First Tomato

Of the gazillion books I have kept from my children's childhood (because someday there will be grandchildren, right?), a favorite is Rosemary Wells' three-story collection, Voyage to the Bunny Planet.  And our favorite of the three, hands down, was First Tomato.

When the kids were little, their dad was the gardener.  (I only took it up after he died, feeling that it was somehow a way to keep his legacy alive.  I have never regretted that decision.) Of course, we grew tomatoes.  (This is New Jersey.)  The first red tomato was cause for celebration, and part of the celebration was reading Wells' book.

A ruby red tomato is hanging on the vine. 
If my mother didn’t want it, the tomato would be mine.

It smells of rain and steamy earth and hot June sun. 

In the whole tomato garden it’s the only ripe one. 

I close my eyes and breathe in its fat red smell. 

I wish that I could eat it now and never, never tell.

But I save it for my mother without another look.

I wash the beans and shell the peas and watch my mother cook.

I hear my mother calling when the summer winds blow. 

“I’ve made you first tomato soup because I love you so.”

 

So.  First tomato.  And here it is:

It's the one on the right.  I didn't pick it.  I will give it one more day to get really, really red.  And there are more where that came from:

They will all come at once and it will be hard to keep up with them.  I will eat them every day.  And then there will be soup and sauce and paste and sun-dried tomatoes, enough to get me through the winter.

If you can't find the love in this, I simply cannot help you.

 

 

Echinacea

Echinacea cures everything, from colds to cancer.  Hmmpf.  I doubt that.  But Echinacea purpurea is a right pretty flower.  Its other name is coneflower.  That works, too.

A few years ago, I bought a few echinacea plants when a local nursery was having a perennial sale (something I rarely see anymore).  I will never need to purchase any echinacea plants again, ever.  That pretty flower, it turns out, is quite persistent.  (Read:  invasive.)  Whatever plants I bought years ago have multiplied tenfold.  I made the mistake of transplanting some into a sloped rock garden two years ago.  Well, echinacea is just too tall to be part of a rock garden, so last summer, I yanked them all out.  Guess what?  They're back!  With a vengeance, I might add.

But as I forgive the primrose, I will forgive the echinacea.  (And will forgive the black-eyed Susans shortly.)  How could I not?  Just look at them!  Here, look again:

Echinacea lines one border of my vegetable gardens.  This is their third year.  Perhaps you know the mantra:  First year, they sleep.  Second year, they creep.  Third year, they leap.  No doubt about it.  Clearly, my echinacea is leaping.

Echinacea has it all:  height, unique color, attitude (just look at those slumped shoulders), prestige, and health cred.  And it has street cred, too:  This Native American medicinal plant called echinacea is  named for the prickly scales in its large conical seed head, which resembles the spines of an angry hedgehog (echinos is Greek for hedgehog).  (University of Maryland).  Everyone knows you never mess with an angry hedgehog.

(Hmmm . . now I wonder if this could be related to the fact that a groundhog has taken up residence nearby?)

But look!  I am not the only one who admires the echinacea!

This butterfly fluttered around from plant to plant all afternoon.  Clearly, he's a fan.





Or check this out:

Now, you know about the recent plight of the honeybee.  Let me state here and now that I am doing my part to save the honeybee.

Yes, I am in love with echinacea, no matter how invasive it chooses to be.  It can spread its pink/lavender beauty all over my property, it can attract all the butterflies, dragonflies, honeybees and hummingbirds it wants, it can invade every garden it sees.  It's all good.

Farmlands and Foothills

I'm not even sure if the signs are still there, but the greeting posted on any road leading to my county said Welcome to the Farmlands and Foothills of . . .   In my younger years, I might have groaned at the corny (no pun intended) alliteration of the phrase.  Having lived here now most of my life, I embrace the sentiment.

This afternoon, my daughters and I made the trek into NYC to catch a concert at Central Park Summerstage.  This involved driving 40 minutes to the nearest train station, arriving at Penn Station, taking the E train, then walking to the entrance at the Park.  It was all sensory overload for me.  I was grateful that I was in the company of three 20-somethings who seem more willing and able to navigate the crowds, the noise, the confusion, the signs, and the crazies who yell out bad stuff.  Let's face it, I am not a city person.

Although being 50 miles (and a couple of hours) from New York City can be a plus, I have become more and more discerning about what events will coerce me into leaving my country paradise.  Broadway shows?  Not likely.  Sporting events?  Nah.  (Although I probably wouldn't say no to a Mets game.)  Museums?  Okay, if someone else is driving.  Concerts?  Yep, that's my weakness.

Anyway, the point of this post is to tell you what I fell in love with today.  I may have been in NYC, but I fell in love all over again with my county, my farmlands and foothills.  While making our way to the concert venue, I tried to imagine living in the city.  Immediately, I thought of all the things I would no longer enjoy, little things like fresh air, open space, many green things, various critters, my gardens, my car, back roads, hiking trails, well water, and most importantly, quiet.  I live among bear, deer, coyotes, trees, wetlands, lakes, ponds, streams, farms, flowers, woods, dirt roads, hills, and valleys.  It is mostly peaceful here.

Being in the city allowed me to fall in love with the place in which I live . . . all over again.

Oh, the concert?  Conor Oberst and Dawes were fantastic!  Good times!

Summer Rain

Summer rain taps at my window
West wind soft as a sweet dream
My love warm as the sunshine
Sittin' here by me, she's here by me


It was 1967.  I was 17.  (When you are born in 1950, you always know how old you were in any given year.)  Johnny Rivers crooned from the radio or the juke box and we all swooned to this song.  It can still wring out my heart.


Today was one of those "mix of sun and clouds" days.  I would go out to the garden when the sun was out, then seek inside when the cloud cover chilled the air.  It was like that all day.  And then, late afternoon, the wind whipped up, the sky darkened, and there was a brief but serious rain.


Minutes later, the sun was out again.  It was then that I had to run an errand, so I headed down our back road.  When I got to the county road, the steam rising up from the asphalt was thick and mysterious.  And I was transported.


