May 4, 2013 Apple Blossoms and Bumble Bees
Most of the year, the crab apple tree in my yard isn’t anything special. It’s just an ordinary tree that provides a little shade on our walk. For a couple of months in the fall, it’s a nuisance. Hard little apples fall and rot and fill the air with the scent of vinegar or hard cider. But in the spring — Ahh. In the spring we get a show. One morning we wake up to find that overnight the buds have burst open and covered the tree with white, white blossoms. Soon the whole tree is vibrating with the buzz of huge bumble bees. I like to imagine the bees were sleeping inside the buds and were waked by the opening of the flowers. I love to stop for just a few minutes whenever entering or leaving the house to just take in the loveliness and smell the sweet, sweet scent of apple blossoms on the breeze. In a day or two, the blossoms will drop and drift like a light snow. And then it’s over for another year.
April 28, 2013 Fiddleheads
In my part of New England, we get to eat a bit of spring for a couple of weeks a year. Fiddleheads, the tightly coiled tips of new growth of ferns, are found in the woods and by streams only in very early spring. Gather a pound or two, rinse well, and quickly saute in a little olive oil and maybe some garlic. Spritz with some fresh lemon. Sprinkle with salt. Then savor the taste of green. They are kind of spinachy-artichoky-asparagusy. Mostly, they are delicious.
March 23, 2013 Crocus
In my hurry to get out the door this morning, I almost missed them. The first crocus are popping their heads through the inch or so of snow still left on the ground from last week’s snowfall. Purple and yellow and white. The small fragile blossoms somehow manage to work their way through the cold stuff to give us the first hint that spring is really on the way. I’m sure there is a metaphor in there but it’s enough to smile back at them and think, “Yeah. It’s time.”
March 17, 2013 Everyone is Irish
I just made a cake with green frosting and shamrocks on it. Why? It’s a stretch to find some Irish heritage in this family. But Irish or not, we’ll have green cake for dinner because in my part of the country everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. There are parades – lots of parades. Folks are wearing the only green item of clothing in their closets. We all eat corned beef and cabbage. Those who drink, drink green beer. Sure. Partly it’s a day for those who are Irish to celebrate it. But for the rest of us, it’s an excuse for a celebration in this cold, strange month of March. There’s nothing like a bit of Irish jigging to Irish music to warm you up and lighten your spirits.
February 7, 2013 Snow Panic
It’s the day before the storm. A Nor-easter is predicted to bring a foot or more of snow to our part of Massachusetts. Go to any hardware, grocery, or big box store and you’ll find long, long lines. People are in “snow panic”, laying in extra milk and bread, flashlight batteries, water, and candles. Some are optimistic. They’re buying DVDs of movies or TV series they haven’t seen, counting on the power to stay on long enough to do a marathon watch of Downton Abbey or all of the Harry Potter films. Others stock up on sand and salt and throw in a new snow shovel to deal with driveways adrift.
Yes, there have been some week-long stretches of no power and no access to the store. But most of the time, even when nature has dumped a foot or two, it’s been possible to get back to normal in a day or two. So why the panic?
I think it’s human nature to have to “do something” when feeling threatened. Even if we already have 2 snow shovels and a week’s worth of canned goods in the pantry, it just doesn’t feel right to hang around waiting to be snowed in.
So, I admit it. I went out and bought some really good tea and a new book. I did “something” and now I feel ready – and hopeful – that work and school will be called off and we’ll get to stay home for a day or two.
After the obligatory shoveling and salting and sanding, we’ll get to play in the snow and come in for cocoa. We’ll get to read and talk and maybe eat by candle-light. As long as there is no emergency like a tree limb hitting the garage or pipes freezing, we can enjoy the pleasures of an unexpected holiday.
January 15, 2013. January Thaw
It’s been over 40 degrees most of the past week. That followed freezing temperatures, snow and ice. We know we’re probably in for more of the same over the next three months. But, for now, we’re enjoying the respite from heavey jackets, gloves,, and hats; from chipping ice on the sidewalks and hauling in wood for the stove. The thaw is a welcome rest in mid-winter. Like catching our breath during a run, a momentary stop lets us appreciate our surroundings and get ready for another difficult stretch.
January 1, 2013
2013! How did that happen? I find I’m never really prepared for the passage of time.
