Biscuits and Marriage

Ann and I married almost 2 years ago in Portland during that brief window of sanity when Multnomah County granted marriage licenses to same-sex couples. For $60 we snagged a license, said our handwritten vows in a light-filled room crowded with couples and ministers of every ilk -- Buddhist monks, Catholic priets, Goddesses, and Witches. We picked a thick woman because she looked like she came from Montana and had built her own house. Plus, she had a Mary Oliver book on her table. I can't even remember her name now, but it doesn't matter...we have pictures of her holding Mary Oliver in her hands.

On the license we had to designate who would be the bride and who would be the groom. We played rock/paper/scissors and Ann won (she always wins) and she chose to be the groom. My fate...a bride.

We'd purchased our rings a month before, wore them even before we were married, but exchanged them ceremoniously on the bright March afternoon. Our dear friends Jeanne and Lisa got married too and we each served as witnesses for the other's ceremony. We feasted that night on Thai or Japanese food...again, I can't remember all the details...but it was festive and right and filled with lots of laughter.

When we got home, I made Ann carry me across the threshold. As I'm taller and about 30 pounds heavier, I jumped on her back and she lugged me up the front steps, groaning the whole way.

We framed the marriage certificate and giggled every time we looked at the Oregon Trail wagon scene embossed along the bottom of the paper. It was a journey -- to find each other, to find a state where it was okay, to find the time in our busy schedules, to finally find the country, our country, hesitantly willing to embrace the possibility.

Six months later the State of Oregon sent us back our $60 and informed us that our certificate was no longer valid. The Oregon State Supreme Court overturned the County and we were left with wagon wheels on our wall and pictures of light and laughter and a lovely bouquet of fresh wild flowers.

Tonight I made biscuits. The flour went everywhere, especially when I had to pour a new bag into the large glass container. Most of the flour went into the right place, but a huge pile formed on the counter like Mt. Hood, slightly jagged at the top. With one swift swipe I pushed the fallen flour back into the jar and laughed as my black sweater turned white and the dog's nose, just under the counter grayed in excitement of the falling food.

I washed down the counter, cleaned up my mess, and placed the biscuits in the oven. I'd taken off my watch, which I moved onto the table as I prepared to wash the dishes. But I'd also taken off my wedding ring, trying to avoid getting goo in the crevices.

The ring was not on the counter.

I looked on the floor. I looked under the dish towels. I looked under the cutting board where I'd rolled out the dough. I looked in the garbage disposal in case rolled without my noticing. I searched through my pockets dusty with flour. I looked in the waste basket under the sink in case I'd thrown it out with the empty bag. I even thought of looking at the dog in case he'd swallowed the ring thinking it tasted good.

Then I looked in the flour jar and laughed at myself. I couldn't see my ring, but something told me that it was buried in the white fluff.

I refused to believe it and once again checked the garbage disposal, the dish towels, my pockets, and the dog.

No ring.

I opened the lid of the jar and gently pushed my hand into the soft top layer. I used to love to play in the flour drawer at my baby sitter's house. Flour is soft, like a grandmother's skin and the smell is of bread and cakes and all things home.

It didn't take me long to feel the hard silver of the band deep within the jar. My hand was covered in white and so was the ring. And then I realized, the mound on the countertop had covered the ring...I'd pushed that mountain of flour into the jar, my ring along with it.

Ann walked into the kitchen and I told her the story. She laughed and said, "I wonder what it means?"

"That I 'knead' you," I responded.

She didn't laugh, though I'm certain she smiled. After 2 years of marriage she still admires my puns though no longer acknowledges them.

What does it mean?

It's memory. It's a moment when you are forced to remember the journey, the light, the woman who read Mary Oliver while we held flowers and hands, the friends, the disappointment of being $60 richer, and the silliness of choosing who would be the bride and who would be the groom.

It's biscuits on a cold night...with melting butter and raspberry jam.

Tonight I'm going to ask Ann to carry me across the threshold again.