Who knows why we remember what we remember?  Maybe I was nine or ten that late May afternoon when the sky opened up and then, just as suddenly, relented.  I was dressed in my Sunday best, ready (but nervous!) for my piano recital at a nearby church hall.  In my memory's eye, I watch myself walk down the street to my aunt's house.  I no longer remember why, but that's not important.  The memory lives not because of any importance to the event, but because the atmosphere spoke to me that day.  Perhaps it was my first awareness that the earth could be cleansed, that after a weather event, there is calm and beauty and mystery.  I have carried this memory with me for 55 years.  It must mean something.


We sailed into the sunset
Drifted home, caught by a gulf stream
Never gave a thought for tomorrow
Just let tomorrow be, now, let tomorrow be


And now it's tomorrow.  Fifty-five years later, and a summer rain can still evoke something from me.  I can't define it; I can't articulate it.  But I can fall in love with it all over again.


Again and again.

Kale Chips

Before:

After:

Whoops!  I ate the kale chips so fast, I forgot to take a picture!  But they taste better than they look anyway.

Kale is trendy.  I have seen bumper stickers that say Eat More Kale.

Of course, that's actually a T-shirt company.  From the website:  Eat More Kale is a movement, a t-shirt revolution.  If nothing else, Eat More Kale is Vermont's One-At-A-Time Original Design T-Shirts.  They do have some kale recipes on the site, though.

But let's get back to the kale chips.  These are extremely easy to make, but be prepared that a huge bunch of kale will be reduced to a handful of chips.

All you have to do is pick a bunch of kale from your garden.  (Or buy a bunch of kale from a farmer's market.)  Sit at the table on your front porch and start ripping the kale into chip-size pieces, making sure to remove the woody stems as you do.  I think curly kale is the best, but my current crop of kale doesn't have as much curliness as a previous crop.  (Word to the wise:  do not purchase seeds for something called Dinosaur Kale.  I found out last year that the bugs love that kale more than the standard kale; I got nothing out of last year's crop.)

Run your kale through a salad spinner, place it in a large bowl, drizzle some olive oil on it, and get your hands in there to spread the love around.  Add some seasoned salt and some smoked paprika (or anything else you like) and then spread the pieces on a parchment-lined cookie sheet.  Sprinkle on a little more of the salt and spice, then bake in a 350-degree oven for about 12 minutes.  (Keep an eye on it; you don't want the chips to burn.)

And there you have it:  kale chips!  Love should be this easy, right?

I will be enjoying kale chips for quite some time, because look:

Baby Kale

 Keep the love coming, Kale!

Edie's Morning Glories

If you were expecting some gorgeous photographs of morning glories, I'm afraid I will be disappointing you.  There will be pictures, but they are not gorgeous.  Yet.  Wait for it.

And you might be wondering, "Who is Edie?"  So I will start there.

Edie was the mother of one of my very best childhood friends.  But Edie was pretty much a mother and a friend to all of us kids.  Connie and I became very close starting in seventh grade, just the time when kids are beginning their teenage rebellion tour.  Mischievous would be the best word to describe Connie (although not all adults, my father included, would have used that term) but also fun-loving, curious, adventurous, and creative.  Connie got all those things from Edie.

Connie and Edie

Connie's father died when we were in seventh grade, a frightening event for all of us.  I can still see young Connie at the funeral home, all dressed up in her Sunday dress, and none of us knew what to say or do.  We didn't know what happened when a parent died.  But Edie knew.  She got busy making a life for Connie.  Edie worked at the local soda fountain, so she became quite familiar with all the teenagers in town.  Pretty sure she knew about all the mischief Connie created, too.  But she was a steady force in Connie's life, involved and loving.  And that didn't stop when Connie became an adult.  I would have a hard time coming up with a closer mother-daughter combo than Edie and Connie.

Edie died a few years ago, but her memory is strong.  Connie talks lovingly about so many things her mother taught her.  One of those things is growing flowers.  Connie has seeds from some of her mother's flowers, which she has planted at her own home.  Last summer, she sent me a package of morning glory seeds in the mail, warning me that they are perennial morning glories and tend to be just a little bit invasive.

But I love morning glories!  So I planted some seeds here and there and watched them grow.  Thought of Edie every time I looked at them.

I'd expected that this year, the morning glories would return in the same places.  I watched those places, eagerly awaiting the first signs of the returning plants.  Hmmm . . . they didn't seem to be coming back.  And then I looked nearby and found them popping up elsewhere!  Isn't that just like Edie!  Did I mention mischievous?  Morning glories in my strawberry patch, morning glories fighting for space in the nasturtium pots, morning glories just popping up through the stones on the ground!

So I transplanted some and left some where Edie had moved them.  As this is only the second year of their stay here, they are not as hardy as I expect them to be next year.  Can't wait to see where Edie moves them to then!

Meanwhile, every blossom brings a smile to my face and thoughts of Edie.  I am looking forward to blossoms in Pete's wedding shoes, when I can imagine some mischievous encounter in some other world by two spirits who were so full of life.  And love.





Post-script:  the very next morning:

Glass Half

Empty or full?

This post marks the halfway point in my determination to fall in love with something every day for a year.  I will be the first to admit that on some days, it was a stretch, a chore, a bust, or a lie.  Ouch.  Well, maybe not a lie . . . but I'm still not sure I loved that stinkbug.

And how do I feel at this halfway point?  On the glass-half-full side, I am proud of myself for posting 182 days in a row.  I know that a couple of the posts were good ones, and I am grateful that the writing process allowed me to make the discoveries that I did.  On the glass-half-empty side, I am already thinking what the hell am I going to find to fall in love with for another 183 days?  And I admit to being exhausted that I'm only halfway done.

I am going to try not to dwell on that.  Take it one day at a time, as the cliche goes.  I am drawn back to the James Taylor song, Secret O' Life:

Nobody knows how we got
To the top of the hill.
But since we're on our way down,
We might as well enjoy the ride.