December 18, 2012: Making Christmas
I love the sound of that. Making Christmas. Because surely Christmas is something each of us makes according to the images in our own heads. For me, it is repeating treasured traditions. At least one adult child still wants to be in on picking out a tree with her dad. They haul home the tallest one that will fit in our living room, over my protests that we don’t need the tree that ate Massachusetts; something smaller will certainly do. Not. That good natured argument has become part of the tradition, as surely as my husband cussing as he strings the lights and me putting on the ornaments that each child has been given on each year of their lives. I still make cookies, buy and wrap presents, fill stockings and prepare pretty much the same meals as always for whoever comes for Christmas week dinners. I don’t have to do any of these things. I do them because they mark the rhythm of the year and affirm our sense of family and home.
December 1, 2012 Christmas Cookies
My German grandmother was famous for it. Thanksgiving dinner was barely over when she began making the cookies: Lebkuchen, sugar cookies, gingerbread men, chocolate and vanilla pinwheels, spritz, and peffernuss; shortbread, ginger stars and filled surprises. By the time Christmas week arrived, she’d have at least a dozen kinds. When company came, she’d arrange a selection on a huge tray, bedecked with some small evergreen branches and colorful hard candies. What a treat! So, of course, my mother repeated the whole extravaganza, baking a dozen different kinds each year that were kept carefully in tins until company arrived. Then out would come a big platter or tray of cookies. Fast forward another few decades and it’s my turn. I gave up making over a dozen kinds years ago. Being a working mom does impose some limitations. But I just don’t feel right at this time of year if I con’t fill the house with the warm smells of baking cookies for at least a few evenings. With apologies to Grandma, I only make 6 or 7 kinds and fill in with some store bought confections. But I take a sweet pleasure in inviting company over and presenting a tray of cookies, adorned with evergreen.
November 22, 2012: Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving: It’s the only national feast day in America and we honor it the way we should – by giving thanks and feasting together. At my house, there turkey-lovers, vegetarians, vegans, and gluten-free folks to accommodate. So, like other families that are large and complicated, the pot luck buffet looks quite unconventional: Spanokopita, delacotta squashes stuffed with fruited rice, baked tofu, and kale alongside the turkey and corn bread stuffing and mashed potatoes and butternut squash and … Everyone eats and talks and eats some more. Everyone sighs with contentment. We linger at the table for good conversation and rally in time to watch football on TV. Our team won. We had more pie. Everyone went home stuffed and happy. What a good day!
November 4, 2012: School Bus Stop and Friendship Start
Every weekday morning as I drive around a nearby corner, I see a cluster of moms waits for the kindergarten bus with their children. Some are clutching coffee cups. One always has a toddler on her hip. The children all have coats on and backpacks on their backs. One clutches a lunchbox. In the morning rush, it seems that the moms prioritize getting that cup of coffee over grabbing a jacket. So they stand there, shivering, sipping coffee, admonishing kids and getting to know one another.
October 1, 2012: Peak Weekend
In the Northeast of the US, the trees put on an annual show. The forty shades of green of summthe freshness of autumn air. I arrive at my destination refreshed and delighted by the sights and sensations of New England fall.er turn to vivid oranges and reds and yellows. A drive through the countryside is a treat marred only by the dozens of cars that are also driving through the countryside. It’s early October. If there is this much traffic, it must be peak weekend, the weekend when the leaves are at their most spectacular and no one wants to miss the show. The leaf-peepers are out in force. Locals know to save their own viewing for weekdays. Taking a longer route to and from work is a chance to take it all in at our own pace. I roll down my car windows to feel the slight chill and breathe in
August 2012: Home Improvements
I think home improvement projects are like childbirth. If we remembered how uncomfortable they are to go through, we’d never do another one. Hypnotized by the lovely results, the memory of the experience gets dulled and we’re set up to do it again.
The last 6 weeks have been an unpleasant reminder that construction projects never go smoothly in a hundred year old house. They take at least 3 times the original budget and 4 times the estimated timeline to complete. With the primary bathroom the object of our efforts, we’ve also had to deal with major inconvenience. And yet — It’s almost done. The new floor doesn’t sag. The new fixtures work better. It really is pretty. Sigh. I can already tell that the memory of tripping over tradesmen and dealing with a bathroom out of commission will fade over time. But not quite yet. . .
Don’t you just love the 4th of July? A day off that often happens in the middle of the week feels like playing hookey. It’s one of my favorite holidays. No need to visit the malls. No presents to buy, wrap and deliver. No decorations to put up – and take down. Just ask everyone in the family to bring something for a potluck bar-b-que and you’re good to go. My family and friends just spent a lazy afternoon chatting on the bank of a lovely local lake, with an occasional wave to folks in a kayak or canoe that drifted by. Life is sometimes very sweet.
