First Visit by Leo Racicot

I'd heard that Glen Ellen was a sleeping beauty of a town, nestled in the quiet hills of California's Valley of the Moon. But the first time I arrived there, to meet my pen pal, M.F.K. Fisher, a raging days-long rainstorm had woken the dormant princess up with a bang. Violent storms had hit Northern California, slamming the area non-stop for days on end. On the bus ride up from San Francisco, through muddy  roads and blocked highways the whole way, I was sure I wasn't going to make it to my destination. 

But I did make it. 

The bus deposited me at Jack London Lodge. Every step I took with my suitcase toward the check-in desk found my sneakers deep in slippery ocre-colored earth.  I remember thinking,  "Was this a mistake?"  

After I unpacked, I hop-switched over to a country store for some bedtime snacks. Two peacocks passed by my feet, one boldly fanning his turquoise eyes, the other barking at me. I didn't sleep all night. I don't think it was the chocolate bar that kept me awake but my nerves; I was told Mrs. Fisher's all-around man, Pat Moran, would be collecting me early next morning to drive me up to Last House.  I kept telling myself what a thrill it was -- I was going to meet my pen pal, culinary legend, M.F.K. Fisher; we'd been exchanging letters back-and-forth ever since I'd written her a fan letter telling her how much I liked her collection, As They Were.  Her letters to me (now housed with her private papers at Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe), were marvelous, magical whereas mine struggled to impress. 

At what seemed like the crack of dawn, a tiny yellow VW bug pulled up at The Lodge and off Pat and I went. Everywhere around us were the signs of the now-quieted storm; almost impassable mud, the indescribable intoxication of eucalyptus, wet earth and perfumed lupines, a scent I can still feel deeply in my nostrils all these many years later, heady and sweet. There was, here in Northern California, such a different air from the one in my native New England, a fragrance in every breeze.

Along the roads, the fallen branches of buckeyes and willows made it hard to believe we'd ever get where we were going. In the back of a creaky truck, we saw a group of migrants, brought north from Texas and Mexico to work the fields. They were huddled together, their hands folded on their laps, heads down,as if in prayer. They reminded me of the beautiful Woody Gurthrie song, Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos) and I grew sad. 

My sadness fell instantly away as Pat veered the bug off Highway 12 onto the road leading to Mrs. Fisher's home. I gulped. On the horizon I saw a large pond rippling in the  wake of the storm, a body of water I would later come to know as Herger's Pit and on subsequent visits to the pretty casita at 13935 Sonoma Highway was to become very fond of. 

As we approached, I heard loud, unseen frogs, their croaks giving thanks that they'd made it through the floods. Several children, all of them towheads, enlivened the fields around the pond with their laughter and kid energy. Pat introduced me to his wife,  Marsha Moran, Mary Frances' longtime trusty assistant and sidekick. She was pretty in her dainty prairie blouse, beads and faded jeans, her country girl complexion. The mothers of the children came over to say "hi" and I was ushered inside. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the change of light inside the house which was cool and dark. Mary Frances had placed herself so matter-of-factly among her guests, among the kids and their mothers, at first, I had trouble making her out. When I did, I saw that she was prettier than any photo, dressed in smart gray slacks and a casual purple turtleneck. Wisps of feathery white hair fell around her neck. Blue-grey-green eyes shot me a mischievous welcome.

She stretched out her hand, saying, "Leo! You made it!".  Her smile covered the room. All my trepidation fell away and I noticed that outside the sun had come out....

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Folks sometimes ask me what was served that first day. I remember it as if it was yesterday. For lunch: tomato soup, oven muffins, a tossed salad, white wine. For the evening meal: lamb chops ("Take it; I can't look at it."), peas and tomatoes vinaigrette, baked potato with real butter, red wine.

Leo Racicot is an award-winning essay-memoirist, poet, book and film reviewer. He lives in Lowell, Massachusetts