So I am on my way down.  Oh, dear, that sounds depressing!  But slide down I will, and I will take you with me, if you are willing to go.

Is the glass half empty or half full?  Which came first, the chicken or the egg?  These are silly questions, of course, but they want very much to provoke a conversation, to engage us in a philosophical discussion of the meaning of life.  It is my personal belief that the meaning of life is different for each one of us.  Some of us think the glass is half full, and some of us go for a refill in order to deny that the glass is half empty.  I probably fall into the latter category.

What I know right now is that my blog is half-full and my blog is half-empty.  Tune in tomorrow to find out if the scales are tipped one way or another.

AT&T

I have been to Montana.  I am not in Montana now.  But one of my oldest (as in have-known-for-a-long-time) and dearest (as in pick-up-where-we-left-off) friends is "back home" in New Jersey for a visit.  Terry (we share the same name) moved to Big Sky Country nearly thirty years ago.  Our visits are rare, but they always feel like home.

And there are three of us.  We are AT&T.  Allyn, Terry and Terry.  We have taken a couple of road trips together, one on the West Coast and one which included Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons.  We have vacationed in Florida together, too.  Our travels are well documented:

2009

2010

                                                                               

2012

Perhaps you see a theme?
And here we are tonight, at it again with a slight variation:

We met around 40 years ago.  We have history.  Pretty sure we have a future, too.  One built on love. (And Bloody Marys.)

The Difference in Daughters

I have two daughters.  They are very different.  If you are a parent of multiple offspring, I am sure you sometimes wonder how they came out of the same place.  It is puzzling, but it is wonderful.

Both of my daughters are home at this moment.  One returned recently from a year working in Australia.  The other, a grad student in Florida, is home for a two-week visit.  I can't remember the last time I had both of them here at the same time.  (I also have a son who is currently living in California.)  It feels like a full house now, despite the absence of one of my children.  Everything is relative.

It's only been one day (not even) and we are figuring this thing out.  We tread carefully.  Although we seem to be on the same page ideologically and politically, there are differences in our world views at times, and so we are careful not to trample on one another's belief system.  It's a big house; if things get tense, we can retreat to our separate corners, thereby avoiding that which none of us wants.

But that is not the point of this post.  I love my daughters.  I love their differences.  I love my relationship with each of them, separate from the other.  I admit, it is sometimes difficult to balance the differences, to come across as fair to each of them, to try to make them understand that my love for each of them may be different in delivery, but not different in intensity.  I suppose that is something that only a parent of multiple children can understand.

But they are both here, now, and I love this.  It is a temporary situation, and I am intent on cherishing it while it is real.  Tonight, I will lock the doors, turn out the lights, and know that my two girls are both under the same roof.  In the morning, they will still be here, and we will drink coffee together, fix our different breakfasts, and go about our days separately.  We will come together many times over the next two weeks, and I will store these memories away to call up another time.  Just as I now call up the memory of the two of them, sharing a bedroom, sharing a family, sharing a life.

Perhaps they're not so different after all.

Magic Purple Beans

This is a photographic essay of the Magic Purple Beans, with which I am in love.  Let's begin with the bean plants themselves:

Trionfo Violetto (Phaseolus vulgaris).  Again, I just call them Magic Purple Beans.  Of course, you cannot see them here, so let me show you what they look like when I pick them (which is every day now):

You see?  They are purple.  Beautiful!  However, when I boil the water and pop them in there, they become something else altogether.  They turn green!  Here, take a look:

Someone asked me if the water they were cooked in turns purple.  No!  I am telling you, it is magic!  There is no purple water left from this magical transition.

One of my favorite bean dishes is a combo of green beans, tomatoes, oil, balsamic vinegar, garlic, S&P, oregano, pine nuts and feta cheese.  Chilled.  Are you ready to drool?  Take a look:

Yep.  That's it.  Love.

Hawks Nest

I live in the northwestern corner of New Jersey, a hop,skip and a jump from New York State.  When I drive over "the mountain" (the highest point in New Jersey), I continue north to Bethel Woods, site of the Woodstock festival in 1969.  That's where I see a lot of concerts.  On the way, I drive over "Hawks Nest," a windy road that has been the setting for many a car commercial.  The road, Rt. 97, runs along the Delaware River, which separates New Jersey and New York from Pennsylvania.  It is a favorite ride of mine, especially when I have the top down on my convertible.

Hawks Nest is one of my favorite places on earth.  There are places to pull over on the twisty road to enjoy the view of the Delaware, and it is breathtaking.  There used to be a restaurant at the northern end of the road, and we dined there many times.  Unfortunately, it burned down some years ago and has never been replaced.  It was a biker bar, essentially, but also a comfortable and relaxing place to have a drink and a meal.  I miss it.

This morning, I was returning from Bethel Woods, where James Taylor put on a very satisfying performance last night.  I was heady from the concert, dinner and an overnight stay with friends, and a gorgeous summer morning.  I pulled over to gaze out at the grand Delaware River and felt blessed about where I live.  One does not have to drive far around here to find nature's glory.  The important thing to note is that we have to make a point of doing so, or it is wasted opportunity.



Summertime.  Take advantage of it.  Get out there and fall in love.


You don't need a red convertible to do so.  (But it helps.)

The Secret O' Life

The secret of life
Is enjoying the passage of time.
Any fool can do it,
There ain't nothing to it.
Nobody knows how we got
To the top of the hill.
But since we're on our way down,
We might as well enjoy the ride.

James Taylor did not include Secret O' Life in his setlist tonight at Bethel Woods.  And that is one of only two disappointments for me at an otherwise wonderful concert.   James was being James.  Despite an 11-piece orchestra backing him, he was still modest James Taylor, sitting on his stool, amusing the crowd with his commentary, and thanking the crowd's applause with that grin that only he can deliver.  It was classic JT, and even he commented on the list of songs for the second set:  "Why, it's just one hit after another!"  Just what the crowd wanted.

