Grateful thoughts

Every year when I wake up on September 11th and no planes are hitting skyscrapers, I am grateful. That is among the least of the things I have to be grateful for today, but every year it’s a good place to start. Second on my list is Kamala Harris’ strong performance in last night’s debate. The next eight weeks will be long and tense, but I am hopeful. And third is the opportunity to make fresh tomato sauce from organic tomatoes and garden basil. Since we’re empty nesters again, I’ll be filling more pint jars than quarts.

tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, basil…

Empty nesting is an opportunity and a challenge. We have commenced Swedish death cleaning (It’s astounding how much one accumulates!) but are looking forward to lots more life in this house, where we have lived for 44 years. I’m hoping for cooking and gardening, dinners and parties (cocktail-, house-…) and sharing with both many old friends and always new ones. When our house was built more than a century ago, clearly it was intended for entertaining – the porches, the windows, the maid’s room… and now with our new kitchen it’s a joy to cook for guests. Again, I am grateful.

Yesterday we said goodbye to the ugly-but-fun pool that Jo has maintained for Loi’s enjoyment over many years. I”m not sure how long it will be until something grows there, but as Jo says, the pool had a good run. I feel the same about many of our plantings. Over time, I’ve lost the style thread and, too often, the gardening-conditions thread too. Yesterday I realized that I have WAY more wild ginger than makes sense. This year instead of planting I want to focus on soil-building.

I’m hoping to write here more regularly, and I invite your comments.

Good morning, Doctor

No, not Dr. Ross, although I greeted him first. In this post I am referring to Dr. Seuss, because that is what the newest flowers in my garden call to my mind with their crazy shapes and wild colors.

Spider Flower, Cleome

I don’t remember cleome in my grandmother’s garden, but I love this old-fashioned plant. The toughest thing about caring for it is choosing which seedlings to discard in order to let the remaining plants flourish.

Purpletop Vervain, Verbena

I’m sure I bought this plant once, probably because, although I haven’t watched The Vampire Diaries, I somehow remember their description of Vervain: One that makes vampire skin burn and strength wane; a secret weapon preventing them from compelling humans to do their will. Now, it has migrated throughout my backyard gardens, which is fine because it is a “see-through plant” and doesn’t block the light or my vision of its neighbors.

Milkweed

Since I bought this common milkweed from Monarch Watch, it has reliably hosted all stages of monarchs. Not this year, at least so far. No butterflies, no eggs, no caterpillars. I still have hope.

Zoraya

Have you ever seen a baby so clearly thinking deep thoughts? No, nor have I. I’ve only spent a week with my second grand-daughter, and already I am eager for more visits. In the meantime, FaceTime is better than nothing.

Zoraya in her vintage shirt and her new best friend.

When I was born, I was one of several dozen children of my generation on my mother’s side (My mother was one of the youngest of 12 siblings who reached adulthood.) I had cousins who were adults before I was born and a few who I remember as infants. Most lived within a few miles of my home, one was virtually next door, and none was more than a couple of states away. I was close friends with two of these cousins and acquainted with most of the rest. I had cousins on my father’s side, too, a more reasonable number and a smaller age range. Together, a family network that I took for granted.

I don’t think about it often, but some memories produce their own deep thoughts about how that shaped my early days. “There were frequent cousin sleepovers and occasional longer shared vacations.

I hope that Zoraya and Aloisa develop their own friendships to rival the easy, automatic way I knew my cousins. In hindsight, I had a bigger family than I realized:

“Cousins may not be siblings, but they are family just the same.”

History

My calendar tells me it’s the first day of women’s history month. I’ll take that as permission to reflect a bit on some of my own history.

In August of 1972, newly graduated from Cornell, I accepted a job as junior high math teacher at Ella P. Stewart school, then at 707 Avondale. We came to Toledo so that John could attend medical school. For various reasons, coming her was a last-minute decision. It took us a while to find a place to live, and we spent the first couple of months at the Ann Manor on Scottwood, later moving on to other Old West End locations.

For a girl who grew up in a town of less than 1000 people, all of whom were white and most of whom were farmers, Stewart was a new experience. All of my students were Black, and most of them were several inches taller than I. The veteran teachers in the school were Black but those of us who were new were mostly white. Apparently that passed for integration in those days.

To my horror, I was expected to paddle those who misbehaved. My helpful students made me a paddle in shop class and assured me that its aerodynamic design would make up for my small size and lack of strength. A Black college friend explained that if I declined to paddle, my students would believe that either I didn’t care enough to hit them or I was afraid to do so. (What do you suppose I did?) This disciplinary style was so ingrained in the culture that at least one young man routinely wore multiple pairs of pants when he intended to be troublesome. The alternative to taking a student into the hall, calling another teacher to witness, and taking a swing was to take them to the principal’s office. On at least one occasion I watched as the principal instructed the miscreant to take down all but the last pair of pants before administering their punishment. It was a different time.

