Author: psross@ameritech.net

Yesterday we went to a block party.  What a lot of memories that inspires.  The same block where we met our new neighbors at a party 35 years ago, just a couple of weeks after we moved in and just a couple of days after Olivia was born.  Some of the same neighbors, too.  I didn’t take any pictures, although there was much that was picture-worthy.  Most things were a lot like 1980. Lovely food, that goes without saying.  Frozen daiquiris in pretty glasses. Expectant mothers.  Proud fathers. And children, the youngest of whom, Jaaz, was just a couple of weeks older than my granddaughter Aloisa.  Women in colorful saris. (One difference from 1980).  There was a stroller/bike parade.  Just before we arrived, there was a fox sighting in the yard of the house on the corner. (That’s new too, along with the deer menace.)

So many things have happened in those 35 years, and I have changed so much, that it was almost surreal how much the same the party was.  Comforting, in a way, and, in other ways, challenging.  Certainly I feel that I’m “making it” in Toledo, as are all my neighbors.  That’s never been enough for me, but I’m not sure quite what else I’m working toward right now.

I’ve just finished reading two books by Jo Walton, The Just City and The Philosopher Kings.  At least the characters in these books know what they are seeking. If you enjoy philosophy, and if you want to be thought-provoked, I recommend them.

The heaviest penalty for declining to rule is to be ruled by someone inferior to yourself.”  Plato, The Republic

 

I love the garden in the morning.

I have three terra cotta toppers, a bonus I found at Rancho Gordo in Napa.  I’ve been buying dried beans from Steve Sando by mail ever since I discovered them at the Ferry Market on a visit to San Francisco.   When we were in the area (but not really close), John indulged my need to visit the store, and I was not disappointed.  Probably not too many people travel to Napa for the Mexican pottery.

Every spring I build bamboo pole teepees, and usually I grow my own beans on them. I tried that with one this year, but it’s completely bare, thanks to the deer.  This one did better, with “Blushing Susie” Thunbergia from Bench Farms.  The foliage is rough and smells vaguely bad, but isn’t it pretty in the morning sun?

A few years ago on an impulse I bought three Berggarten Sage plants at Mulberry Creek Herb Farm.  Much to my delight, they are not only hardy, beautiful, and fragrant, but they seem to be deer-proof.  They’re perfect for fried sage leaves . When I make those, I feel almost Italian.  Just thinking about that is enough to convince me that I need to buy one more bottle of Campari before the season ends.

 

 

 

My daughter Olivia spent her junior year in South Africa, at the University of Durban.  During the winter holidays, which of course are summer there, she traveled and explored the region.  I don’t know where she bought this chair, or its larger companion, but she shipped them both home, wrapped in brown paper and string, and they have finally found a home in my garden.   The construction is ingenious, and Olivia assures me that they are sturdy enough even for the men who make and sell them.

 

 

Speaking of sturdy, several years ago I planted bronze fennel.  It was glorious, about six feet tall, and it attracted more butterflies than I have ever had before.  There were so many caterpillars on the leaves that it also attracted birds.  I collected fennel seeds by the pint jar.  At the end of the season we realized that the roots were almost as deep as the plants were tall, and since we try to rotate crops in our small raised beds that was not a good thing.  Bronze fennel still appears throughout the garden, but it’s under control this year, and, yes, it is deer-proof.

Maybe this will be the year I refresh the fennel seeds in my pantry.

 

 

 

 

 

I ahould have known better than to read the Ta-Nehisi Coates book right after reading the Rolling Stone article on climate change.  How do you cope in a situation where you feel powerless ?  I don’t cope well.

Today I had three surprises that, somehow, have helped.  When I fed the pond goldfish, as I do every day, the first surprise was perched on the pond rim: a small toad, about half an inch long. At first I thought it was an insect.  Before it darted under the rocks that line the pond, I wanted to document this, so I grabbed my i-pad.  When I came back a second, smaller yet, was waiting for me.

Next to the pond, after I weeded out the stray grasses and clover and violets, this lovely fern has come out of nowhere.  Although I used to try to be in control of my gardens, I’ve come to appreciate the volunteers, and this one is promising.

 

Finally, this pink flower, which was promised to attract hummingbirds to the pond but has not yet drawn them away from the feeder, is in glorious bloom. I can see it from my kitchen, and from the screened porch.

There is little I can do about climate change, but I try.  There is nothing I can do to change the truths that Coates describes so eloquently.  I take some comfort and joy in the life that is flourishing in our backyard after 35 years of  sporadic and mostly toxic-free growing.

What else can I do?

Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector’s passion borders on the chaos of memories.    Walter Benjamin

I read posts about minimalism, and I admire those who practice it.  Not me.  I like things.  I like making things, and I like collecting things, especially when they have a story.

I brought this glass home from Venezuela, purchased on a day-trip from an Aruba vacation in 1990.  After a quick flight, we risked our lives on a terrifying bus ride, brave tourists transported to a factory in the mountains where Murano-style glass was (is?) made in the Venetian style, under the direction of a Venetian immigrant.  The glass was one of four, and the only one still intact.  One was broken and two are cracked, but I keep them anyway and will happily drink wine from them, ignoring the danger and continuing the adventure.

I don’t know who made this glass, but I do know who gave it to me.  My friend Polly noticed my collection of carnival glass tumblers and added several, including this one which immediately became my favorite.  The design around the rim is called fruit of plenty, and I like to drink cold tea from it when I am home alone.