And why is that?  What is it about James and his songs that has us grinning back at him, one hit after another?  Certainly, many music artists and bands from that era remain popular and can draw a crowd.  But there's something more to Sweet Baby James and Carolina on My Mind and You've Got a Friend that promotes a serenity and joy in those who listen.  Not to ever take away from the sweet sound of James' voice (and he sounds as good as he did back in 1971), I think the sweetness of his lyrics lull us into a memory of a time that was kinder and gentler.  Of course, that's not true at all; James was singing to us while a war was raging in a foreign land and our country was fractured by opposing ideologies.  (Some things never change.)  But memory has that ability to refocus our lives through a different lens.

Now the thing about time
Is that time isn't really real.
It's just your point of view,
How does it feel for you?

So tonight, James let us escape for awhile to a time and a place that we think we remember as happy.  And we were so very willing to take part in the delusion.

Try not to try too hard,
It's just a lovely ride.

Oh, and in case you're wondering what the other thing that disappointed me was, it's this:  James did not drop the F-bomb during his impassioned performance of Steamroller Blues.  Darn.

But I am in love with all the rest of it.

Parsley, Sage, Cilantro and Thyme

Nope, the rosemary seeds didn't take this year.  But you remember what Stephen Stills told us all those years ago:  If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.  Sorry about you, Rosemary, but Cilantro is happy to step in.

My herb garden is abundant this year.  In addition to the sweethearts in the title, there're also chives, mint, oregano, and basil.  Even if I didn't actually use these herbs in my cooking, I would still be in love with their very presence in my gardens.

Before I gave up eating meat, I used to use parsley in meatballs, my Italian grandmother's recipe.  And in a similar recipe for meatloaf.  Now, parsley can be added to any number of dishes, from salads to eggs to breaded and sauteed artichoke hearts, a family favorite.  There is nothing like fresh parsley, but I am sure to freeze some in small portions to use in winter fare, like soups and pastas.  Such a versatile herb!  Fragrant, full of itself, confident.

I've never been a big fan of sage in cooking.  I recall using it in a stuffing recipe one Thanksgiving, and it was just too overpowering!  But I am in love with the idea of sage.  I know there was a time in my past when I felt it necessary to perform a sage smudging to cleanse the house of some bad karma.  I find it interesting that I do not recall what, exactly, that bad karma was.  So I guess it worked!  Anyway, a Google search tells me that essentially, a smudge ritual or a smudge ceremony is performed to correct the energy in a home, in an office, in an object, or even in a person. This is accomplished by burning sage or sage and a combination of herbs, in a focused, intentional way to cleanse out negative energy and to replenish positive, healing energy.  I am grateful that I have a ready supply of sage to take down the evil spirits if ever they try to infiltrate my home.

Cilantro!  Be still my heart!  At whatever point I became a fan of Mexican cuisine, cilantro ruled my taste buds.  Of course, once the odor which emanated from a stinkbug was compared to cilantro, that exaltation of cilantro took a hit.  But I still like it.  Cilantro is not easy to grow; at least that is what I've found to be true.  You can see in the picture that my cilantro has begun to blossom, which is not good.  But I refuse to pull it, as the flowers are delicate and inspiring, and there are still good leaves hiding out on the base of the plants.  Guacamole, anyone?

And then there's thyme.  Thyme and thyme again.  Take thyme to smell the roses.  Thyme heals all wounds.  Okay, I'll stop.  Wait . . . one more thyme . . . Who knows where the thyme goes?  Well, it goes into soups and sautes and sauces and anywhere you want.  And even if you don't cook with thyme, you cannot find a more fragrant, evocative, easy-going plant than thyme.  Pick a sprig, run your fingers across it backwards, and take in the aromatic magic of a simple herb.  And then do the same thing one more thyme.

I am in love with all my herbs.  They ask so little of me, and they provide so much culinary and sensual satisfaction.  Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Nothing

Yep, I'm coming up blank here tonight.  Can't think of a damn thing that I fell in love with today.  It was a fine day.  The weather was beautiful, I got a lot of work done, my cat fed herself with another dead bunny, and I had company for dinner.  All good . . . except maybe for the dead bunny.

Nobody accosted me, sued me, hurt my feelings, robbed my home, spit in my face, stole my identity, or mailed me an envelope full of ricin.  My kids are all safe and accounted for, the mail was delivered on time, and there are no leaks in  . . . well, in anything.  Both cars have a full tank, there is ice cream in the freezer, and the bills have all been paid.

So what will I blog about?

Maybe all the things that could have happened but didn't?  No, I worded that wrong.  I am in love with the FACT that many things could have happened to me today but didn't.  Reminds me of a poem by Lucille Clifton.  I was in the audience when she read it one time back in the 80s.  I have never forgotten the last line:

won't you celebrate with me

won't  you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me 
and has failed.

Parrotheads

They have no shame.  Especially the men.  I will give a shout-out to the men who, either of their own accord or under pressure from their women, donned their Margaritaville Hawaiian shirts to attend tonight's Jimmy Buffett concert at Bethel Woods.  (Full disclosure:  even I wore a rather subdued Hawaiian shirt, although my companions did not.)  But the true Parrotheads, the ones who were quite primed after their tailgating parties, went way beyond colorful shirts with palm tree decor.  And it wasn't just the head ornaments . . . the parrots, cheeseburgers, and shark fins . . . that identified one as a Parrothead.  Grass skirts were seen aplenty.  In fact, some wore grass skirts on their heads.

But the men wearing the parrots on their heads, the grass skirts, AND the coconut-shell bras were the ones that got the attention!  (The more modest of these men chose smaller scallop shells for their bikini tops.)  After thanking the Universe that my male companions did not attire themselves this way, I thought more about the men who do.

(And before I go any further, let me just clarify that there are many, many female Parrotheads similarly attired, maybe more than their male counterparts.  But women have never really had a problem displaying their feathers, so it was not that surprising to see them in full Parrothead regalia.  So my post is more about the men.  Is that okay?)

While it would be easy to dismiss the decorated Parrotheads as crazies, nutcases, idiots, whatever, perhaps there's another way to look at it.  A man would have to have quite a lot of confidence to display himself so colorfully.  Or better yet, he would have to possess a certain attitude, one that says, "Hey, I'm here to have fun.  Got a problem with that?"

