying their ski time and adventures together. Together. We were supposed to be on this chair together. We were supposed to go on trips to new places. It sits in my throat like a stuck breadcrumb. Or an undercooked Cannelloni bean. 

About that bean. A few weeks back, I made braised white beans with greens. It was pretty good, but the recipe calls for canned beans to make weeknight cooking possible (cue foreshadowing music). The canned beans available were great northern white beans. A very knowledgeable former chef (not the one you are thinking of; she trained under Jerimiah Tower) informed me that Cannelloni > Great Northern any day.

So before I left to ski, I soaked some artisan dried cannelloni beans Beth's sister brought me. Ten hours of soaking and two different demo skis later, I began to make the dish again. Vegetarian dishes take so much prep! Chopping, chopping, dicing, dicing, and it’s already later than usual. I substituted my lovely, freshly rehydrated Cannelloni beans into the recipe. After braising for a few minutes, the instructions ask to mash some of the beans into the broth. They seemed very resistant to my smashing. I sampled a bean, and, yes, you know it, they are hard as candy rocks. Bleah!

After a bit of internet sleuthing, it became obvious that I had neglected a key step in using rehydrated beans - simmering them for 1+ hours. So much for my impromptu recipe improvisation. It was already late, but there’s no turning back now. Two hours later, the beans began to soften. It’s now after 9PM, almost bedtime, not beantime. I’m full of leftover cheese anyway. A bit more simmering while I eat a token amount, and I have a pot full of leftovers. In the end, aside from the choking episode on the undercooked bean, they tasted pretty good.

I’m happy, I have a wonderful life, and I’m living the dream. Yet, as I stared at Beth’s photo on my desk and she stared back at me, 11 months after she died (still counting), I have the same thought pounding in my head, “How can you not be here?”

There’s a bit of a pattern to my recent rants. Don has an indulgent life, is happy, then something happens, and he’s sad. Boo hoo. Since I’m not (this time) seeking sympathy, and by ranting, I’m hoping to figure out this bumpy ride, I guess I’ll keep ranting until sometime tells me to stop. Or I manage to ride the grief train more effectively than being unexpectedly seated on a bucking bronco. Without the reins. A docile bronco for much of the day. But then, giddyup. 

My buddy, reading my rant cycle, politely and delicately suggested that it might be time for me to do something for someone or something other than me. It’s not a novel thought, something I put on my 2025 to-do list (yes, I have a list). But it was sobering to hear it from a friend. Fortunately, the timing worked out, and through a series of connections, I was put in touch with an organization here at the lake. I signed up to help with the upcoming summer and winter sessions. I’m very excited about this and can’t wait to get started. 

I cooked again tonight but with dried pasta instead of dried beans. I know how to use dried pasta. I had a lot of leftover cheese from D+M’s visit. A few minutes later, I whipped up a decadent, delicious Gorgonzola and Crème Fraîche penne pasta. OMG, it was so good. Yet so wrong not to share it with anyone. 

I lingered over the second glass, scrolling through my socials. Mistake. Beth’s Winery had a lovely post about International Women’s Day. As I leafed through their photos, I suddenly realized someone was missing from the montage. She loved working there, and her years there were among her very happiest. And I lost it. Badly. Bang your head on the granite counter kind of badly. 

How can you not be here?

Part II

This week was pretty much a rinse-and-repeat of the previous. More skiing, more demos, another powder day. I did a new thing, though, and rented a set of backcountry skis and skinned up the mountain to see the sunrise, then downhilled back. 

This is training for some unique adventures coming up and opens a new area of skiing for me to explore beyond the groom. 

Last night, I went to see Curtis and to watch the season opening F1 race together. Walked Ronin, had Mexican food (Mole Wings is a thing, and they are amazing), and enjoyed the race. Since it was late, I stayed over and grabbed a sleeping bag on the couch. Ronin, very unusually for him, climbed up and nestled beside my legs. He stayed all night. I can’t remember the last time Ronin climbed into bed with Beth and me. In the morning, I didn’t want to leave the couch and disturb him and the comfort he was seeking. But sunrise, the need to pee, and the desire for coffee are potent force multipliers. So I pet Ronin and thanked him for spending the night with me. The look in his eyes was overwhelming. I know he misses me, but something about that plaintive look said he misses the life he lost eleven months and one week ago (more counting). I want that life back, too. As I quietly sobbed with my doggie, I thought about the alternatives for him. He’s in the best place for him. A comfortable, dog-friendly home, a sunny backyard, and endless attention from two people who love him as much as I do. Yet I could not shake the guilt and my own desire to have my doggie with me. Not the way I wanted to start the day. 

I previously ranted about Beth being in my dreams. The other night, I had a dream about having fun at some sort of venue or event, and I recall saying to no one in particular, “Beth would have enjoyed this.” I woke shortly after and thought to myself that dreaming of her in this past-tense way must mean my brain was finally making sense of the permanence of the absence. About time. 

Ha! Grief laughs at this folly. Grief is an asshole.

I ran a few errands with Curtis, and we checked out a new ski shop. As we walked through, they had a display of vintage skis and memorabilia. And then I spotted them: my ski boots from the late 80’s: Salomon SX-91 Equipe. I grabbed one and showed it to Curtis. “These were my favorite boots!” I exclaimed. And without thinking, I reached for my phone to take a picture. To text it to Beth. I could hear the air escaping my lungs as reality hit me in the forehead.

This is the first time I had an automatic reaction like this. I’ve been so pragmatic about the loss, the finality, the reality. But in that second, I wanted to share this moment of joy with her. About remembering all our ski trips together where I wore those boots. The times we shared. The plans we made. All because I found my old boots and three neurons fired, triggering an automatic reaction before the pragmatic part of my brain could intervene. Fuck. I was kicked in the stomach, in the shins, and pallets of dried cannellini beans dropped on my head at once. Owie, Owie, Owie. My immediate mission was to hold it together in the store, in front of my son. 

Driving back to his place, all I could do was think about not thinking about this. And realized that if I saw Ronin look at me with his sad eyes, I’d instantly be reduced to a puddle. So I said goodbye to my son at the curb, my emotional reserve depleted. And once again, I drove away sobbing in Carson City. All over a pair of stupid boots. This would be a useful feature for the next generation of smart glasses. It could announce in your earpiece, “Warning. If you look up on the shelf, it will uncork a pleasant memory that will make you uncomfortably sad. So don’t do something silly like try to text your dead wife.” 

I wanted to double-check the vintage of the boots, I searched and I found an article about them. The internet is amazing. 

A storm is coming in tonight. Another powder day is on the horizon. I’m so lucky. And yet I miss her so badly I can’t see straight. 

There’s a silver lining to this week’s episode of the grief coaster. I was sober. All those emotions surfaced without fermented assistance. So now I’m headed to the cellar for a bottle of wine to go with the salmon. Maybe a second glass too.

How can you not be here?

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald