In the Window Between Storms

The rule around here is to make sure you're on the 'right' side of the creek when the big rains come. The Gaviota crossing will inevitably flood, and then you're marooned for awhile on whatever side you happen to be, unless you're willing to make a trek across the railroad trestle, which in my mind is a terrifying prospect. (I did it once, perhaps somewhat symbolically, on my 50th birthday.)

Most recently, however, we have had a series of storms with breaks in between for quick getaways. On Friday I ventured into Santa Barbara, good citizen that am, to wade in the jury pool (a story in itself). The sky was still looking tentative then, and by mid-afternoon the winds were howling even by Gaviota standards, but the muddy crossing had been bulldozed clear and the creek had settled down a bit. It was smooth sailing.

The following morning we awoke to sunshine (enough to do our overdue laundry without running the generator) and a sky almost eerily blue. Frankly, the world was dazzling. We walked up the canyon to check things out -- a few old oak branches down, no major damage. We saw our neighbor Jeanne and talked for a bit, much in the manner of 1950s housewives who used to chat over the backyard fence while hanging their laundry on the clothesline, except that our fence is a gorge and we shout above the roar and ruckus of Sacate Creek.

A few days ago Jeanne and I went out in the rain wearing raincoats and rubber boots and it was very much like being ten years old. Occasionally where the water was pooling into deep puddles on the road, we made little channels to divert it, using the toes of our boots to dig into the mud. It was very satisfying work.

Now Monte and I decided to head into this bright open window between storms and get some errands done.

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So check this out: Snow on the mountains above the green hills of the Santa Ynez Valley. That picture was taken from the top of Nojoqui Pass, just off the 101, on the way into Solvang. And this is the way it was. Picture postcard beautiful everywhere you turned.

Arriving in Solvang, we stopped for lunch in Ethiopia, otherwise known as the Blue Nile Café. Almaz greeted me with a tiny cup of rich black Ethiopian coffee -- and believe me, Italian espresso has nothing on this stuff. 'Of course it's the best,' said Almaz with pride. 'My country is where coffee started.'

There followed a feast of spiced lentils -- the distinctive spice is a red pepper called berberi -- and other vegetables served on a large platter, to be eaten without the bother of utensils, scooping up savory mouthfuls with a soft bread called injera. Ethiopian tortillas? Not quite. They are more spongy and crepe-like, so airy light you can see the tiny bubbles.

'We have an old civilization,' Almaz said. 'The tribe I'm from is one that traces to ancient Egypt. But there are too many wars. All the time I was growing up, wars. Somehow you survive, and here we are. Maybe when my son is sixteen, we'll go back for a visit.'

In the meantime, there is a little bit of Ethiopia incongruously nestled in the midst of California's famously kitsch Danish village.

Oh dear. This is suddenly sounding like a food blog. But people quietly doing beautiful things with pride and care, well, that's the sort of thing I like to celebrate -- and that's what was happening at the Blue Nile Café.

So naturally we lingered there longer than we thought we would, then quickly did our various errands while marveling at the sky and the mountains.

I know I'm being effusive here, but the light. Oh, the light.

And the snow on the mountains. Everyone seemed to feel the enchantment.

Here's another view, looking up from Refugio Road.

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We made it back to the Ranch just as the skies were summoning up their angriest gods. And we took a beating last night -- the winds were violent, rain lashed against the windows, and at times it felt as though the whole house was shaking.

Now through the rain-streaked glass the hills look luminous and green, the world has the shimmer and shine of mirage, and it's raining and blowing still. It will be like this at least for today. As for me, I just feel humble and grateful, and, yes, still amazed. There's a bowl of oranges on the table, and I have a good stack of books from the library, and we even have an internet connection for the moment. All is well.

We're on the right side of the creek.