And fun was evident throughout the evening and the venue!  Jimmy promoted it, celebrated it, was energized by it.  Now it may be true that a lot of the spirited fun was a result of the plastic cups full of an amber liquid (and I said a silent prayer that there were designated drivers among the revelers), but the music, the colors, the giant screen displaying beaches and palm trees behind the Coral Reef Band . . . it would be hard not to have fun in such an environment.  (Although I could have done without the beachballs constantly bopping me on the head.)

So, sure, tonight I fell in love with the Parrothead culture.  And if I never experience it again, that's okay.  Because, you know, if you ever see me wearing a cheeseburger on my head, just shoot me.

Sitting Still

As is the case every day, I have a to-do list to motivate me to accomplish something.  (Don't be fooled by retirement; there's still stuff that needs to be done.)  I got a late start this morning, a result of staying up too late last night, but I was able to get some things done.  But working in the garden mid-afternoon proved to be too much, thanks to the temperature, so I figured I'd take a breather and sit in the shaded portion of the deck for a bit.

And so I sat.  And I watched.  And I listened.  And I fell in love with all of it.

Nothing new here; it was the same old butterflies, birds, dragonflies, bumblebees.  All beautiful to watch.  And then there was a hummingbird.  I don't put up those bright red hummingbird feeders, so any hummers that come to my gardens are there for the flowers alone.  And as the echinacea is in bloom now, there was plenty of incentive to draw them near.  My house wrens have quieted down now, leading me to believe that their babies have left the nest, and my sweet little singers are no longer tied to my birdhouses.  I miss their song.

But there are other sounds to take in.  Just the sound of the screen door slamming is enough to excite my sensory perception.  Although the crows can be annoying with their cawing, it is still a summer sound.  And there is always music emanating from my outdoor speakers.  Nice to just sit still and take it all in.

My gaze was drawn to a dead tree at the edge of my property, and I thought about the hassle and expense of having it taken down.  And just as I was contemplating that, I watched a woodpecker nestle into an opening in the trunk of the tree.  Good save.

Looking to the left, I stared at the treehouse that Pete built for the kids.  Thrown back in time, I remembered the crucifix Sam built (after an overly-exuberant First Holy Communion lesson) and hauled up to the treehouse.  I remembered the bucket-on-a-rope that he set up to haul his treasures up and down.  And more recently, I recalled how the treehouse became my cat's favorite napping site.

I could have posted pictures of many things in this post.  I deliberately did not.  I think you should go find a place to sit still yourself and see and hear your own beautiful things.  Then see how easy it is to fall in love.

Half a Baby Bunny

Let me take you back to my first post and the Billy Collins poem that was my inspiration.  In the very first stanza, Collins falls in love:

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

Let me remind you, too, of my June 15 post, in which my killer cat took down a pesky chipmunk.  I could hardly be angry with her for her murderous instincts, as I was the one who commissioned her to do so.  But I was able, nonetheless, to forgive the tiny rodent for the damage done in my garden, and to fall in love with him.

But this time, Cassie the Killer may have gone too far.  Last night, I woke to that terrible sound of crunching bones, and figured that Cassie had caught another mouse.  When she devours her prey, she usually cleans her plate except for the carefully removed stomach and maybe the head, so I felt no need to get up in the middle of the night to clean up.  Imagine my surprise (and my scream) this morning when I stepped into the living room to find the back half of a baby bunny on the floor.  Not a pretty sight.  (I am sparing you a picture.)  The stomach had been removed, but there was blood, and (forgive me for being graphic here) the poor little thing must have pooped his pants in fear, because there was that, too, minus the pants.  And, of course, there was the whole back end of the bunny, little legs and tail.

I admit, I was pissed at the cat.  Pissed at her for killing a baby bunny and pissed at her for leaving me her mess to clean up.  But you remember that my mission with this blog is to fall in love, not fall in hate.  So I forgave the cat again, and considered falling in love with the half a bunny.

The question is, "Which half?"  Did I fall in love with the furry back end, the tiny legs, the fluffy tail, the isolated tummy, the blood and the poop?  Or did I fall in love with the half that disappeared?  The half that was settling in my cat's belly and lulling her into a morning nap?

Do we fall in love with what is present or what is missing?  The seen or the unseen?  The known or the unknown?  The reality or the memory?

I'll let you think that one over and decide for yourself.

Livin' off the Fatta the Lan'

Anyone who has read Steinbeck's classic gem, Of Mice and Men, will hear Lennie's voice in the title of this post.  For me, it sums up one version of the American Dream, the one that promotes self-sufficiency, independence, resourcefulness.  It stands in opposition to another version of the American Dream, one that pushes materialism, acquisition, superficiality, and greed.  In Lennie's dream, he and George will raise crops and chickens and rabbits and not have to be subservient to anyone else.  It's a good dream.  Spoiler alert:  it is a dream unrealized.

I'm all about self-sufficiency, independence and resourcefulness.  And Frugal is my middle name.  So now begins the season of living off the fat of the land, minus the chickens and rabbits.  My garden has gone beyond spinach and lettuces and is now producing some heartier fare.

So here's a future dinner.  You are looking at carrots, a scallion, a shallot, Swiss chard. a mini-eggplant, three snowpeas, and some purple beans.  (Don't be fooled by the beans.  When you cook them, they turn green.  It's magic.)

To these, I added a store-bought plum tomato, mushrooms, and half a green pepper.  After slicing and sauteing the veggies, I added homemade basil pesto frozen from last summer's bounty.  Served over pasta, sprinkled with grated Parmesan . . . and living off the fat of the land is pretty damn good!

The veggies featured above will be available for the rest of the summer.  Yellow squash will be ready in a few days.  Cucumbers will be bountiful.  If I win the war over early blight, there will be tomatoes and basil.  Cabbages, kale, broccoli, celery, peppers, garlic and beets will be added to the larder.  And in the fall, potatoes, butternut squash and Brussels sprouts will be ready.  I will spend my time making sauces, soups, and pesto to freeze for winter meals.  And storing potatoes, onions, and carrots.  The Brussels sprouts stay in the garden to sweeten from a few frosts before picking.

