The Real Thing

Mmmm. CRAVING Pad Thai. What would I give for a big hot bowl of steaming Pad Thai? My first born? The deed to my house? Our blue Subaru? Don't tempt me, man.

Our dear friends dropped off a bag of purple grapes at our front door this morning, freshly plucked from a friend's arbor. They are beautiful, variegated blue and lavender, green as spring grass and blue as a deep summer patch of sea. The slick innards of the grape explode in my mouth, followed by an eruption of intense flavor, and suddenly all the imitation grape flavor I have ever experienced is a distant shadow.

(This morning I plucked a red tomato and breathed in an almost-perfect white rose.)

* * * *

In a pathetic attempt to fill my intense Pad Thai-shaped-hole, I succumbed to weakness and actually bought a Real Thai box at discount. I never do rash things like this, so I was careful to scan the ingredients before I paid my 1.50. The box sat on my counter, tempting me, until finally today I gave in. Have you labored over Pad Thai, browning egg, carefully setting it aside, working then through a long list of ingredients, ending by feverishly stirring curling noodles as the sweat pours from your brow?

I had my own Real Pad Thai, in its rectangular plastic container (fork included), in three minutes. I panicked briefly over the missing vacuum-packed peanut packet (had I thrown it out with the sealed dehydrated vegetable packet???) for a moment, but all was saved and I sprinkled the pale nut bits over my reddish noodles. It smelled delicious, and I was hungry enough to gobble it quickly as I read the somewhat myopic, self-indulgent account of Alice Steinbach's jaunt to find lemon curd in the Cotswalds.

After lunch, I lingered with my pile of non recyclable trash, an odd aftertaste, and a greasy container. The verdict? Not good. I popped a few grapes and drank two glasses of milk to free myself from the Real Thai taste, though I could not completely rid myself of regret as I filled the garbage can with the proof of my instant lunch. Just goes to show, there's nothing like the real thing, baby. No matter how much you want Pad Thai, you can't have it in three minutes.

* * * *

Yesterday Merry attended school at the home of said grape-friends above. She enjoyed it immensely and I enjoyed a trip to Big Lots and then to the grocery. Beyond the pleasure of the flat of organic canned tomatoes and promising Real Thai meal I bought at steep discount in the brightly lit aisles of Big Lots (accompanied by the half-pleasure, half-pain screams of Elspeth, who insisted on chucking her shoe into the aisle), I lingered in parking spaces with the air conditioning on while Elspeth and I drank in the voice of Luciano Pavarotti, booming out arias and taking us up, up, up, away from the parking lot of Giant Eagle in Greene County, away on the pure strains of Ave Maria.

To bear such a voice within your ribs! The sheer responsibility of it! (Though my father tried to convince us that it was him singing on the tape, not Placido Domingo, no astounding operatic voices have occurred in our family history).

My earliest experience of Pavarotti began with my uncle Ken's trip out to Kenya. I must have been 13 or so, living in a whitewashed maisonette in the middle of the dirty, bustling city of Nairobi with its bumpy back roads and stunning flowers that grew everywhere--bougainvillea on garbage piles, morning glories on our thorny hedges! Uncle Ken, clad in safari hat and equipped with camera, came bearing an unbelievable Christmas gift for us: a CD player (rare in that year!) and a whole collection of CDs. Among the gleaming discs were Bette Middler, which I listened to repeatedly, and Pavarotti and Friends. I gloried in this opera for the plebeian, in the unbelievable soaring strains of three male voices, vocal cords opened to the heights of mountain winds and speeding trains and endless blue ocean!

And in my older, slightly more weary day yesterday, shut up safely in the walls of our blue Suburu, among the litter of children and a flat of canned tomatoes and bags of boxed macaroni and cheese, as people backed out cars onto the dirty tarmac, Elspeth and I gloried in the otherworldly experience of a truly great voice. We thrilled with joy and longing, entered into the boundless world of beauty.

There's nothing, nothing like the real thing.

For Meredith

Meredith spent her childhood in a house that was always full of family. She never could find a place to herself, not in that house full of her grandmother and her mother and her red-headed sister. Her aunts lived in a row down Divine Street, and they and their husbands and her cousins were always around, smoking and making pots of roux and playing cards and laughing up a good thunderstorm, which was always welcome in that house where there was no air conditioning.

