a monday manifesto

I believe molasses + cold milk over cereal (plain Joe's O's) is better than it sounds. Oh yes, and the milk is goat milk, fresh from the farm and unpasteurized. I admit to being skeptical, once, about drinking raw milk. And I wouldn't drink just any raw milk. And I suggest you be as discerning. But if you're drinking factory farmed milk, if it comes from sick animals leading stifled lives in unsanitary conditions, then I guess the more it's pasteurized the less blood and pus you'll have to drink and so that's probably preferable. But maybe you might want to wonder why there's so much blood and pus in your milk in the first place. Pasteurization kills bacteria, but why so much bacteria? And what else is it killing in the meantime? All the best of any reason you might be drinking milk in the first place. (that's what).

I believe in taking tastes of raw egg containing batter. Remember when we were kids and everybody licked the beaters? And then we worried about salmonella: licks of batter, tiny nibbles of dough, became fraught with risk, illicit. Now salmonella, e. coli seem as likely to infiltrate your chain restaurant salad bar as anywhere else. Where are your eggs coming from? We bought the best eggs I thought I could get in stores, cage-free, organic, the works, until I sourced a local product. And now we eat eggs laid from happy chickens, treated humanely and fed good stuff. I've baked for so many years without eggs, any animal products at all, that a lot of my baked goods are still egg-free, from habit. We tend to eat eggs more for their own eggy goodness. But I might use them in muffins or brownies and I do make an egg batter every week for French Toast Friday and if I inadvertently lick off a finger or what have you, I don't think twice about it. I'm not worried about getting sick. I do try to wipe the handles off of grocery carts, though, and I always open public bathroom doors with the hem of my shirt.

early inheritance

do you have a tried and true solution for removing black machine grease from clothing?

i have this skirt. this really lovely, thin cotton skirt in the most pleasing shades of white and gray and green and yellow, stripes, with perfect side patch pockets. i thrifted this skirt many years ago but i've never worn it. the waist is tiny. i have hung the skirt in so many closets thinking that maybe my waist might be tiny someday and it would fit. i'm at the point where i'm not hoping tiny anymore, just crossing fingers for my old regular small-ish again. so i decided the other day i'd just cut the skirt up, turn it into an apron. i could add ties and wear it over pants.

but then i thought, hey, maybe it would fit my girl. she tried it on. yes. we have similar taste in style: she loved it. she wore it two days in a row. on the second day, she did something, i'm not sure, and now the circumference of the hem is covered in black grease.

i haven't touched it because i'm so upset about it. it was just a cheap secondhand skirt. i think it came from 'the bins' and would have been much less than a dollar. but i've had it all this time, see, and i've grown attached. to have it ruined so quickly is more than i can bear!

share the road

A few days after my guy spotted one of these limited plates -which benefit both Bicycle Transportation Alliance and Cycle Oregon- our plates came up for renewal. Truly we would have kicked in more than the ten bucks it cost to switch, because bicycle awareness is that important to us. But with such a reasonable fee, it was a simple decision. I'm surprised I'm not seeing more of these around. Maybe it's still early yet.

I don't commute by bicycle (we non employed types tend to work close to home) but my husband often does. And when he's hugging the shoulder of a rural highway, I sure hope all those logging trucks and tractor trailers and farmers in a hurry are mindful of his presence and share the road.

We ride, as a family, frequently for pleasure and purpose (quick trips to nearby stores or parks). The husband (with the boy on his handlebar mounted seat) takes the lead, the girl rides safe in the middle, and I am the blue schwinn caboose. We ride in bike lanes and avoid very busy roads, as much as possible, but it's likely that we'll still get in front of some a-hole who thinks it's okay to Honk from behind or pass us in an unsafe manner, slamming the gas pedal and screeching ahead. And I guess I don't much expect those people to change. I am sure there are folks who believe firmly that roads are for cars and bikes should stay off, but I'd like to hope that they will become the rare, astonishing exception. Because biking isn't going anywhere and is more commonplace than ever.

i'll keep mentioning the sink until we replace something else

While the above gratuitous sink shot features cherries, it just as well could have been a picture of more strawberries. Will you believe that the very day after I bemoaned the end of strawberry season, my husband called me up with a request to glean from some top secret fields he knows?! We all went out one evening this week, after dinner, and brought home four gallons of the smallest, tastiest, reddest, ripest strawberries ever. They were a less hardy variety and, I confess, not a good match for my tendency to procrastinate the process of produce. (please excuse that riff of accidental lip smacking alliteration there). They didn't all make it through the washing, de-stemming, freezing routine, but our stash has grown considerably and I feel entirely prepared now to say goodbye to local strawberries for another year. How about that?