Because Stewart was a neighborhood school for grades K-8, my students were not far from their homes, their siblings, and their mothers. As one of my students assured me, that led to relatively good behavior. “You should see what it’s like at XXX junior high” naming a nearby larger school where the students, 7th and 8th graders, were a few blocks farther from home.

I learned a lot in my three years at Stewart. I taught some remarkable children. I learned some horrifying things about the lives some of them lived. I learned that good teachers, of which there were many, could transform lives. I decided that being a classroom teacher was not for me.

It was 50 plus years ago. History.

Hearing the angels sing…

I grew up in way-upstate New York State, and winters were COLD. Our windows were often frosted and occasionally frozen shut. Nevertheless, on Christmas Eve our bedroom windows were always opened so that we could listen for the angels singing.

I didn’t hear any angel song today, but hearing two of my kids singing together was almost as good. I have no musical talent, but I enjoyed listening to Sam and Johanna make their way through the holiday songbook while I was cooking dinner – comfort food all the way, including short ribs from my recent purchase of a quarter cow, grass fed in Wayne Ohio and processed in Assumption. Also Southern-style grits, stored in the freezer since I bought them in Kentucky.

I’m trying not to think about the Kentucky-type weather we’ve had recently, since thinking about climate change doesn’t seem to help me or the climate.

With a week to go until 2024, I intend to do some intensive de-cluttering and end the year with a bit less excess stuff.

“Christmas is a togethery sort of holiday. …”

Getting to know Lavern…

It must be a new season, because this morning my sourdough starter whispered to me. I dutifully fed it, setting aside the discard for a batch of homemade crackers. Although my starter isn’t new, it’s still without a name.

Perhaps it’s time to address that gap. OOH !!! I just discovered a sourdough name generator. Lavern Surely Doughry will certainly help my bread production through the winter, and I look forward to getting to know her.

This is amazing! And scary. I was simultaneously making bread and texting with Liv and Bobby about AI. I know that my computer is listening to me, but is it also picking up on the yeasty tang in the air?

Today’s bake is not sourdough, but is no-knead, which, given the effect arthritis has on my hands, is welcome.

After a couple of hours at room temperature, the dough has risen a lot.

I’m hoping for a bread as gorgeous as this one I made last year.

No-knead bread can be perfect. Lavern and I will not be chasing perfection, but I predict we will have a lot of fun over the next few months.

Go with the slow

On Tuesday I picked up a bushel of gorgeous bi-color corn raised by Dave Bench and available to me through my CSA, Shared Legacy. I shared 3 dozen ears with friends, which was a good thing because a bushel is a LOT of corn. We’ve had corn soup and corn salad (no particular recipe, but I dressed it with the salsa from Tuesday’s soup). I’ve put 8 bags of corn in the freezer. Makes me feel very wealthy.

Fresh, but not up to the standard of my childhood, when the practice was to pick the corn AFTER the water came to a boil…

John is away from home this week, attending a public health conference in Tacoma and visiting his brother on a small island in the San Juans. Aloisa’s food tastes are within a narrow and fairly boring range, and Johanna seems happy with a few old favorites. I don’t intend to do a whole lot of cooking, since I miss John’s enthusiasm. It’s amazing how much time opens up when I’m not cooking. I read the first (and only, so far) book in a series I hope to follow for a long time. Featuring a male clothes-obsessed detective is a nice twist.

In contrast to the quiet all around me, the tiny pond ecosystem is bustling and bursting with goldfish, mosquito-fish, and tadpoles, all nibbling on the duck weed. I love to sit and watch, especially since the water lily has bloomed.

busy, but tranquil…

“…to be slow means that you govern the rhythms of your life. You are in control of deciding how fast you have to go.” Carlo Petrini

No rush….spring break

We needed a break and decided to do a timeshare trade that will also allow us to see Olivia. After a brief time in Oakland we arrived in Calaveras County, nineteenth-century Gold Rush country. Our first couple of days were hot (pool weather), but we’ve settled into more typical temps.

Our first adventure was to the Calaveras Big Trees park, and it lived up to its promise with trees that are the most massive on earth:

Definitely a BIG tree

This park had to close for a bit in the winter because the trails couldn’t be cleared: they ran out of places to pile snow! In the midst of the trees there is a wet meadow, now holding much of the snow melt.

I loved this part of the park

Angel’s Camp, California, is our home base and a perfect place to zone out, catch up on reading, and explore a few wineries. We bought a couple of bottles from Twisted Oak and then enjoyed the view of their vines:

Twisted Oak has a focus on bold red wines.

and then we got lost:

A refuge is always welcome…

Pretty sure we were trespassing, and we didn’t see any gypsies, but this was a lovely and mysterious detour and we eventually made it back to the road.

The best food we’ve found in town reminded us that the Gold Rush attracted people from all over, especially Mexican miners whose heritage probably explains the menu we enjoyed at lunch -Chile rellenos and agua fresca.

More adventures await!