Meredith attended Catholic school there in New Orleans, and folded her hands every Sunday at mass (and ate a few powdered sugared beignets at Cafe du Monde). Her father died of a heart attack when she was still young. There are other deeply painful experiences in her life that she has told me about, and I have sat transfixed and watched her, this lovely woman who has lived through so much. And then she grew into a beauty with luminescent eyes and long waving brown hair, and finally Meredith left New Orleans, and that set her apart from the rest of her family, who surely wondered why she wanted to pack up and head to Houston. But she loved Houston, and she loved this man named Ken who looked like John Denver and wielded a mean camera out of helicopters.

She gave her two children what she had always wanted when she was a child: rooms of their own. I like to think of her decorating that first house, a space that belonged to her finally. But she never stopped sharing her space. She transformed their dining room into a bedroom and then, for all of her children's childhood, she cared for her own bed-ridden mother. I like to watch her talk about her mother. She is honest and frank about her own shortcomings, but I know how her long care for her ill mother gentled her children and made them wise. Her children learned compassion and tenderness from watching their mother care for their grandmother. For two years she cared for her father-in-law as well. The stories of those times are full of humor, and in good southern fashion she peppers the tales with knee-slapping guffaws. She still laughs this way at Ken's jokes, and I see by watching them how good love can last through many years. In this way she brought up my husband Martin, and in this way she cares for us now, for the folks at her church and for her four grandchildren.

I always gain weight at my mother-in-law's house. She is generous with her kitchen (only forbidding me once in a blue moon: "I mean it, now; I'm going to clean this up by myself") but nobody cooks up a pot of Louisiana beans and rice like she does. I can never hope to brown roux as perfectly and all I want for Christmas any year is a big helping of her unbelievable gumbo, chock-full of shrimp she deveins by hand for hours and crab meat and okra.

I know a few quirky things about my mother-in-law. (What daughter-in-law doesn't?) I know she closes down a restaurant because she eats much more slowly than she talks. I know well that she has watched every episode ever made of "Murder She Wrote." I well know her sayings: "Here's the deal. . ." and "Advice is free" and I have experienced her skilled hand and the way she teases when she plays cards.

I also know a few things about Meredith's dreams. I hope to see her tooling up the East Coast some day, her face alight in the blaze of fall. I don't know about filling that bunkhouse full of grandchildren, but I know four girls running around her house is pretty good for now.

And today, on her birthday, I would like to thank my mother-in-law for the way she has lived her life, and for the way she shares her stories with me as though I were her own flesh and blood. I'd like to congratulate her for her vigorous laughter and I bend my knee to her for bringing up such a good, rare man as her son. I want to thank her for her love for my children and the tenderness and affection she shows to her husband. For her hands that gentle at the sight of an elderly person, for her eyes that steel with love and courage at the mention of God, for her kisses and hugs and late night card games, for the way she has weathered each year, bad or good, with grace--thank you.

Mother of Mercy

A warm day today, with a warmer one predicted tomorrow. The airlessness in the house begins to press in on me around five or so--combined with the screams of the girls and the smells of supper. As we sang over dinner tonight, I felt jagged around the edges and none too relaxed.

And in the quiet that followed dinner, while Martin took the girls up to their bath and I scraped beans off the floor, I found a little room to think.

I've been thinking about Mother Theresa lately.

To millions her work still shines as the example of Christlike devotion. It brought her the Nobel Peace Prize and beatification by Pope John Paul. But once she began her work in India she never heard God's voice again. Nine years after she founded her mission in Calcutta she wrote, "What do I labour for? If there be no God -- there can be no soul -- if there is no Soul then Jesus -- You also are not true."

"Even the sisters around her had no idea of the length and the depth," Kolodiejchuk said.

. . . .

But while the faithful see her struggle as inspirational, some atheists are taking it as confirmation of their own rational doubts and proof that the faithless can display enormous benevolence.