But now let me tell you about cherries. Cherries! I am thirty-two years old and I just discovered cherries. Which might strike you as incredibly sad or strange, but, if you happened to have been around during the winter 06 discovery of Pears (!) then perhaps you are not surprised.

This is what I'm doing and it's not an edict for the rest of you, it's just my personal philosophy: I'm going to assume that the more good food we have around the house, the more good food my kids will eat. And this is pretty much working out for us; which means, my kids have never made the acquaintance of Chef Boyardee but they're able to identify a slew of different mushrooms and they can, now, distinguish between a Ranier and a Bing. At the very least, they won't reach their third decade mistakingly dismissing all cherries based on a few early tastes of maraschinos.

It makes me wonder what else I might be missing out on. . .

is that just me?

The bad news is: I think I missed strawberry season. And by missed, what I really mean is What? Gone already? Because we've been picking up pints of local berries every couple of days and we picked all those buckets full a few weeks ago to stock our freezer, so it isn't like we missed them at all. But it wasn't enough. We aren't ready to wait a Whole! Year! for more. They taste better, after all that waiting, but my! They sure were so sweet right now. My favorite summer treat, which tastes so fresh and perfect: red, ripe strawberries cut into halves or quarters, a generous dollop of plain yogurt, and then a whole lot of ground almonds on top. I regret not eating that more often. It should be an every single night indulgence, while it lasts.

BUT!

The good news is: blueberries are here! and I have a new (secondhand) sink to wash them in.

(And the best news of all! A long and picture-heavy post ahead!)

So even though the kitchen sink was low on our list of potential home improvement projects, we couldn't help snagging a replacement recently at a nearby church rummage sale for a whopping five bucks. The faucet came from the secondhand building materials store in town (proceeds benefit Habitat for Humanity) and the fittings and pipes and such came because sometimes fifty plus year old pipes are so corroded and rusty they just can't be salvaged and, thankfully, my not-a-plumber but earnest-and-capable-handyman husband was patient enough to make a lot of trips back and forth today to Lowe's.

It's amazing what a difference the new sink makes. I try to be in the moment, grateful, chopping wood and carrying water despite the irritating little details that clutter my path. I try. But when one of those irritating details is suddenly erased, it's amazing what a difference it makes. I have a clean sink now! Shiny! Not rusty and stained brown, impervious, even, to the caustic kiss of bleach. It's deep enough and bigger on one side to hold so many dirty dishes! No more dirty dishes splayed halfway down the counter for lack of appropriate soaking space! It's wide enough to hold a casserole dish! The pizza pan can fit entirely! Really you must sense how excited I am! The sprayer nozzle works! I can pull it out and spray crumbs and such away! I don't have to splash water to the corners with my cupped hand anymore!

Having the right tool for the job makes all the difference. I have wasted a lot of time in the last nine months hand washing dishes all the wrong way. The chore went so much more quickly tonight. And it feels so much better in there now.

But I don't want you to think all I do is moon over enamel (not cast iron enamel, like the old one, no, but apparently enamel over some kind of composite, which hopefully means fewer chipped dishes in my future) and moan about what little project might next revolutionize my life.

While the porridge cooked on the stove this morning, and the berries drained in the colander, I took pictures of the children.

The boy, who did not want to wait for breakfast but did want to wait to have his diaper changed, and he wallowed around on the chair, on both counts:

And the girl took up her customary position, at the table with pen(cil) and paper, an idea in her head, a story growing from her fingers, a hummy song on her lips. . .

. . .and cats on her lap (okay, just one cat, but she is a cat charmer, believe it, and it is a wonder that our sour old puss is tolerating the spry kitten now enough to be this close):

There was a busy day of watering yards and putting laundry away and reading and eating sugar snap peas sun-warmed and perfect right off the vine and reorganizing kitchen drawers and then, later, while the pizza dough was rising, a rousing family bicycle ride. We parked the bikes and trudged down a rough path to a precarious dock to the river. It was beautiful and we think we would like a canoe. (Although the one of us prone to motion sickness especially and not at all in favor of boats, in general, wonders if this is really a wise whole family endeavor or not).