This small bowl probably came from an estate sale years ago, or maybe from one of the local antique shops.  I have three, and I fill them with salt for dinner parties, usually with a small wooden spoon but sometimes I just let people use their fingers.  I love dinner parties.  Sometimes it’s nice to go out and be waited on, but there’s something special about dinners with friends at home.

Every week during the season we pick up our CSA share.  Our farmers grow the vegetables, but most of the fruit is from other local farms.  This week we got peaches, and I bought nectarines from the store.  This jam is a mixture of the two fruits, infused with just a bit of lemon verbena.  I’ve shared one jar with Polly, and I’ll take some when I visit my daughter in Chicago later this month.  Sometime this winter, when it’s cold and snowy, the jars we keep will help us to remember summer.

 

 

 

Today I turned the calendar over to August.  Tonight I am baking a plum torte.  Since I try to cook and bake seasonally,  I feel like I’m measuring time with that cake.  Cooking and sharing and tasting, I hope, will help me remember to appreciate time and not let it pass by unnoticed.

The plums, part of this week’s CSA box, are local,  and the first of the year.   They follow blueberries, and I’ve already made blueberry jam, blueberry syrup, blueberry sauce and I’m thinking about blueberry ice cream. But it’s time to move on…

I’ve always liked calendars, and I take real pleasure every December in choosing one for each member of the family.  My schedule is on Google, but the calendar still hangs on the kitchen wall. For the last few years my kitchen calendar has featured old advertisements for food and drinks.  It’s fun to see the fanciful and stylish ways that food has been marketed.  Time measured by the season is so much more appealing than weeks and months.

Tomorrow I’ll share the torte with friends.  I hope they also appreciate that berry season is over and done with, melons are coming in, and this is the perfect time for plums. We’ll hang out at the lake, and then the weekend will be over and I’ll need to pay attention to what day it is.

It’s sure to be a good day for cake.

 

I was not in Toledo during last year’s water crisis, but we followed it closely through the media.  The advisory was lifted the day we returned with our car loaded down with water purchased along the way.  So we’re prepared with several cases of water in the basement.

  We didn’t turn to the bottles last night, though, when we cleaned the kitchen sink, lined it with a towel, and added warm water to give Aloisa a bath.

The sink has rarely been cleaner.  Except for the part that involved her ears, Aloisa seemed to enjoy the experience.  And after some consideration I decided that I trust in the safety of Toledo water, even for my six-week old granddaughter.

I remember a story, perhaps apocryphal, from my childhood.  We lived in a rural area, and our water came from an artesian well.  A relative and neighbor, after boasting of the quality of her own well water, discovered that the well had been the final resting place of a recently-disappeared barn cat.  Perhaps not as scary as microsystin, but disgusting.

I won’t be bragging about Toledo water anytime soon, but I’m grateful for its abundance and, for now, trusting in its safety.

 

It’s been twenty two years since my sister Martha died.   Martha was 36. She was healthy.  She exercised.  She didn’t smoke.  But she died.  Since then, no death has seemed surprising to me.

Last week my old friend Sue Wuest died.  Although we were no longer close, for many years Sue was like a sister to me and like an aunt to my children. We cooked together and hosted meals with friends.  We supported each other and complained to each other about our co-workers. Then we became co-workers and it didn’t work anymore.  I will remember those good years with Sue, enjoy the foods we shared together, and wear the lovely jewelry Sue made for me.  I’ll think of her often.

Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible. – The 14th Dalai Lama

 

My mother was one of twelve children, most of whom lived near where I grew up in St. Lawrence County, New York.  One of her siblings, my aunt, was known for not being able to sit still.  Her visits, although frequent, never lasted long.  She was fidgety.  Her name, really, was Euretta, but we all called her Dady.  Sometimes I worry about being fidgety like Aunt Dady. In truth, though, I think I am more like my father, who knew how to relax but only after accomplishing an almost-endless series of tasks. At my house, like the place I grew up, there is always another task:  there are weeds in the garden, there is paper to be recycled, closets to be cleaned.  Nothing urgent, and perhaps nothing important either.  I need to remember that.

Today is a perfect summer day.  The sun is shining and the birds are singing. The mosquitoes are managable.  I’ve done my errands for the day, and it’s too early to begin cooking.  Here is where I plan to spend the next few hours, tasks be damned.

And here is what I plan to be reading:

 

Please don’t judge.

 

 

It’s taken me three days, but the main section of my front flower bed is weeded and, wth a little help from John, mulched.

The roses are blooming and the bird bath is ready for those dirty birds who seem to love it.

The lavender is in full flower.

I’ve crushed cinnamon basil and rubbed it on my skin

in a hopeful attempt to discourage mosqitoes.

At least some of the new milkweed plants are getting ready to bloom.

And I’ve promised myself to take a break from the garden work today and just enjoy the garden.  I hope I can pull it off.

Let no one think that real gardening is a bucolic and meditative occupation.
It is an insatiable passion, like everything else to which a man gives his heart.
– Karel Capek

Tuesday is CSA pickup day, and this week our fruit share included three bags of cherries,which is quite a lot:

Since the cherries were at their juicy peak, I got out my cherry pitter and spent a few minutes on the front porch, where the mosquitoes seem to be in abeyance. Once they were all stemmed and pitted, some of the cherries went into the freezer. I’m macerating a few in sugar to serve later with yoghurt, but these will need a few days to be finished: pickled with rosemary will be ready in four days, and the bourbon infusion will expand my cocktail repertoire in August.

The cherry season is short, so I look for ways to make it last.