"Of course nonbelievers all over the world display compassion," said Dan Barker of the Freedom From Religion Foundation. "She was forced to go through the motions and admitted her own hypocrisy."
--excerpt from ABC World News with Charles Gibson, August 24, 2007

I would like to see Mother Theresa's critics devote one hour of service to the poor the way Mother Theresa labored, and then maybe we'll give a minute to this pathetic, triumphant schlock.

In thinking about Mother Theresa and her choice to persevere in doing right and showing mercy, I realize how much I work for rewards, intrinsic (makes me feel good to think I am a good mother and a disciplined person) and for the quiet cup of tea, the chocolate, the Netflix at the end of the day. When my work goes unnoticed I make jolly well sure somebody notes it and verbally congratulates me.

I imagine all rewards stripped away and replaced with a ringing sort of emptiness. What would make me continue being tender and gentle with my children? I have a great deal of trouble tempering a stomach flu without impressing my notable suffering upon Martin and whomever will listen. I groan and measure my own misery deep inside, hoping for a quick end. When I am lonely, unless I am nursing self-pity, I look for a sure and swift way to stop my loneliness. When I am in pain I reach for Tylenol; when I am tired of the suffering of the world I flick off NPR and avoid CNN online. When my children are sick I pant for the hour they will be well. And I only work ceaselessly for those whom I love, and who love me in return.

So this news about Mother Theresa, these letters expressing her doubt and uncertainties--they take me from humility to a stunned silence. Sainthood undoubtedly will be granted. The kind of life Mother Theresa lived will be misunderstood by many, just as pain and suffering and compassion and mercy are misunderstood. I don't begin to grasp it all. I do know that Mother Theresa's letters do not raise doubts in me as to the existence of God; if anything, they are an overwhelming persuasion that God is real, beyond feeling or sentiment.

Late Lackadaisical Summer

In spring, everything--the depths of the grass, one jonnyjumpup opening its face to the sun--seemed like a miracle.


Late summer makes me lazy. I take so much for granted. By this time, the jonnyjumpups have faded and the zinnias are twirling like fabulously skirted dancers next to the delicate fireworks of the cosmos and the lacy caps of dill.


I let Elspeth pluck zinnia heads; in fact, I encourage anyone with a love of bright colors and the perfect cut flower to harvest the beauties. No amount of cutting seems to make an ounce of difference.



My neighbor gave me a plastic bag full of cosmos seeds some short three months ago. I patted them into the earth in late May or early June with a sort of grumpy doubt--the same doubt I secretly harbor about every seed I drop into the earth. When I returned from the beach in August, the cosmos had exploded. What a wonderful surprise to find it all orange! I find it makes a bit of a mess as a cut flower, while the zinnias retain their posture and petal patterns like silk flowers when cut.


Today, reading Elspeth Bear About Town, a wonderful sturdy boardbook about a quirky, colorful bear who lives in a sort of London town and frequents such towny places as the bakery, the market, the gym, SplashAlley pool, the theatre (on a rainy day), etc., strolling down towny streets and waving at other hip bears walking dogs, I felt suddenly struck by the full realization of the utter simplicity of our life. We grow flowers and vegetables (sloppily); we read books; we take naps; sometimes our only outing is into the garden. The mail carrier dropping the mail into our postbox is an occasion, as is the Thursday rumbling of the garbage truck and an occasional good storm. Today my major accomplishment was baking homemade yeast rolls and reading an endless stack of books to Elspeth.

For the tiniest second I thought perhaps Bear's town life offered the opportunities we miss. I could be strolling Elspeth through town to a cafe or taking Merry to swimming lessons. And then I looked around at the endless sea of books around us, and out of the sunroom windows at the garden, and I realized that there is good all around, and this simple existence, though it occasionally seems long on hot days, is chock-full of goodness and graciousness. And this simple life, this rhythm of childhood will pass as quickly as a picture book. Let it last! Let it last!

Like in the Olden Days (Sort Of)

Ohiopyle State Park, After a picnic of pb & cherry jam, carrot sticks and cookies, September 2

August Ripens

August ripens, falls bruised from the stem.

I can't say I'm sorry to see it go. August stretched on and on and though it was filled with many good things, I feel all a tingle for autumn. Cool days, endless apples at Farmer's Market, the leaves deepening and finding their true expressions. It's like feeling ready to see your grandparents; it's recognizing a need for silence and the comfort that cold outside and warm inside brings.

