What 9 Months at the Beach Taught Me

When I was about 4 years old, my mom decided to move us from California up to the Oregon coast. She was burned out on the California vibe and eager to start over in a new town.

Mom was 27 years old and divorced my dad when I was two. My dad was against the idea of her taking me out of state but she had full custody. Even at 4 years old I knew. My mom was not one to argue with.

We moved in with a guy my mom had been dating. He decided to move to Oregon and invited us to join him in a tiny fishing town called Winchester Bay. Jack rented a small beach cottage and set up his leather business in the garage. When he wasn't hand stitching leather goods, he was fishing or listening to the Doobie Brothers (with a doobie on the side).

We flew up to Oregon and outfitted the cottage with thrifting finds. Mom found bark cloth material and made window curtains. She cut a large piece of floral oil cloth to use as a table covering. She hung peg board behind the stove for a place to hang cooking utensils. Back then it was easy to find homemade quilts in excellent condition at second hand shops. Mom used them as slip covers for the old sofas. She was upcycling way before upcycling was cool.

Mom says Jack treated me as his own daughter but I already had a dad and certainly didn't need another. I don't remember much of Jack other than the time I decided to hitch hike my way out of town (spoiler alert, no one picked me up) and the fact he chose to walk around the house naked. I'm sure he was a nice guy and all, but his pale, freckled ass made me hate him.

Mom quickly found work as a part time waitress and along with Jack's leather business, it was enough to live on. Hello, 1970's. I became fast friend's with Joe's 5 year old nephew and we would play for hours outside. Mom found a Sherpa lined jean jacket and heavy brown hiking boots for me at the thrift store. I was set for blustery coastal weather.

Often mom and I would beachcomb, bringing back huge glass Japanese fishing balls that had broken loose from Japanese fishing boats, shells and unique pieces of driftwood. It was a treasure trove of wonder on that beach. Other days we would pack a picnic and hike up Smith River where fields of daffodils grew in abundance. We would pick bouquets by the armful and eat our sandwiches on the porch of an abandoned house.

Every morning when she was done with her breakfast shift at the café, Mom walked a few doors down to the smokehouse and bought the fresh catch of the day. Often, she would purchase one avocado and a lemon, come home and create gigantic shrimp louies, dressed with her homemade thousand island dressing. She made crab cocktails, mixing up her own sauce with lots of horseradish. I couldn't get enough.

Her cooking really took off during those months. At night she would fry up fresh sole in panko crumbs, lemon and butter or grill salmon outside on the little Hibachi grill. She taught herself how to make homemade bread out of an old McCall's cookbook. When mom mixed up a new batch of bread dough she always cut off a portion for me so I could make my own loaf. She had a mini sized loaf pan for me to use. We would have the best time shaping our loaves together and enjoying them warm out of the oven, sliced thick with lots of butter.

We lived in that little beach cottage for 9 months before moving back to California. Mom hated to leave and in a sense, I did as well. Those 9 months instilled in me, at the ripe age of 4, a love for cooking. While my grandmothers played integral roles, it REALLY began with my mom.

Today when I bake my own bread, the fragrant, yeasty smell of rising dough transports me back to Winchester Bay. I'll always remember the tiny beach cottage, the fog rolling in, the bundles of daffodils, fresh seafood and of course, Jack's butt.

Mom is 70 years old now and even though 43 years have passed, the memories remain vivid. It was there my life became rooted in the beauty of creating meals, cooking from scratch and sourcing local foods. Simple appreciation and comfort found while seated around a dinner table.

Often, our passions take hold in our lives when we're very young and I have my mom to thank for being intentional in showing me a different way of life. A better way of life. A life where contentment is found in the simple things.

Mom and I later on when I was in 4th grade