June 15, 2012 Strawberries
Strawberries come right on the heels of the asparagus. All over the valley, churches are sponsoring their annual asparagus and strawberry suppers. Whatever meat is served takes a big back seat to steamed Hadley grass with lemon and strawberry shortcakes built on homemade biscuits and topped with a mountain of whipped cream. Have you noticed? People are quite partisan about their shortcake. In this area, they are made with a buttery biscuit dough, dropped by the spoonful on cookie sheets to bake into small hills of deliciousness that soak up the berry juices. Transplants from elsewhere prefer angel food cake or little sponge cake cups or lady fingers — something the locals can’t at all understand. Might as well eat air. But whatever the base, the stars of the desert are the red, red berries, swimming in juice, sweetened with just a wee bit of sugar. Yum. Let’s have another. . .
May 18, 2012: Asparagus!
I live in the asparagus capital of the world. Really. Back in the summer of 1974 I was in Paris, looking for a place to have lunch. On a charming side street, I spotted a little cafe. Imagine my surprise to see a banner strung across the window that read “Imported from Hadley, Massachusetts. Fresh Asparagus!” Of course I went in for a taste of home and to see what the French might do with our humble Hadley grass. Hmm. What came to my table was a plate of perfection: steamed asparagus with a rich and creamy hollandaise sauce.
Those of us who love this green gift from the gods eat it steamed, grilled and roasted; plain, with sauces, on top of pizza, in our eggs and under cheese. For some of us, a plateful with just a little butter and lemon is a piece of heaven.
The season is as fleeting as spring, short and delicious.
I am again reminded that as much as we’d like to think we’re originals, family trends and history will out. Growing up, my family always had a big garden. In his youth, my grandfather was a dairy farmer. He may have left the farm, but he didn’t leave the soil. He raised his son and his grandkids to value growing our own food. I bless him and curse him for it.
Once the ground thaws, I feel absolutely compelled to get out there and get my hands in the dirt – no matter how busy I am, no matter what other responsibilities have some priority. I love the feel of the warm earth in my hands. I love clearing away the debris of winter and weeding out the new sprung weeds. I love the sun on my back and the breeze in my hair.
I don’t love my creaking knees. I don’t love dealing with compost or fertilizer. I have to rein myself in from my urge to put in a vegetable garden when the truth is that I don’t have the time to tend it. “Sorry, Grampa,” I whisper. “I just can’t till that sunny corner of my yard now only to feel guilty about neglecting it all summer.”
My compromise? I recognize my heritage and honor my grandparents by planting some flowers and remembering to water them occasionally. Mostly I go off to the farmers’ market every week and load my basket with fresh veggies. When I rinse the dirt from the new radishes and lettuces, I let my memory drift back to those late spring and summer days when my grandmother and I took care of the produce that had come fresh from the garden. Somehow the resultant salad is all the sweeter.
April 1, 2012: Rabbits and Springtime
I’m hopeless as an artist. Only three year olds think I’m adept. That’s because I can draw a circle with a smiley face, a snowman with three circles and some dots in appropriate places for a face and buttons, and what passes for a rabbit because it has long ears. That’s it. I often signed off notes to my kids with the face; the snowman reserved for winter and the rabbit for spring. Just a little something to personalize the “don’t forget to . . .” notes tucked in a notebook or left on the kitchen table. Who knew that those scribbles might be important someday?
I was surprised and warmed by my daughter’s complaint on receiving her Easter package of goodies last year. “Where’s my rabbit?” she asked in a call home. In my haste to get the box into the mail, I hadn’t added my annual scribbled rabbit to the address. We both laughed that she felt it as “something” missing.
Of course the “something” wasn’t just my amateur effort at art. The little sketch I’ve always just dashed off as a fun way to welcome spring has come to mean so much more. The annual appearance of the rabbit is an affirmation of something about the rhythm of the year, our sense of family, and a personal message of love from me. Just goes to show again that as parents, we don’t always know which of the things we do take on significance. I certainly won’t forget to add the rabbit to the package this year.