There was a steep hill on the return ride. I tend to like the hill + bicycle combination quite a lot on the downward journey. wheeee! As close as many of us may ever get to the sensation of flying, I imagine. I am less fond, you may guess, of uphill. I expected to have to walk the hill, pushing my heavy bike (it's a new-ish but clunky cruiser meant for riding with an upright carriage and nod-and-smile attitude toward the people I pass, and it is not, in any way, streamlined and designed for speed, which is fine because I like to smile and notice things and do not, at all, will not, ever, bicycle leaning forward and hunched down low to my handlebars). But guess what? I didn't have to stop and walk it and I made it up at an even, respectable pace AND so did the girl, who also was intimidated by the hill.

I punched down the dough and assembled the pizza as soon as we returned home. It was already closing in on eight, but it's so hard to adhere to dinner-time dinners in the summer in Oregon when it stays bright until past nine o'clock.

And then we ate, sunday night pizza, I've perfected the pizza sauce, after all these years of pizza making, and maybe getting a little bored with the weekly gig, changing up the sauce (of all things, the sauce!) is making such a difference. I get compliments now and they gobble it up and want more and there's not enough left for lunch tomorrow.

I remembered we were out of crushed red chili peppers. Did you know that I can't eat pizza without (a lot) of crushed red peppers? It must be genetic because my sister is the same way. We both have a predilection and a tolerance for Hot and Spicy that maybe edges a little on the weird and neurotic. Anyhow, we were out and the walk-to store was closed and did I really want to get in the car and drive somewhere for crushed peppers or skip the pizza or what? Or how about I just break into my secret stash. What? You don't keep a little emergency packet of crushed red peppers hidden in your wallet?

and i feel fine

I find myself tangled in cords in the middle of the night most nights, the price of falling asleep listening to my ipod. Recently, I got a little clamp lamp for the side of my bed, so I've resumed reading before bed sometimes. But I dislike waking up hours later with the light still on, my glasses crooked and shoved into the side of my head, the book fallen over, pages bent. So I listen.

The other night I fell asleep to the most recent To The Best Of Our Knowledge podcast, about It's The End Of The World As We Know It. And while I find all of the TTBOOK episodes compelling and interesting -so much so that I'm always thinking, oh! I should write in my little blog about that. But I never do- this one stuck especially in my head. I probably shouldn't have fallen asleep to the episode about peak oil and apocalypse, because I had a sleepless night plagued with nightmares. Overactive imagination or warning! warning! warning! ? It's hard to know. It's hard to know what is prudent preparation and what might not matter anyway. I don't think any of us wish to be caught the shivering grasshopper. But if the ants don't last much longer. . . ?

In the grand scheme of a world without oil, the hierarchy of importance shifts. Suddenly we're embracing tiny moments and whittling down our fluffy existence to the stuff that really counts. Suddenly things that raise my blood pressure now and have me wondering if it's beer o'clock yet -like my blasted nasty kitchen floor- seem so obscenely trivial.

I'm not anxious to start living a post-apocalyptic life early, but I am trying to not let the trivial stuff get the better of me. Because it really doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if my floors are spotty, if my sink is pitted and ever rusty, if my windows open the wrong direction (it pains me a little, ridiculously so, that I have side-to-side opening windows and not up-and-down opening windows). None of these irritants will survive in the face of global tragedy, so I might as well start letting them fade away now.

I've thrown the mop out all together. Every couple of days or so, I dump some water (with white vinegar and essential oil drops) on to the floor, throw an old dirty towel over the puddle, and scooch around. It's easier than mopping and the weight of me pressing into the rough surface of the floor pulls ground-in dirt out of all the little crevices. It is quick and cheap. To think a few weeks ago I almost bought an expensive steam cleaner, I was so frustrated! With all the dollars I saved on that, I can add more food storage to my End of the World stock. (ha ha, kidding. but not really).

a line, a pile, a piece

Remember when I did a whole month of posts in November? I can't even manage a consistent once a week post now. Which is maybe more because I haven't officially committed to it and less about what I keep feeling is a lack of inspiration or motivation. Without commitment, what difference does it make if I'm inspired or not?

Hi, this is the blog where every week I write Hi, it's been a week.