Perhaps I am especially excited to see August go tonight. We are at the end of a three-day warm spell, and tonight the house is full, stuffy, and stale. Finally the evening is cooling, and I have already completed the fan ritual, throwing open windows, arranging the air flow to exhaust the old and bring in the fresh of evening. I love our old house, but sometimes long for central air. Stifling summer days force you to close your windows and your curtains in a desperate attempt to cradle some of the evening's cool, and this results in a rather dark, airless house. Imagine my excitement as the day sighs, opening its palms finally to the darkening sky of evening.

Tomorrow is supposed to linger in the 70's, a temperature I am anticipating greatly. The locust tree outside my office window seems mellowed by the change, too; its leaves flutter wearily in the breeze. It is an eccentric tree, weighed down with heavy honeysuckled vines. It is quite messy, actually, but it stands by faithfully as a quiet friend, a spindly, ungainly companion that has sustained many hours of writing and revision.

Martin is downstairs, strumming away with two other friends from the college in preparation for a folk festival this Saturday. I am glad he makes music happily, in his "node" as his mother says, but I couldn't help feeling a little ruffled after spending the day indoors in a hot house, cleaning (I only did it because it the mess, the spider webs, the clutter, threatened a coup) and feeling rather woozy with two children. I continued the ruffled, discontented feeling until I sat down with Elspeth, read and sang to her, and then, she safely in bed, continued on to this quiet space. Quiet spaces are invaluable. I need them to sustain me. I need them in what seems sometimes like a daily battle to be kind and hopeful.

And so, on the eve of the last day in hot, weary August, I hope that you too find and bathe in the quiet of a sacred space.

Peace.

Chin-high Zinnias

Back late last night from my parent's house. It is good to be home, back in the familiar smells and squalls of my own house. Actually, Martin cleaned the house so that it was in a much better state than I left it. Blessed chap. He gets big kudos, big oreos, big shmaroonis!

The yard and garden is an absolute jungle. I am not overstating the case. Five inches of rain and no mowing or weeding to speak of equals absolute chaos. I delighted in the sight of my mother cutting down chin-high zinnias this morning. She took a huge, velvet-red dahlia the size of a 5 year-old's head to my dear great aunt, who broke her hip last week. I actually would have loved to drive down with her to see my Grandpa and Grandma and Aunt Elaine, but that will have to wait. One can only bereave one's husband so long. . .and oneself, for that matter.

Speaking of the archaic "one," I teach my first class tonight. My syllabus is finished, obscure, full of attitude and an impossible work load (or more or less all those things--also protected by the "subject to change with notice" clause), and I do now have a schedule for my first three-hour class, which to me is like a security blanket whether it stands bravely or falls.

I'll be teaching 15 men and women Creative Nonfiction, or more specifically, the Art of the Personal Essay. I must say, though I've written fairly extensively in this genre, the teaching of it seems a bit of a slippery thing. It is a truly slithery genre, including so many things and a bit fuzzy around the edges. Thankfully, mine is not a lit. class but a workshop class, and I learn best by DOING, not by EXPLAINING, and in this case the DOING is a great deal of reading and writing. These two things, besides eating and bathing and gardening, keep the world ticking--they are truly a sort of bread and butter of existence, at least for people like us.

Martin is busy with many matters, and my gastronomic sympathies are with him, he who must prepare many syllabi and classes.

Maybe, then, considering the day and the unpacking and what-not to boot, I should mobilize myself to a shower and real clothes. And PLUCK my chin hairs, since students always notice such things! Ah, the burdens of being human and presentable!

Home Again Home Again Clippity Clop

Clippity clop, much driving and fast food--and we are home again. We had a lovely time at the beach, eating constantly, throwing ourselves in the waves, chasing after children. Oh yes, and there occurred, in the grand tradition, a little stomach flu, but gracefully brief it was and not as virulent as past holiday flus have been.