March 25, 2012 Celebrating Early Sping
Springtime has come early to Massachusetts this year. March is usually still a time of snowstorms and shoveling. This year, daffodils are in bloom and robins are frequent visitors to my front lawn. Every day, we pinch ourselves. Is this for real? 80 degrees in March? “In like a lion. Out like a lamb?” This year the lion is a pussycat. Freed of boots and into sandals, even our feet are celebrating. It’s a lesson in just how delicious the unexpected can be when the unexpected is sweet and warm and smells of spring.
Today is my younger son’s birthday! Oh, we’ll cook one of his favorite meals and call in the whole gang. We’ll have the usual cake and ice cream and presents. But I wonder if he (or any kids, for that matter) understands that his birthday is our birthday too. It’s the birth of us as the parents of him. It’s the birth of a new and larger family.
Ask any mom or dad: We remember vividly when labor started; the trip to the hospital or the arrival of the midwife; how labor went and, finally, what it was like when this new little red-faced, squirming, sometimes hollering little person was placed in our arms. However long ago it was, a few moments to remember and it feels like yesterday. He or she had arrived! And we were changed utterly.
So, my son: Happy Birthday to you! It’s been quite a journey. It’s been a gift to see you grow and change and become who you are. It’s also been a gift to grow and change and become who I am because of you.
February 12, 2012 Valentines Day
Valentine’s Day gives us a reason to celebrate the love in our families.. Make or buy cards for everyone. Put a red tablecloth on the table. Serve heart shaped pancakes at breakfast. Slip little notes into lunch boxes. Present a heart shaped cake at dinner. Holidays give us an excuse to do it up in a big way. Show the people you love that you love them on Tuesday. Then make sure to show them every day of the year. That’s what’s meant by “tending the family heart.”
January 23, 2012 New Semester, New Students
I wonder if the students in front of me experience it the same way. I walk into my classroom at UMass Amherst on the first day of the new semester and wonder who these people are and where they put the students I know. “Oh yeah”, I remind myself. “It’s a new group.” The next few weeks are about learning names, figuring out who is going to shine, who is going to need help; who is a willing volunteer and who tries to hide in the back of the room. Didn’t I just do this a little while ago? Yeah. But that was in the fall. In spite of the 20 degree weather, this is called the spring semester – a term that promises warmer days ahead. Ok. Ok. We’ll manage. We always do. By week 3, this group will be comfortable with me and each other and we’ll all be engaged with the material. 12 weeks will fly by. The seniors will graduate. Everyone will scatter to their home towns and states. Come September, I’ll get to do it all over again.
January 13, 2012 The Snowless Winter
You’d think I’d be happy there hasn’t been snow yet this winter. I’m not. Oh, it’s good to not have to shovel the stuff. it’s nice to still go out unencumbered by boots and mittens and scarves. But it generally is leaving me out of sorts. In western Massachusetts, snow is part of the rhythm of the year. I miss waking to mornings when the world has been magically transformed by an overnight snowfall. I find myself longing for the sounds of kids delightedly sliding down hills and skating across our little lake. I miss the random days off when my whole world gets to play hooky at the same time. Snow days: Days to play board games with the kids, to read, to trudge out to make snowmen and angels, then hang out by the woodstove, drinking hot chocolate. Having found ways to love winter, I now feel like a kid who’s been deprived of a favorite toy.
January 2, 2012 Erasing Christmas
( for more pictures of the sad fate of Christmas trees after the holiday, check out this link. http://www.buzzfeed.com/mikehayes/heartbreaking-photos-of-christmas-trees-discarded )
I always find the clean up at the end of the Christmas season kind of sad. Taking down the Christmas tree is never as much fun as putting it up. Ditto for taking down the outside lights, boxing up decorations, and carting those boxes to the attic. There are no jolly songs to accompany the tasks. There are no more holiday events to look forward to. Still — I try to focus on the positives. We did have a wonderful time for the last few weeks. The livingroom looks suddenly bigger without a tree taking up major space. I’ll probably get more rest. But however much I look for a silver lining, I still find the return to plain old normal a let-down. Sigh. Good thing Valentine’s Day is just around the corner!