I might re-commit to daily posting again. But right now I confess to struggling with cleverness. I write as fancy strikes (whether that's on a daily schedule or on a random whim), in an up-in-my head, for myself, free writing sort of way. So by clever I don't mean like some relevant modern day Erma Bombeck wearing thrift store aprons and smirks (erma bombeck?! what? see, it's all whatever falls off the top of my head); I just mean more-or-less coherent and not exceedingly soporific. And when I'm struggling with that basic standard, with me as my only reader in question, well, then who knows what the three of you who wonder over from some wayward google search think.

So despite my baffled, sleepy brain, I will tell you that I finally got the husband to install my laundry line in the backyard. I'm not unfamiliar with a screwdriver, but when a stool would be necessary for shorty me to get the proper leverage, well, I prefer to pass the task along to Mr. Longarms Powerdrill.

I have a rod up in my laundry room and I've been air drying some items from most loads (save for, say whites and towels) on that since we moved here. But it took us a while to get the outdoor line up and in use. I don't know why. I love hang drying laundry. I've had lines up in every house we've lived in (if not a long line, then, one of those roundy spinny poles).

There's something very calming and purposeful about shaking out the wet clothes, clipping the pins. I find it oddly rewarding to pull the sun-stiffened garments down, drop the pins back into the empty tin, clunk clink clunk.

I'm very good about doing laundry, keeping my family in clean clothes. I'm not so good about putting the clean clothes away. I'd rather scrub toilets.

Taking the clothes outside to dry slows down the process. While it's arguable that the sun, on a clear hot summer day, is often faster than an electric dryer (this was certainly the case in Phoenix), there's just a lot more hands on time, every single piece being touched twice, instead of a jumbled pile (every jumbled pile of person has a thinking part that wonders what the part that isn't thinking isn't thinking of, oh, sorry. I do that) being hefted as a whole. And I find that the slower pace reminds me to finish what I've started, instead of allowing it to build and grow. So I bring in the still-warm clothes and am compelled to put them away, right away. (feeling compelled does not always equal actually doing it, but hey, it's a start).

I guess it's a bit laundry life philosophy, but it's also plenty of good sense, too. It's silly to use the electric dryer when there's a perfectly accessible solar powered one strung up between the back door and our little grapevine patch.

Which reminds me: how goes the compost pile? Well, I'll tell you what I forgot to mention when I wrote about it in the first place, which is that I have an honest, genetic legacy to compost and a decent "all-in-the-family" reason to feel ridiculous for not having been composting all this time (we've been here in this house NINE months now): my father produces 200 tons of compost a day. Two Zero Zero TONS. A Day. He's something of a compost king over there in the southern half of The Land of Enchantment. My little heap is paltry in comparison, and won't be producing anything rapid enough to be measured daily, but at least now when we talk on the phone about any subject related to Growing Things, I'll be able to respond affirmatively when he touts the merits of building soil health by adding organic matter.

When it's warm out, do you feel less inclined to cook food, too? I'd like some cold wine and a piece of cake, but growing children really do require other things, summer or no. I'd better get on that. It's only in the mid-seventies, not appetite reducing temperature at all, so I can't even blame the weather on this sudden disinterest in cooking and one pesky, clamoring sweet tooth. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd blame my ugly kitchen floor, since I've convinced myself that if we had a different one, I'd be ten pounds thinner and could sing like a bird.

Our backyard has been a real eyesore, but it's starting to look so much better. So maybe it's just a matter of feeling pleased with that. Wanting to relax at the table on the patio with something sweet and refreshing, believing that this little corner of the world is, at this exact moment with my head tilted just so and my ears purposely tuning out the neighbors, just fine.

u-pick (i'll take pictures)

I hitched the camera over my shoulder and squatted down into the low, lush plants long enough (we were in the fields about an hour) to pick half of our bounty. That was long enough to fill about as many buckets as I can take home and process at once and long enough to feel a bewildering mix of gratitude and disbelief when thinking about the people who do this, for a living, all the time.

It's one thing to have a pleasant afternoon outing on an ideal early summer day with friends and children to go pick berries. It would be a very different thing all together to crouch so low, hands in the vaguely prickley stems, loading up buckets as quickly as possible to be paid mere cents per pound. For every complaint about the high cost of produce, I counter that our food prices are subsidized by the poor wages of people who work incredibly hard.

