Daria's Birthday Party

The sun stares relentlessly through a shocking, high-desert blue sky, it’s turning into a hot afternoon. Anticipating it will be cooler in the mountains I decide to open the car windows and forgo the AC. The thermometer in the car reads 86º F., and making my way along Hyde Park Road to the Santa Fe Ski Basin, it’s not dropping fast enough, the interior of the car is roasting. With the heat, and every bump and curve in the road, my cupcake anxiety ratchets up a notch.

I’m bringing cupcakes and wine. Really, for any occasion, could there be a better combination? By the time I get to Black Canyon I can’t stand it any longer so pull over to check on my little carrot cake creations. With images in mind of melted frosting and cupcakes strewn in all directions, I pop the rear hatch, brace myself, and take a look. The dozen cakes stare up at me from the foil-lined box, sitting just as I had placed them. What a relief! Worries cast aside I continue, at a very relaxed pace which makes for an unusually mellow, smell-the-roses, drive.

I’ve been known to take this twisting hill climb with right foot mashed on the gas pedal and hands full of steering wheel and gear shift, as close to the limit of the tire’s adhesion as I’m willing to take it, and loving every minute. The saying, “It’s better to drive a slow car fast than a fast car slow,” is true. Given my propensity for speed, it comes as complete, sweet, poetic justice that a motorhome should storm up behind me, filling my rearview mirror. Pushy, pushy. The poor motorhome pilot’s speedy forward progress is impeded by the slow-going vehicle firmly planted before him. Tisk, tisk. With the tables so turned, I grin and take my time.

The altitude at the lower Ski Basin parking lot is over 10,000 feet, and the temperature is a refreshing 74º. Daria’s car is parked at the perimeter, and tents and camping accouterments are set up at a site right next to it, but no one is around. This is all fine and well - Daria told me she and fellow partiers would probably be out for a hike. Walking into the campsite with box of cupcakes in hand, I realize there’s nothing about the setup clearly identifying it as Daria’s. There’s a good chance I’m wandering into the unoccupied territory of some other party, which could become awkward. Boxes of artist’s brushes and paints however, are mixed in with the bottles of water, camp stove, cooking pots and paper towels on the picnic table, so figuring it’s a safe bet, I set the cupcakes on the tabletop. If it proves otherwise, I’ll give the barged-in-upon strangers a cake or three in parting. That should smooth any ruffled feathers. A small camp chair sits by the stream, so I go back to the car, get my book and set myself comfortably to reading.

Mountain air, a babbling brook, relaxation, and I didn’t sleep well last night, so nodding off is a real possibility. In fifteen or so minutes, to my relief, Daria, her dog Spike, and her friend Lisa come walking up. There are happy birthday wishes and hugs, and as they’ve just hiked Deception Peak without any lunch they are famished. Lisa carves up a watermelon, cold from sitting in the stream. We munch the sweet and juicy chunks while Daria cracks open an ice-cold Heineken tall-boy which we share, and sets to heating homemade rice pilaf on the stove. She asks me if I’d like some, and given she’s a great cook and I am a bit peckish I’m all for it.

Tall spruce trees shade the site, we sip the beer, catch up on what’s been going on, the rice pilaf steams in the pan, and so a great summer time begins. I open the wine, a Petit Sirah, and pour it around, the color a luscious and deep blueberry-red. The grapes on the vine must be beautiful. Daria serves the pilaf. She ladles some on my plate, I indicate this is enough and she adds another spoonful. Daria always does this, it’s very sweet. She could be trying to fatten me up… and she could be succeeding. Somehow I always manage to clean my plate without any trouble.

There are also the makings for shish kebab, but we have no skewers or firewood. Daria and Lisa are still hungry so Daria improvises, sautéing some of the marinated pork and slices of zucchini squash. We continue to nosh, polish off the wine and move on to the cupcakes which are met with favorable reviews. Reinforcements arrive in the nick of time, it’s Daria’s son Dave and his buddy Tom, and they, being young men are happy to crash around the forest and gather firewood. Lucy shows up with a kale salad, Dave and Tom get a fire going and we are in business.

Afternoon fades into evening as we hang out and feast. The pork cooked over the open fire, succulent and sizzling, is delicious. Daria makes use of the aluminum foil from the cupcake box (the cakes are nearly gone) to wrap potatoes for roasting in the fire. Once wrapped she places them in the coals, and after a while, with sticks and quick jabs of the fingers, Dave and Tom turn them.

With darkness the temperature plummets and we sit close to the fire. Looking up through the canopy of trees, the dark sky is a blaze of stars. The potatoes are done, Daria hands one to each of us. I unwrap mine and munch on it, steaming, the flavor is earthy, this ancient food staple is so simple and satisfying. The French call a potato, pomme de terre or “apple of the earth.” Indeed.

Daria gets her guitar and starts to play. She sings a series of Russian folk songs, in Russian, her native tongue. One song builds to a crescendo, then she slaps the body of the guitar and stops, I think this is the end, but no, in a few seconds she starts and again, quietly, slowly, the song builds. It goes through this cycle a few times, when it ends with a flourish, she identifies it as a, “Gypsy song.” The songs have been beautiful to listen to, haunting, each a connection to a place and culture largely unknown to me. Daria then becomes quiet. I look at her, she is gazing into the fire, a long distant gaze perhaps thousands of miles to home. No doubt some part of her heart still belongs to Russia.

The hour is late, I give my thanks and head for home. Here and there deer browse green thickets by the road. They are content to eat and I am content to pass slowly and without incident. Driving the twists and turns in the flood of high beam light is dynamic and engaging. Even without cupcakes or motorhomes, there are the deer, so I enjoy the drive in a slo-mo rally way.

My first glimpse of city lights through the trees I mistake for being fire. For an instant, a powerful alarm rises from deep within. Now, driving through downtown Santa Fe, the place is alive with people on the streets, it’s nice to see them out enjoying this summer night. Yet, after sharing a fire in the woods with friends, feeling if only briefly a bit of the Gypsy life, this built environment seems oddly remote from what matters. It’s warmer here, I open the car windows, air floods in, laden with a pungent mix of city smells. When I get to my place I look up to the sky. Only the brightest stars show.

Gordon Bunker