Does it sound like I am in love with this idea of living off the fat of the land?  It is this love that motivates me to plan, dig, hoe, plant, nurture, water, weed and harvest.  Oh, and cook.  A strong love, indeed.

Comfort Zone

My comfort zone houses a garden, a cat, a lot of books, dark chocolate, Jamaican coffee, and Chardonnay.  Oh, and Internet access.  (What?  You thought I eschewed technology?)  A major ingredient is missing from my zone, and that, I'm sure you know, is my big old Golden Retriever, Mack.  I am still trying to adapt to that loss.  The Chardonnay helps.

I do make brief departures from my zone, to travel to far-off places.  I can do this because I know that the times when I remove myself from security are time-sensitive.  If I am going to Iceland, for instance, I know I will be back home in six days.  It's a temporary departure.  Not like I'm selling my house or anything.

We all have our comfort zones, and we are all constantly being told to step out of them.  Some of us do.  Others (and I know many of them) will never do so.  It's sometimes a choice, but not always.  I know that my comfort zone has changed over the years.  There are things within it now (like living alone) that I, at one time, would not have been able to imagine.  It's no biggie now.  It's become comfortable.  Driving long distances by myself is another.  The first time I did that, I stepped out of the zone.  The next time, it was part of the zone.

I think I might be stepping out of my comfort zone again.  I would not be foolish enough to elaborate at this point, but I've been having a lot of heavy conversations with myself of late.  Which provoked a need to write about it.

So let's just say that I love my comfort zone.  And I am seriously considering leaving it, if for no other reason than to expand it.  Isn't that just a lovely consequence?

Zen and the Art of Weeding

Never mind that my son has recently discovered Robert Pirsig's classic Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  I have discovered something better.  Zen and the Art of Weeding.  Well, maybe.

So my gardens are in a contest, sponsored  by a local magazine called Dirt.  There are prizes.  I have no idea what they are, but I want one.  They are coming to look at my gardens in ten days, so I have set about to do some major maintenance of said gardens.  Never mind that my snowpeas are stunted and that my tomato plants have blight.  I am going to WEED my way to a prize!

Today I discovered that I can only weed in the early hours of the day when my gardens are shaded somewhat.  Seriously, with a temperature of 90 degrees and who-knows-how-high humidity, there is no way I can spend a full day weeding.  So this morning, I began my quest for a weed-free garden.  And before I knew it, I was in the zone.  It was zen-like.

Zen teaches that the potential to achieve enlightenment is inherent in everyone but lies dormant because of ignorance. It is best awakened not by the study of scripture, the practice of good deeds, rites and ceremonies, or worship of images, but by breaking through the boundaries of mundane logical thought.

Well, I broke through some boundaries, but whether they were the web of underground roots of the weeds or logical thought, I don't know.  I do know that while I was weeding, I lost contact with the real world in which I live and entered into a zone of peace and contentment and purpose.   Despite the sweat rolling off my head, I was content with my thoughts, lost in a ritual of pulling and discarding.  Were my thoughts mundane?  I'm not sure.  Were they other than logical?  Probably not.  Were they life-changing?  Nah, not really.  Were they enlightening?  Maybe.  Were they peaceful?  Absolutely.

Zen.  And the art of falling in love.  With weeding.  It happened.

Thai Food

Whoops.  Forgot to take pictures.  And it's gone now.  Pad Thai, Thai Fried Rice, Massamun Curry and Drunken Noodles.  Gone.

Friends Lyndsay and Vin joined Jenna and me for dinner on the front porch.  It was lovely.

What I love about Thai food is that it is not dependent upon meat.  Obviously, you can get meat with your Thai food, but I wouldn't know about that.  Our take-out choices contained no meat.  And we are stuffed, full, satiated, done.  Three of the four of us think it's a good idea to go for a run now.  Those three happen to be almost forty years younger than I.  As for me, I will stay here and reflect on the food that I fell in love with.

I need to figure out how to make this food myself.  And I will.  Because, you know . . . love.

Turkey Vultures

Yeah, yeah, I know.  Who the hell loves turkey vultures?  Well, I'm not sure if I really love them, but they certainly forced me to think about that possibility this afternoon.  I was driving a back road on my way to a rendezvous in Milford, PA, when this gang of vultures decided to block my path:

There were even more of them than you see here, as a few others had already moved on to the left of the road.  Aside from the one vulture pecking away at something there on the right, I have no idea what they were doing, but they were in no hurry to clear the road.  After waiting patiently (and snapping some pics), I had to toot my horn at them a few times.  That moved them.

According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, these birds ride thermals in the sky and use their keen sense of smell to find fresh carcasses. They are a consummate scavenger, cleaning up the countryside one bite of their sharply hooked bill at a time, and never mussing a feather on their bald heads. 

Well, good for them!  I am happy that they are contributing members of society!  And I am happy that I live in a place where turkey vultures can own the road.

Riding thermals in the sky.  Well, if that's not a song lyric, I don't know what is.  Oh, wait.  I'm thinking of Joni's song Woodstock: 

And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation

Well, it's certainly interesting that yesterday's post was about butterflies.  Just sayin'.

I guess falling in love just brings everything full circle.

Black Swallowtail

Of course, I fell in love with his beauty.  There he was, poised on a black-eyed Susan which is about to bloom.  As if he were waiting.

Look at that pattern!  How stunning are the colors against the black!  Oh, what a handsome specimen!

And then I looked him up.  First of all, he has many aliases.  Parsnip swallowtail, parsley swallowtail, celeryworm, caraway worm.  How can you possibly trust a man with so many names?

You can't.  He's a pest.  Or at least his caterpillar version is. 

Yep.  I've seen that dude on my parsley.  (Hence, the name parsley swallowtail. Duh.)  Certainly compelling, but a pest nonetheless.