I cannot realistically grow everything I eat (my fledgling garden might produce something, but the scale on which I'm producing is too small for even our little family of four), and I cannot expect to acquire the whole balance from local u-pick establishments. I will always (so long as society hasn't collapsed and we still have stocked markets and money to purchase things) rely on the food grown and harvested by other people.

Oregon berries are so sweet. So much exploding with that perfect tart/sweet taste, it's hard to not speculate whether they've been injected with extra strawberry flavor. Of course, they haven't, they just come off the stem like that, grow under the mostly cloudy Oregon sky like that, come into my house and go into my freezer, to add into many future smoothies, just like that. But if I didn't pick them myself? Who did? It's like me to have to pair the sweet with something less palatable. It's so easy to imagine strawberries growing in tidy fields of turquoise paper boxes, straight from seed to little bundle.

Some person touched every berry you eat. Isn't that amazing? Some person with worries and fears, with children and hopes. Some person who's trudging through like any of us. My gratitude for these people isn't enough, but maybe it's better than never thinking of these things at all.

well, it's about time

It's not much to look at, that half-shadowy lump of fresh grass clippings. You'll have to fast forward in your imagination several months or so to see the rich organic matter of backyard home compost. It's taken us a long, old time to get our composting arses in line, if you will, despite a generous supply of those cloying and infamous "best intentions" everybody's always talking about (one of the few things I always seem have too many of: dust bunnies in the corners, pounds around my middle, best intentions).

Coincidentally, the same day we were finalizing our future compost spot, I had listened (on the trusty ipod while nursing the boy down for a nap) to a recent episode of the Alternative Kitchen Garden about the very thing. I always enjoy listening to Emma in the UK describe her gardening endeavors and accomplishments and insights and the composting episode was no exception. I was particularly glad to hear her list minimizing one's carbon footprint among reasons for home composting.

I have a hard time uttering the phrase "carbon footprint" without having something like a very small gaggy reflex. I think it's high time the masses envelope simplicity. I am very concerned about the state of our world, the future of our children, our obscene reliance on fossil fuels. Absolutely, all of it. But I'm disgruntled to see the Obvious and Necessary becoming the next trendy marketing scheme. Environmentalism shouldn't be trendy, it should be the default standard. And it shouldn't primarily encourage or require the purchase and acquisition of More Stuff.

I think they call that Defeating The Purpose.

Let me chase a rabbit for a minute [when I was a child, sitting in church with my family, our pastor used the phrase "chasing a rabbit" to mean following a tangent for a spell, and I don't know, maybe that's a common phrase and maybe other people say it, too, but it always takes me back to that storefront baptist church, drawing pictures on the backs of bulletins]. . . My only vehicle is an SUV. A 95 Range Rover. An apparent object of scorn from so many hybrid drivers. Every single time I drive into the big city now, I get the stink eye from any number of people and I am convinced my car is the reason. The truth is this: my car goes fewer miles per gallon than your shiny Prius does. But a gallon is a gallon. Don't assume that my fuel-guzzling beast is on the road every day: it's not. My other car is a pair of beat up converse and my husband commutes to his (rural, fourteen miles away) office often by bike. Could I sell my thirteen year old car for something else? Sure. And then what? What becomes of my mostly parked monster? Is it purchased by someone who starts driving it daily? And what do I buy to replace it? Because that Hybrid you (oh general you) are so smug about? Was not fashioned out of twigs and compost by some clever, modern ecofairy. The production of new cars does not have a negligible impact. No, I believe that society's More More More dogma is what got us into this mess in the first place. Making more stuff -even if that stuff is Environmentally Friendly! Green! Organic! Sustainable!- is still Making More Stuff. Stop the EcoGreen Insanity! (my apologies to Susan Powter and her early nineties appearances on late night television)

I have a front loading, high efficiency washing machine. When we bought our house, we needed some appliances. We made the decision to spend a little more for the machine that promises to use a little less. I support having such a choice as a consumer. The problem is, there are too many choices and too many consumers! Production isn't filling a basic need, it's catapulting sales of a whole new product bracket. How about we Buy Less Stuff? Because I'm pretty much convinced that the production and the packaging and the transportation of all this STUFF isn't saving the planet any.