Here we go a-wasailing. . . While going through an old trunk the other day, I found a stack of little Christmas Carol booklets. Those of us of a certain age will remember them. Put out each year by the John Hancock Insurance Company, I think they were meant to be the company’s Christmas cards. My little collection comes from a few different years so I’ve got covers that feature a sketch of a nativity scene, some choir boys, and a church at nightfall. Finding them evoked memories of a time when a group of us, young and old, would get together and go house to house in the neighborhood, singing those traditional Christmas songs. Most of us knew the first verses so could sing them with gustuo. We’d stumble through the rest of the verses, clumsily shuffling those little books and flashlights with mittened hands. Every now and then, we’d be invited into someone’s home for hot chocolate and Christmas cookies. It was another time. I can’t help feeling a little sad that it’s unlikely that I’ll ever hear a happy group coming up my driveway singing Deck the Halls. But if such a little Christmas miracle were to happen, hot chocolate will be served.
December 6, 2011: Geese
While, walking across campus this morning, I was stopped in my tracks by a fly over of geese. With a rush of wings and a cacophony of sound, they were still in lift off from the campus pond. Whoosh! I momentarily felt swept up in the flock. Then they were in formation, a chevron in the sky headed south.
November 26, 2011 Hmmm. Pie
We’re a famly that generally doesn’t have deserts but Thanksgiving is the big exception. For that feast day of all feast days, we make at least 6 kinds of pie: Apple, Pumpkin, Mincemeat, Cherry, Chocolate Cream, and something new (this year, Peanut Butter thanks to one of the guests). Now, there’s no way we’re going to eat all those pies, having just had a big meal of turkey and fixings. We enjoy slivers of this and that but, oh man, there is so much pie! Yay! That’s the point. All dietary rules are off for the next few days. It’s a tradition in this family to keep inviting people over to share the leftover turkey and pies. We have pie for breakfast with our morning coffee, pie for lunch with our turkey sandwiches, pie for dinner with turkey soup, and pie whenever we feel like having pie. By stretching out the holiday food, we stretch out the holiday with family and friends. Good talk, good fellowship, and good pie is a wonderful combination.
24 lb turkey. Check. 15 lbs of potatoes. Check. 3 mashed butternut squash. Check. Eggplant lasagna for the vegetarians. Check. Baked tofu and gluten-free gravy for the gluten free-folks and vegans. Check. Apple and mince pies for the traditonalists. Check. Pumpkin mousse for those gluten-free folks check. The menu at my house has gotten complicated but the simple joy of lots of good people (family, old friends and new) around the table sharing a meal, conversation, and laughter hasn’t. We are truly grateful for the food, the fellowship, and for the serendipity that brought us all together to make our unique kind of family.
Tending the Family Heart Through the Holidays
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November 11, 2011: Casseroles, Cookies and Care
It’s one of the “rules” I grew up with. If someone brings you a casserole or pie or cookies to comfort you when you’re sick or to celebrate an event, you never, ever, return an empty dish or pie plate or platter. You fill it with something delectable as a thank you. So I do it. I do it faithfully. And what I’ve learned is that it’s about more than cookies. My grandmother’s generation had it right. The exchange of casseroles and plates keep people connected in a special way.
We’re all so busy, busy, busy that we can forget to be grateful. Weeks can go by before we find time for tea and conversation with a friend. But bring by a plate of cookies and time slows down. There’s time for tea. There’s time for talk. Even if it’s only a 10 minute visit, a visit and a real thank you has happened.
I imagine a great stream of cookie -filled plates going from house to house to house in my grandmother’s time; some to cheer the sick, others to celebrate the new baby or a birthday, some to return the plate of a sender. What it meant is that people stopped by and both gave and got some warmth and caring.
November 4, 2011: After the Storm
A record breaking storm in our part of the world last weekend caused extensive tree damage and power outages. For us, that meant no heat, no electricity, no cable, and no Internet for 5 days. It was a window into what 18th century living was like. Bundled up and huddled around our woodstove, we managed to keep warm. Candles lit our way at night and the outdoor grill got heavy use for cooking and heating water. Life slowed way down. With no computers or TV to go to and the only heat in our dining rooom, we sat around the table and talked, played Bananas (a fabulous word game), and lingered. When the whole community seems to agree that the usual pace and demands of modern life are suspended, we all have permission to shift to a different reality. Yes, it was hard. No, I don’t want to live without the convenience of light at a flick of a switch or heat from a furnace or hot water from the tap. But the extended time with young adult children, friends, and neighbors as we shared the warmth of the fire and pooled our food more than balanced out the loss of conveniences for awhile. I hope we can hold onto the reminder that time and talk are also what warm and light our families.