Jenna had identified the butterfly for me, so I showed her the picture of the caterpillar and told her I'd seen it on my parsley.  She said I could move the caterpillars to another host plant (which sounds very much like work to me), so I looked up the swallowtail's host plants.  Most of them were foreign to me, at least by their names, except one:  Queen Anne's Lace.  I think Queen Anne's Lace might have been one of the first flowers I was ever able to identify in my childhood.  So I know it well.

I don't know.  Maybe when I spot that glorious caterpillar on my parsley, I will indeed look for some Queen Anne's Lace to move him to.  Or maybe not.  Maybe I'll just squish him.  (You don't think I can?  Don't you remember the stinkbug murder?)  Either way, today I am in love with a beautiful Eastern Black Swallowtail who graciously allowed me to photograph his beauty for all of us to admire.

A Girl and Her Cat

Cassie has always been Jenna's cat, even though Jenna has been away from home for most of the last eight years.  When Jenna is home,  you can find Cassie in her room on her bed.  When Cassie was sick this winter (with a diagnosis of diabetes), it was a pretty tense time, with Jenna feeling helpless in Australia and me trying to make decisions.  The bottom line is that I kept Cassie alive with a change in her diet (no insulin) and now that she is home, Jenna can make decisions about her care.

It may have taken Cassie a little while to remember who Jenna is.  After all, she was away for nearly a year.  But I think they are in sync again.  What do you think?

Jenna was 13 when we got Cassie.  She named her Cassiopeia after the constellation, that "W" or "rocking chair" low in the night sky.  But she has always answered to her nickname, "Cassie," of course.  A year after we got Cassie, Jenna's father died.  Anyone who has suffered such a loss understands the importance of pets.  Unconditional love, comfort, and someone to tell secrets to.  Cassie has been this for Jenna.  And when Jenna is away, she has been this for me.

So here they are, reunited.  A girl and her cat.  Never mind that the "girl" is a young woman and that the cat is old.  Love cares nothing for chronology.

Little Toad

I was awakened before the sun came up by a thunking noise outside my door.  I tried to ignore it and return to sleep, but that became impossible.  I suppose I got out of bed at least three times to gaze out onto the deck in search of the perpetrator.  Of course, when I did so, the noise stopped.  My best guess was that a bird was doing something he shouldn't be doing up on the roof and would fly away when I opened the sliding screen door.

Nope.  It wasn't a bird.  Once I'd given up on sleep and gotten up, I considered that a bear might be going through the garbage I'd placed in the driveway last night to remind me to go to the landfill today.  But the can was intact, no bear tracks in sight.  The fact that my cat, stretched out on the deck, seemed to be unconcerned led me to believe there was no other animal around.

I got the papers, made the coffee, tried to proceed with my morning rituals.  But the thunking continued.  It was making me crazy.  And then, sitting here at the computer, I noticed movement outside the door.  I'd placed a large plastic jug out there, a receptacle for compostable material to sit before I got it out to the compost bin.  It was currently hosting some dead leaves I'd swept off the deck and the tops of a red onion I'd used earlier.

And then I saw it.  Something leaping up to the rim of the jug and then falling back down into the leaves.  A toad!  Poor thing had been trying all morning to get out of his prison but just could not scale the heights!  Thunk! each time he tried!

I tipped the jug over on its side to make it easier for the little guy.  It still took him a few thunking tries to figure it out, but he eventually found freedom.  Cute little bugger.  He sat still, probably amazed that he was no longer imprisoned.

And then I remembered my cat.  There she was, watching the little toad, planning her strategy.  Of course, by now I was in love with the toad and could not allow my cat to pounce.  With not a minute to spare, I scooped my cat up into my arms, inspiring the toad to hop away at the same time.  Three hops and he was in the herb garden.  I put the cat down, only to see her make a beeline for the herb garden.

There is no sad end to this story.  As far as I know, the little toad escaped my cat's murderous instincts.  I see no evidence of a dead toad in the garden.  At least, I choose to believe that he got away and is safe with his toad family somewhere.  Love lets me believe that.

Blue Skies

Post-Hurricane Arthur, the Northeast is cleansed and pure, evidenced by the low humidity and bright blue skies.  Yesterday was glorious, and the drive to Bethel Woods on Route 97 along the Delaware, top-down, was the kind of thing that makes me glad to be alive.  Today is a carbon copy, and although I am not going anywhere, the skies over my house and property have me in a constant state of looking upward.  Literally and figuratively.

The tune in my head is the Allman Brothers' Blue Sky.  The lyrics don't knock me out, unless, of course, I am headed to Carolina and my beloved Outer Banks.  I'm not.  But the happy jauntiness of the song is a feel-good fix.  So it can stay there, repeating in my head, where I have stored the very best music.

Of course, it is easy to love the sky when taking in its azure beauty is akin to popping a happy pill.  But the sky has many moods, and there is merit in loving them all.  There's a line from Desperado, an old Eagles' song, that I have always found compelling:

Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine.
It's hard to tell the night time from the day. 

There is no word for a color in those lines, but you can see it, can't you?  You can feel it, too.  We've all been there.

But today, the sky is blue.  I am reminded of a poem by David Ignatow, of the same title:


The Sky Is Blue

Put things in their place,

My mother shouts. I am looking

Out the window, my plastic soldier

At my feet. The sky is blue

And empty. In it floats

The roof across the street.

What place, I ask her.

Deja Vu

And I feel like I've been here before . . .

David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash must have felt that way tonight when they played at Bethel Woods, the concert venue on the site of the Woodstock Festival in 1969.  Forty-five years ago!  Can it be possible?  I was not at that festival ("I had to work that weekend" . . . lamest excuse ever), but I have vivid memories of first hearing Crosby, Stills & Nash that summer.  Talk about an album that transformed music!
They were in their mid-twenties then, all veterans of previous bands (The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, The Hollies), but the harmonies that emerged from this trio would win over the hearts of millions.