So, in not so many rambley words, that's basically what Emma said about making your own compost. As in, compost is great! But buying compost only makes your carbon footprint all that much bigger. And when that phrasing isn't used as a marketing gimmick, when someone isn't insulting the size of my own carbon footprint so I'm compelled, in a fit of ecoguilt, to replace all my clothes with a new wardrobe of organic yoga attire? I can get behind it and say it again. Reduce your carbon footprint by doing it yourself. Whatever "it" might be. Make do with what you've got, see what you've got that might make something else you need.

And make secondhand stores (or rummage sales or craigslist or freecycle) your first stop for "new" stuff.

A few weeks ago, I picked up a funny, holey-lidded, enamel pot at the goodwill for two dollars. It was in good shape, whatever it was. Some peculiar old coffee percolator perhaps? I admit to being charmed by funny old things. I thought I might drill a few holes in it, use it for flowers or herbs on my front steps.

On Saturday, it hit me! I was standing outside, complimenting the husband on his readying of Compost Pile site, thinking of how glad I am to finally have a place to properly dispose of my kitchen waste when I realized that the funny old pot I didn't know what to do with is only the best food scrap bucket EVER! Time will tell if its functionality is as grand as I assume, but right now, it sure seems to be the right tool for the job:

It's a perfect fit in the cupboard to the very left of the kitchen sink, the one with the original built-in towel drying rods inside (they telescope for easy reach!). I have only taken one trip to the pile (visualize a grassy heap with a little plop of scraps atop), but I look forward to this arrangement serving me (and my garden and my world) well for a long time.

every day dad, because it matters every day

Father's Day, 1976, my mom ordered that shirt for my dad. I was seven months old. I can't recall what happened or what, if any, gifts were given for the very first ever Father's Day for the Father of my own children. Let's see, that would have been June of 2000. We lived in Southwest Portland on a steep street. I remember lots of summertime picnic dinners on the front lawn. I remember driving our little zippy Saab into the garage with my husband's bicycle still attached above to the bike rack. That first Father's Day, though? Heck if I know. But owing to a relatively recent resurfacing of that size XL bonafide mid seventies sturdy polyester t-shirt, I know exactly what my own dad got to mark his new title, new relationship, new status as somebody's Dad. Per my mother's memory, he did indeed wear it. Once. And then it shuffled around from drawer to closet to box through the years until it finally made its way to me. Which is kinda cool but maybe a little creepy. What should I do with it? You know, other than parade it out on nominally relevant holidays?

I asked my guy if he wanted to wear it today. I wasn't really being serious. He did not respond. I guess I can save it for my little boy and he can don his mother's half naked butt when he's bigger. Which is creepier still, no?

After nearly twelve years of marriage (and a lot of change and hard work), things aren't exactly as I might idealize them to be, but whatever else might be going on, I still (always) appreciate my husband for being, reliably, a really great dad for my children.

I displayed my appreciation by giving him something that fits just right and and is guaranteed never to languish in the back of any drawer for three decades: a fresh hot cup of coffee. Which is to say, I ground the beans and filled the press this morning, waited for the second kettle of water to make a cup of tea. And is, truthfully, the same thing I gave him last year. It's an everyday gesture for the everyday work of being an involved parent. He's involved and a part and my children's biggest hero every day. I appreciate especially that we're not the sort who require neckties or fishing hats or three dollar greeting cards with tired dad jokes to say Hey, Thanks, I love you.

He didn't have any of those teevee commercial magnanimous aspirations for his "special day" no poached egg brunch, no endless streaming sports station, no la-z-boy recliner naps. No, when asked what he wanted to do today, of all the things he might have said (a long run or a bike ride, a trip to a favorite mexican place, what?) he said he wanted to build a tree structure with his daughter.

They've been at it since right after breakfast. When it's all said and done (sometime later this evening) there will be a strong platform in the magnolia, nine feet up in the air.

And that's why he's a good dad. Because he's there. And building and making and talking and sharing every day.

close enough for horseshoes

So that title's not meant to make any sort of comparison between me and creatures of the equine variety. It's a broader remark. Meaning, it's not a ringer, I didn't quite hit my mark, but right now, today, I'm having a little love affair with my town.

Add Shoe Repair to the places I can get to on foot. I've had those Dansko sandal-y clogs languishing, dust gathering, in the backs of many closets now for years. I remember wearing them when I was pregnant with the boy, twisting the brittle, stretched-out elastic around a safety pin, a temporary fix, all the while meaning to take them to a shoe repair shop. I drove past one often, then. I would see it and think, I should grab the shoes, stop here sometime, bring them in. But I never did.