We finally pulled into our driveway around seven or so last last to the bright delicate heads of the cosmos, which had bloomed profusely orange all up and down our garden. Sunflowers nod at the cusp of bloom and the garden is completely and totally overgrown with weeds and volunteer squash. In fact the garden is so completely weedy that I have abstained from venturing forth so far into the heat--the task of cleaning up the garden is a bit daunting, and one that I find completely discouraging.

We were busy enough cleaning up the inside of the house--though I clean pretty immaculately before we leave on trips, in order to feel welcomed home on return--even a week empty in late summer offers numerous opportunities to ants. Yes, I forgot to bag our sugar bowl. If last night you had felt sugar granules underfoot and followed your suspicions to the counter, where a good sized sugar pile spilled across the surface, you would have guessed "MICE!" But of course mice are busy outside in the summer, so you would have, with heavy heart, pulled open the glass/mug cabinet to reveal a colony of very busy black ants, populating not only the sugar bowl but the crevices in your cabinet door. While we relaxed in the sea breezes, these industrious house ants spent the entire week moving sugar out of the bowl, onto the counter, and perhaps then to some unknown location. We were so amazed with the ants' efforts that I felt a bit bad wisking all their work into the sink and washing them down the drain along with the hard-earned sugar.

Did I mention the little worms/moth/???/maggot-like creatures that spent the week hard at work on a bag of cornmeal?

So yes, we're back, and we only displaced a few creatures by our return, with the greatest respect but with the knowledge that swarms of ants and people cannot happily coexist.

The girls are beside themselves to be home; indeed Elspeth was so excited about being home that she rose up at six this morning to play heartily. I have a few books to rave about but will do so later, especially since the beginning of school is near, I agreed to teach a class, and I have yet to read the text.

And do I detect, in the late evening sunlight, a hint of summer mellowing? Is fall really just around the corner?

PS. Check out Andy McKee's videos on YouTube. Simply marvelous. Sent me booking over to Amazon, where I found his CD. . . .

Combat the Bee Crisis

Want bees? Plant agastache. This type of hyssop attracts bees in droves. Last year I bought dozens of plants on fall clearance at Lowe's, and in the cool weather, plopped them in a hedge formation along with some bedraggled Russian sage. Just look now!

I also planted some monarda bee balm to bring the lovlies swarming but it has yet to bloom this season. And then there's butterfly weed, which blooms all about in the ditches but is impossible to dig up and replant without killing the poor thing.

But this agastache comes highly recommended--my new favorite--drought resistant, tough as weeds, beautiful, and emits a heady licorice/aniseed fragrance.

Any one else have personal bee favorites?

--As a side, I may be absent from Wazoo for the next week or so, as I will be at the beach with all my good family, eating amazing food, swallowing salt water, trying to get sand out of Elspeth's cheeks, jumping waves and watching my sister and the men bodysurf, slathering with sunscreen, and playing crazy charades. Loonytunes, all of them. Martin is out at this very moment collecting armfuls of produce to take with us. Live nearby? Know Wazoo? PLEASE come by and pick yourselves some food while we're gone! And zinnias!

Zinnias, Zinnias, and Again I Shout, Zinnias!

Things I have recently loved:
____________

My zany extended family; the youngest member caressing the oldest, my lovely Grandpa.
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Ignoring daily responsibilities to read the last Harry Potter.

Zinnias, more than I can pick. . .

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Fresh tomatoes, delightful varieties right from our garden.

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Elspeth riding atop golden retriever Chester, in Texas.
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Merry loving her new sweet cousin, Liliana Cecilia.
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Roast chicken with rosemary from our garden.

Zucchinis that appear with alarming frequency; carrots from a friend's friends raised bed; delectable peaches from Farmer's Market.
The hills here, soft and green; a garden in almost every backyard.
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Perennial hibiscus blooms like saucers, like the eyes of some wonderful animal.
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The McVities dear Kara brought back from Manchester, England.
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Hot and wonderful summer!

The Scent of Us

After a lovely two week foray into Texas--where we welcomed our beautiful new niece Lilia Cecilia--I feel absolutely happy and contented to be in a place that smells like us. The scent of my in-law's home is unmistakable, smooth and fresh, like. . .guava skin and the taste of a rubber ball. When I open my suitcase or a package from them, the smell of Cockroft transports me back to their smooth brown tile floors, the circular kitchen table littered with playing cards and baby spoons, the granite counter tops and long leather couch.