October 25, 2011: Autoharps
I stumbled into autoharp ownership Saturday. Not one but two were listed in the classifieds of our local paper and at a bargain price. I’ve always wanted to own one so I made the call and agreed to go take a look. It was a great day to go on a treasure hunt, sunny and warm and at the peak of leaf peeping season. Driving down long country roads was just the kind of day off I needed. When I arrived at the house, I was greeted by a woman my own age, another aging folky who had grown up as I had listening to Jean Redpath and Woody Guthrie and playing old time music. The autoharps are beautiful; rich honey colored wood, each intact and waiting. She was ready to let go of that part of her young adulthood that made music, but I’m ready to reclaim mine. More than money and harps changed hands: She got to pass the harps to someone who treasures them. I got to add a wonderful new musical distraction to my life. Perfect.
October 23, 2011: Autumn Sounds
Go outside. Close your eyes and just listen. In the north, a seasonal symphony is there for your listening pleasure. Wind blows through the trees, knocking and rustling branches. The swish, swish, swish of lawn rakes adds a gentle rhythm. Children’s laughter and shouts are a joyful melody while feet shuffle and crunch, shuffle and crunch through the dry leaves and twigs. Hammer blows of a sledge splitting logs and the thunk, thunk, thunk of a neighbor stacking wood are our percussion section. And the wind softly whistles it own sad song.
October 16, 2011: Apples!
It’s the season of apple picking in New England. With orchards sprinkled throughout our valley, there are plenty of opportunities to pick our own. It’s a celebration of fall to tromp through the orchard to a tree so heavily laden with apples that most are within easy reach. Best of all, we have varieties to choose from that rarely make it to chain supermarket shelves: Gravensteins. Paula Reds, Galas, Macouns, and Baldwins. Cortlands, Jonathans, Winesaps, and Romes. The names are as interesting and individual as the apples themselves. Each has a distinct flavor and a particular use. Around here we know that the best pies are made from at least two and maybe three varieties. My personal favorite is a mix of Cortland and Baldwin slices sugared, spiced and generously mounded before putting on the top crust. Make a few slits in the top to let out the steam, pop it in the oven, and within an hour the whole house smells like some version of heaven.
October 7, 2011: Our Daughter’s Wedding
“And the seasons they go round and round, And the painted ponies go up and down. We’re captives on the carousel of time.” — Joni Mitchell
The marriage of our youngest a few weeks ago was truly magical. The weather held for the outdoor wedding. The ceremony itself was both solemn and fun. Family and friends laughed and cried and celebrated as siblings quite literally launched the young couple into their new life together. For her dad and I, the day evoked both memories of our own past and hope for the future.
September 10, 2011: My Grandmother’s Hands
I loved my grandmother’s hands. I remember tracing the age spots. “Angels’ kisses”, she called them. Her hands were bent and strong from a life of hard work but were soft, so soft, to the touch. Even when very old, she had skin like silk. I remember those hands stirring pots, rolling out dough, and shining the counters. I remember them traversing piano keys, wielding knitting needles, turning pages, and arranging flowers. Most of all, I remember moments when she’d simply take my hand in hers as a gesture of comfort and care.
I’ve been surprised and pleased lately to see that my own hands are becoming like hers: Kissed by angels, bent and strong from living life, yet somehow still soft. Aging is so much sweeter when it is tied to memories of love.
September 1 , 2o11: Wedding Dress — Ahhh
My youngest daughter is getting married in a month. Organized and confident as she is (she’s an events planner, after all), she hasn’t acted much like a sentimental or anxious bride. The wedding has seemed in many ways like just another party. You line up the place, the decorations and the food, invite the people, buy the clothes, plan some entertainment and you’re good to go.
Every now and then we parents get to have one of those moments. The brain takes a snapshot, both visual and emotional, that a camera can’t possibly replicate and that lasts forever. While fitting her gown last week, the seamstress placed a veil on my daughter’s head. When I looked at her, I was surprised to see my self-assured, matter-of-fact girl with tears in her eyes. I teared up (of course). The seamstress teared up. We all looked in the mirror at the transformation from girl in pretty white dress to bride. “All of a sudden, I really feel bridal”, my daughter said softly. Sentimental sighs all around.
I’m so pleased. I got my mother-of-the-bride-moment. The internal camera got a great shot.