I consulted my yellow page directory a few weeks ago and, yes. That independent shoe store up the way? The one that sells the Birks and the Danskos and the Keens and those sorts of shoes? Why, they're a full service shoe repair, too. And just a few blocks from my house.

I took them in and the small section of elastic on each shoe (a tiny section attached to the buckle, funny how such a small piece has such a huge impact on their wearability) was replaced and they were ready the next day for a very respectable ten dollars. Not bad for a pair of shoes I picked up long ago, for about the same, off eBay.

What are the odds that if we lived in Portland again (oh Portland, I still love you best, but. . .), if we made it back to the place we missed for so long, if we were in that same hip northeast neighborhood that formed us in obvious and important ways, that I'd be within walking distance to. . . a shoe repair shop, an independent toystore, a second run theater, a new and used bookstore, a natural food store, the library, a thrift store, a drugstore, a non-chain movie rental store, parks a-plenty and a McMenamin's brewpub? Yeah. That's a tall order from any one spot. But that's what I've got here. In this little surprising place.

rice is nice

It's not all grief and wallow in the kitchen, no, sometimes I cook in there, too. And, for the record, I actually really dig my kitchen. The tall cupboards (unpainted birch, sweet.), all the drawers (can you believe, a few of them are still empty!), space for the little wooden play kitchen to sit (so my boy can play cook alongside, at least that's the idea, though he really prefers being up at the counter on a stool, but, hey- there's space for that, too). Remember, I've come to terms with the lack of a dishwasher (uh, more or less). I don't mind handwashing. Rather enjoy it, to be honest, it's the splayed across the counter drying part I don't like, the always having dishes, clean or dirty, hanging around waiting and up my business all the time that irritates me. Dishwashers are handy for keeping things tucked away: I like a kitchen to have bare counters and my counters are rarely bare. It's a great kitchen, though. It is. Which is why the whole floor thing is such a problem. Because I get distracted when I'm in there by the stupid floor and then I don't enjoy whatever other thing I'm doing in there as much as I might otherwise.

But catch me in the right mood and I'll still get flipping giddy about some kitchen happenings. What's new in my kitchen? Aside from the little cuphook in the ceiling and the faint lingering smell of pureed meat babyfood? Huh? Oh, did you know? We have a tiny new kitten named Ozma. So tiny that she won't yet crunch dry food or terribly textured wet food and, on the advice of several different people who would know, we've been supplementing her diet with pureed meat in a jar. The first jarred baby food I've ever purchased! It stinks.

The kombucha experiment isn't so new, but I'm just as enthusiastic about the stuff. Why isn't the whole world brewing and sipping this magic tea?

And why did I screw up rice cooking so long?

I read recently about the boiling method for all grains and if a person can get really excited about something like boiling grains, then whoopee! It's almost revolutionary!

I had rice cookers for a few years, a long while ago. But they cluttered my counters and were a hassle to clean and who really needs a whole appliance for one thing anyway? So since then I've been cooking rice like this: put in rice, add twice as much cold water, cover, cook. And it mostly turned out okay. You know, except when it didn't. And lately, it was mushy pudding every time, overcooked and despondent. All those sad little grains smushed together in one pathetic, gooey clump.

I don't know how I managed to get it right for so long to start turning out mush all the time. I imagine it's a little like the way my pizza dough had a recent bad spell: week after week of dense, hard crusts. I was baffled. I've been making the same pizza dough every week for years. I make it on autopilot, a quick tasty reflex. Yeast, flour, oil, water, salt. What is there to even mess up? Oh, the kneading. I could mix it all up and forget to knead it. I could mix it all up and forget to knead it many times before one night I think to myself, hey, didn't this used to take longer?

It doesn't matter what I was doing wrong with the rice, because this is how to do it right: boil it. Like pasta. Set a pan of water to boil, rinse your rice, add it to the boiling water, cook until almost done (taste it, like noodles!), and then drain in a colander. I've done it several times now and what I'm getting are beautiful, distinct happy grains. You can throw the drained rice back in the pot and keep warm on the stove.

The night I took that picture, I whipped up something I call (when pressed, my family just eats what I put in front of them, they don't usually ask for a name) some vague kind of slip slop approximation of a chana masala. I cook up my onions and spices and add tomato sauce and coconut milk and garbanzo beans and cook it down until it's less soupy, more thick and stewy. Just before serving, I throw in roughly chopped spinach. I throw in roughly chopped spinach (or chard or kale or. . .) to just nearly almost everything.