Moving as frequently as we have, I feel anxious to instill our own distinctive smell in a place--coffee, baking bread, the smell that is ours somehow. Like an dog rolling in his bed, burying its nose and burrowing into his pillow, I try to fill a home with our own smell. The goal? To go away from home and come back, sniff, and feel with all my senses that I am back where I belong.

I have often been thwarted, whether by the apartment neighbor who chain-smokes (Illinois) or the strong reek of concrete paint (Texas) or the newish smell of a house that is too clean for us generally (Iowa).

And recently, when we returned to this house in PA, I walked in the door and was hit by the smell of the last owners, who never, ever opened any windows, drew all their curtains, and whose basement smelled musty. Even though we had pried off the storm windows, painted, stripped carpet off every surface, somehow--somehow!--their smell came back into residence during a short absence.

This is the first summer we have not moved in years. Perhaps our house sensed this and trusted us, for when we returned from Texas, we walked in the front door and smelled an old house's oak floors and banister, a mixture of herbs drying, cleaning agents, coffee and tea, beds slept in by our family, wisps of past meals--in short, we, like animals, smelled home, the many indistinguishable things that exude from our specific existence, the smell that surrounds us and confirms that yes, we do belong here.

Guest Gardener: Tonya Martin in Greene County, PA

All pictures and text by Tonya Martin

I decided when I started doing a vegetable garden to only grow things that we enjoy eating fresh or can't get in good quality elsewhere, or that the kids would enjoy growing. That is the reason we always grow sugar snap peas.

The variety we have this year is tastier than we have had in the past...Gurney's Sugar Lace II.

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We also grow pumpkins every year, as they are great fun for the kids. Once again we are in danger of being taken over by them! Hopefully we will have plenty to share in the Fall.

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I have 2 old cast iron kettles in which I plant arrangements every year. This is the larger one. Aren't the purple peppers cool?

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Sweet corn in this area just doesn't live up to the quality we are used to getting from the farming communities in Harrisonburg, VA and Lancaster, PA...so we decided to try our own corn field this year. My first planting is in tassel.

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And of course, Lazy Laura presides over it all like the princess she is!

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This photo was taken at our property on Waterdam Road last weekend. Jenna, the budding Entomologist identified this as a Hummingbird Clearwing Moth.

They were really amazing to watch!
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Of course recent rearrangements have made it possible for me to share my plants! These are for Kim!

They seem to be doing just fine in their Target bag homes!
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Everybody needs a friend like Tonya Martin: bestowed with good sense of humor, highly organized and efficient, and fond of sharing delightful plants and delicious food. Martin lives on a hill in Greene County with rather deaf dog Jack, two beautiful daughters, and master-griller husband. The Martin adults enjoy playing Rook and eating sweet corn.

Back from Texas, Woman Welcomed by Amazing Gardens

A sprawling gorgeous tangle awaited us after our two week journey into the wilds of Texas. Before we even opened our front door, we had harvested numerous succulent peppers and shining tomatoes. Rows of blooming zinnias nodded like a riotous church-lady welcoming committee.

And when I checked wazoofarm.gmail.com, what delights I found! Your lovely gardens! So I've started below with Rombro and Long, Urban Wizards. Look for more Visiting Gardeners, and enjoy your garden, the height of summer, the rewards of your labors!

Guest Gardener: Leah Rombro & Kenton Long in Baltimore, MD

All pictures by Leah Rombro

Urban wizards Rombro and Long converted a totally trashed yard, littered with urban garbage, into an artistic, productive garden.

Long initiated beutification efforts with the walls of his house, a structure slotted for demolition. Months of work rendered a clean palette for the artwork of Long, Rombro and their roommates.

Join two artists and give them a wreck, and see what happens:

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Now the blue walls of this bathtub hold the rich soil of an herb garden:


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Once a nightmare of glass shards and trash, now a sprawling pumpkin patch:

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Edible art:





Leah Rombro balances work and college while Long works as a graphic designer. Both create art in the Baltimore area. I hear they make a mean herb burger. . . .