I've seen CS&N a few times over the last several years, and I would have to admit that Stephen Stills was a bit of a disappointment, unable to sing well and appearing uncomfortable on stage.  This was not the case tonight.  Although the nuances in his speaking and singing seem to be the result of years of abuse, his confidence was much improved, as he told several funny stories and did some solo work.  Confidence, or lack thereof, was never an issue with his guitar work, however, and he delivered a blistering performance on several songs.

My favorite song of the night was Cathedral.  The power of that song, lyrically and musically, has always blown me away, and tonight was no exception.  On a sweeter note, the encore, which Graham Nash dedicated "to all the teachers" was Teach Your Children, an anthem that, for those of us who navigated our way through the late 60s and thereafter, kept us focused and grounded in our beliefs.  Of course the crowd, a majority of whom were survivors of that time period, sang along.  It was very sweet.

Deja vu?  Absolutely.  And, you know, it makes me wonder . . .

Independence

Seen in my newsfeed today:  Happy Scare-the-Crap-out-of-Your-Dog Day!  As with so many holidays, the original reason for celebration often gets lost or vaguely remembered.  Yes, we wave our flags today, but the focus seems to be on weather forecasts, fatty foods, and explosive noises.  I no longer have a dog, but I can remember that, for so many years, I was just grateful when this Fourth of July holiday was over.

So, taking a broader look at the idea of independence, I will follow up on yesterday's adventure and blog post.  As you may recall, the severe thunderstorms were wreaking havoc on the last leg of my daughter's flights home from Australia and my need to make the drive to Newark Liberty International Airport to pick her up.  The storms were horrific, and I have a downed tree in my front yard as testimony.  Three people were struck by lightening in a nearby town, there were reports of tornadoes in neighboring Pennsylvania, and there was a hailstorm right here on my street.  And I was supposed to drive over an hour in this craziness to Newark?  My anxiety was equal to that of my late dog's on a Fourth of July night.

I was a slave to my computer (except when the power went out), checking multiple sites for flight statuses and weather reports.  I determined that there was no point heading to the airport until I was certain that Jenna's plane had indeed left the ground.  As her flight was three hours and my drive less than an hour and a half (in light traffic), this made good sense.  Finally, her plane took off four hours late with an ETA of 1:00 a.m.  Anticipating downed trees and flooded roads, I left here at 10:30, giving myself plenty of time to get to baggage claim to claim my returning daughter (and her four heavy pieces of luggage).

The drive down was uneventful.  Yes, the roads were wet, and there were some fallen branches on the county roads, but the traffic was light and I got there with plenty of time to spare.  With a novel in my purse, I was happy to sit by Carousel 8 at Terminal A and wait.

And there she was!  I had not seen her since I visited her Down Under six months ago.  Oh, to look that good after 40 hours en route!  We wasted no time in collecting her luggage and heading home.  Again, the drive was uneventful.

So where does independence come in?  I didn't have to hire a car service to retrieve my girl.  I didn't have to risk rejection by asking friends to go with me.  I didn't have to depend on anyone but myself to bring my daughter home safe and sound.  And I did.

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.  I don't know about that.  I had something to lose.  But instead of losing life or limb driving in a hurricane, I gained confidence in my ability to still get the job done . . . all by myself.  And I love my independence.

Dodging Hail

If my daughter's flight had been on time, I would have had to drive to Newark Airport in a hailstorm.  But her flight has been delayed.  In fact, as I type this post, she has not even reboarded the plane yet.  (They had been seated, but were made to deplane.)  She survived the nearly 14-hour flight from Sydney to Dallas (during which she was unable to sleep), but because of the storms here in the East, she is stuck at the airport in Dallas.

It's quiet now, a lull in the storm, I guess.  But there is no point in me going to the airport until I am sure that her flight has taken off.  So I am stuck here, as she is stuck there, waiting.  We are both tired, but unlikely to nap.

But I have to wonder . . . what if I had tried to drive in the hailstorm?  Additionally, I heard reports of three people in a nearby town being struck by lightening.  And I think there were some small tornadoes that touched down not too far from here.  It was one helluva storm!  So what if?  Is it a blessing in disguise that my reunion with my daughter is being delayed?

That remains to be seen.  Or not.  I suppose I will never know if I dodged a bullet.  And there could still be a bullet out there waiting for me.  Of course, that makes this moment no different than any other moment.

So I bide my time, waiting for word that she is on her way.  And then I will take my chances, along with everyone else, that this world is not done with me yet.

Tune in tomorrow.

Qantas

Charlie: Ray, all airlines have crashed at one time or another, that doesn't mean that they are not safe.
Raymond: QANTAS. QANTAS never crashed.
Charlie: QANTAS?
Raymond: Never crashed.
Charlie: Oh that's gonna do me a lot of good because QANTAS doesn't fly to Los Angeles out of Cincinnati, you have to get to Melbourne! Melbourne, Australia in order to get the plane that flies to Los Angeles! 

That's from a classic scene in the movie Rain Man, in which Raymond refuses to get on a plane to fly from Cincinnati to LA.  Unless, of course, it's a Qantas flight.

I have flown Qantas, from the USA to Melbourne, and from Sydney to LA.  Airbus 380, a very big plane.  These flights did not crash, I am happy to report.  Right now, as I am typing this, my daughter is getting off Qantas Flight 5953 which flew from Cairns to Sydney.  At 11:20 tonight (my time), she will take off from Sydney on Qantas Flight 0007, landing in Dallas at 12:45 p.m. tomorrow.  I hope she is able to sleep.

Her last leg will be Qantas Flight 4361 (which is actually an American Airlines flight), leaving Dallas at 6:00 p.m. and arriving at Newark International Liberty Airport at 9:29 p.m.  I will be waiting for her at baggage claim.

So of course, I am in love with Qantas!  Qantas is bringing my Jenna home!  Now, I am not in love with Arthur, the hurricane that threatens to make my trip to the airport and back an unpleasant experience.  Hmmm . . . I wonder what Raymond would say about Arthur?

Raymond would say, "Are you taking any prescription medication?"