August 26, 2011: Tomatoes
August means tomatoes. It also means doing really hot work during really hot weeks of the year. Canning tomatoes is not for sissies. The rest of the family gets suddenly very busy when they see the bushels of ripe red tomatoes sitting next to the back door. They know that anyone within range will be enlisted. Just like in the children’s story of the little red hen , no one wants to help but, I assure you, everyone wants to eat the wonderful bar-b-que sauce next week and the spaghetti sauces that will be on the table in January. So they find creative ways to opt out. Suddenly people even want to clean out the barn or do yardwork. Fine with me. I get a clean barn, a spruced up yard, and canned tomatoes. My little secret is I thoroughly enjoy the task of making ketchup and sauce. The family may evacuate the house when it’s full of vinegar vapors but I love the smells, the stirring, the filling and processing of jars. After some 50 years doing it (helping as a child, doing now), the rhythm of the work is a kind of meditation. The result? Beautiful jars full of ruby red goodness and a very pleased me.
August 2, 2011: Screen Doors
It’s probably an old joke, but when I was a kid, I really did think they were called “scream doors”. My mother was always screaming, “Don’t slam the door!” — usually after the door had slammed for the five hundredth time that afternoon.
Unlike my mother, I have a fondness for those old wooden screen doors. The sound of them slamming was the sound of my kids going in and out during a summer day, doing the many things that kids do. In for a popsicle. Out for a romp under the sprinkler. In for a towel. Out to the treehouse. In with a complaint. Out with a retort. In chasing a sib. Out being chased. Slam. Bang. Slam. Slam.
For over 30 years those doors have gone up in the spring and down in the fall. Now they’ve fallen apart. Today we replaced them with very nice, insulated, storm doors; the kind you don’t have to take down for winter and never have to paint. They’re attractive. They’re practical. But they don’t slam. I’m really going to miss that sound of summer.
July 29, 2011: Apologies Do Matter
While working on my house the other day, a young worker dropped a hammer on my antique desk, leaving a major gash in the top. Very few things in my house matter that much to me but the desk does. The kid was terrified. He blurted out “sorrys”, and went out to talk to his boss. The boss came in to also express regrets. Although doing my best to hold it together and be gracious, I was teary. So I said the usual things and mostly meant them: Accidents happen. It’s part of the history of objects to be beat up on by life. It could have been worse. No person was hurt. It’s only a thing. Right? Right. But it is still my desk we’re talking about here!
An hour or so later, the young guy comes back in to see me. This time he’s not panicked. This time he has something he really wants to say. I don’t remember his words. What I remember is his heartfelt intention to own his mistake and to express how bad he felt about it. At that moment it wasn’t about words. It was a meeting of feelings, his and mine. It mattered. The desk still is wounded but my heart? Not so much.
July 23, 2011: Coddled Eggs
Finding the jars for coddled eggs in my attic the other day evokes memories of a time when breakfast was an event, not a pop tart or cold cereal and certainly not on the run. Back in the 50s, when I’d visit my grandparents in the summer, I’d wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon. Up since who knows when, my grandmother always set a table for breakfast. Often she’d make coddled eggs.
For those who’ve never had the pleasure: Coddling means breaking eggs into buttered jars, screwing the tops on tight, and submerging them in simmering water until just the right moment. Too long in the water and you’ve got rubber. Too short and you’ve got runny egg whites. Just right and you’ve got a little bit of heaven. It’s an art form my grandmother had down. I remember dreamily studying the scenes of birds and branches that are on the jars as I spooned out the buttery eggy treat.
It’s not that we had any more time in those days. My granddad had to get to work. I had to get off to wherever I had to get off to. But my grandparents felt strongly that getting up early enough to really enjoy breakfast, to read the paper, and have some conversation was worth it.
As a mom, I managed to make sure people had breakfast but there was nothing calm about it. Special breakfasts were reserved for weekends. But maybe as a grandmom I’ll be able to pass on the quieter pleasure of something as lovingly time consuming as coddled eggs. I think I’ll give those jars a try this weekend.
7/23/11: Farmers’ Market
The Farmers’ Market isn’t just about food. It’s a capital “E” Experience. Really. Going from booth to booth slows me down. I think about what tastes the family might like to have that evening. I dare to experiment with other-worldly veggies. I chat with farmers about what on earth one does with that strange looking tomato. An hour buzzing through the local supermaret gets food into the house. But 15 minutes strolling through the market renews me and adds those little extras to the usual family meals that spark culinary adventures and conversation.
July 21, 2011: Green Rain
Some memories are forever attached to the sense of smell. This one is about a special childhood retreat: When I was a little girl, we lived near some woods. Not too deep in was a circle of giant ferns. I liked to think fairies gathered there. On hot days, I’d lie on the cool ground among the ferns, completely hidden from view, breathing in the fresh sweet smell of the leaves I was crushing under me. Being young, I was unaware of the damage I was doing. Iwas just enjoying lying quietly in the coolness, surrounded by green and smelling what I can only call green rain.
I now have a few of those same ferns in my garden; far too few and too precious to lie among with some idea of reliving the experience. But while watering them last evening, that same sweet scent rose from the damp ground. Green rain. Suddenly I was 8 years old again, feeling safe and calm and touched by fairies.
July 19, 2011: Fennel
I admit it. The fennel seeds on my spice rack came with the rack – 43 years ago. I didn’t have a clue what fennel was. Haven’t been curious enough to find out. Didn’t have any idea what it is used for. Until now. New cookbook: The Essential N.Y. Times Cookbook: Classic Recipes for a New Century is riveting reading. Author Amanda Hesser took on the formidable task of identifying – and testing – recipes featured in the Times from the late 1800′s to the present. It’s fun to read what was “in” eating year to year. Once I hit the 50s, things began to look familiar as I found recipes my mother cooked and I haven’t seen since. From there it was a trip from one food fad to another that I’ve watched be the “latest thing” served at friends’ homes and that I’ve made in my own kitchen. So – Ms. Messer: In appreciation for that trip down culinary lane, I thought it was the least I could do to try something unfamiliar. Fennel had never been stewed in my cooking pots so – why not? I went out and bought a couple of those strange bulbs, cooked them with those old fennel seeds, and served them with a flourish. It was a grand departure from the familiar and it was delicious.
july 12, 2011: Blueberries
Blueberry jam. Blueberry pie. Blueberry muffins. Blueberries in my part of the world are the tase of July. I stained my favorite wooden spoon permanently purple making jam this weekend. In February, it will be a reminder of summer. 18 jars of purple goodness sit on my kitchen counter waiting for the tirp down to the basement jelly cupboard. I think I’ll just let them sit for a few days and enjoy the simple art of the purple jars on the white counter top and the promise of winter breakfasts of toast and jam.
July 4, 2011: Fireworks
I’m all for fireworks. When I die, I want to go out with a multi-colored bang in the sky! Got that, kids? Forget about a funeral. Don’t wear any black. Just set off some rockets and remember how we ohhhed and ahhhhed together at every burst in the night sky. Those times when we were all crowded on our picnic blanket, looking skyward and sharing in the wonder are among my fondest memories of being a family. Every 4th for me is a happy combination of past memories and present joy.
June 24, 2011: It’s All In How You Look at It
A young friend of mine explained, “If you believe life is beautiful or if you believe life stinks, you’re right.” Some people just seem to know that truth naturally. It’s not what happens to us that matters so much as how we decide to look at it. Is a tragedy a devastating blow from which we’ll never recover or is it something to grieve and learn from? Is happiness fleeting or is the memory of happy times what keeps us afloat during more challenging ones? It’s up to us.
June 26, 2011: Another Perspective
I was talking with a man who is in his seventies the other day. He still works part time as the estimator for a local landscaping company. I needed their services to undo what happened to the yard when a new sewer line was put in. (Don’t ask.) It was a pleasure to chat with him. He knows his stuff, had some good suggestions, and was sympathetic about the unexpected and unwelcome expense of it all. As he was leaving, I said, “Have a nice day.” He stopped, turned and looked at me with a smile. “No,” he said. “Say – ‘Make it a good day. That’s what I’ve learned about life. A big part of how your day goes is how you make it.’”
June 21, 2011
Local strawberries are in. Brief, wonderful harvest of ruby red fruit that sings, “June. June. June.” They are the reason for the month: Strawberry shortcake. Strawberry-rubarb pie. Strawberries on cereal for breakfast. Strawberries and cream for dessert at dinner. Feast for a few weeks and then they’re gone for a whole long year. Spent the morning making jam, preserving June in a jar.
June 20, 2011: Catching Up
Sign observed in Boston subway station: Father and son sitting ona riverbank with the words, “Catching up doesn’t always mean working late.” I couldn’t say it better. Summer time offers longer days and less stressful evenings. No homework. Fewer kid activities. Hopefully, less work brought home by parents. It’s just plain true that the kids grow up fast. It’s up to us to find ways to sit on riverbanks or stoops or in backyards or just around a table and connect with them to make memories.