And then I put the whole mess in bowls and called it dinner. Do you see that lovely unmushy rice? It was good. I'm quite fond of one-bowl meals for everyday family dinners and I'm doubly delighted with food that cooks up easily. Nearly no fail rice! Who knew?

swabbing the deck

See that cleaning implement splayed across my kitchen floor there? That is not a mop. It is a long-handled very stiff scrub brush made to give backyard decks a seasonal once-over. I picked it up at the local farm store a few weeks ago. Thought, hmm, if it will muck moss and lichen and inches of outdoor sludge from off of coarse wood, well, then this will help me clean my kitchen floor. Right? Yes?

No.

We've been in The House That Jake Built (I tried, little ranchy bungalow to give you some compelling moniker, but it always comes back to the elderly people who custom built the place, being that they were they only owners and all. and the home was left vacant for 25 years after they died. it's hard for me not to think about them. ahem. anyhow. . .) for about 8 months now. And my kitchen (and bathroom and laundry) floors have never been clean. Not once. Oh, they were new when we moved in. The house was donated to a college, the college slapped some putty colored paint on all the walls and The World's Worst Vinyl Flooring on the floors, put it up for sale, and we bought it.

Our first home improvement priority upon possession was to replace the original carpet with bamboo. The 1958 formica? Charming. The same vintage wall-to-wall? Not so much. But replacing the vinyl flooring didn't even register. It wasn't even on the list.

Eight months into living here, and I'll tell you: It's on the list. I tried to be Zen about it. And by Zen, I mean, hunky-dory in that air-quotey way because I'm not buddhist. And when did "zen" became such common lingo any disgruntled housewife with a dirty floor can drop it down on a blog and get away with it, anyway? And those were air quotes, by the way. I feel itchy about appropriating other people's beliefs and philosophies, but I'm totally down with dorky irony. The irony being that I'm a dork. And I use air quotes.

But the floor. It is so bad. Unlike any floor I've ever had (all the frequent moving gives me an ample personal history on this one) or noticed elsewhere. It's not smooth at all. Textured. I want to say Orange Peel, but really, more like Sandpaper. Really, rougher than it looks:

Regular mopping doesn't touch the ground in dirt. And we're not all that dirty, I don't think. Our backyard is a dirt pit, yes, and the children and the dog are in and out all day long, but I sweep every day, at least once.

A while ago, I thought, I know! I'll start mopping every day! Who has time for that? I guess I do. But that wasn't good enough. So then I tried to hands and knees, hot water and scrub brush the floor every day. But that left me stiff fingered, dry-skinned, shaking my fist at the heavens and having an existential crisis in my kitchen. Because if the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a new outcome, the definition of futility is doing the same thing over and over again and knowing it doesn't matter anyway.

Last night I filled up a bucket of hot water + vinegar + a few drops of lavender oil (my usual mopping solution) and decided to have another go with the long handled scrub brush. And the brush pulled the dirt up, it does do that. But being that it's a brush and not a mop, it doesn't absorb any water, so then I need to grab an old towel to sop up the overflow and I was just about to get to that step, to the grabbing the old towel step, when I might have lost it.

I'm not going to divulge the whole story, but I might have screamed the sort of guttural, primal roar normally relegated to pushing babies out of hoo-has and I might have whacked that long handled brush against The World's Worst Vinyl Flooring with a force befitting Beowulf in the hall of halls. And I might have felt so disgusted and frustrated and DONE that I just left the whole mess in the kitchen and went to bed.

So what's the wrap up here? My husband (who spends a lot less time fretting about the cleanliness of our home, I'll tell you that) tells me I should find an acceptable level of clean and just let the rest be. But I tell him that it's none of it acceptable. It all pokes my sore spots and makes me feel like my whole existence is epitomized by a ding dang floor that won't get clean. It's either I curse my futile task, but keep at it anyway, or I give up.

I ignored last night's bucket of scrub water and broken long handled brush this morning. Walked around it while making breakfast. Tried not to make eye contact. And you know what happened a while later, when I was standing on the counter screwing in a little cup hook in the ceiling above the kitchen sink (so I can finally hang that little bluebird doodad I like so well and has lived in so many of my kitchens): the boy dumped the whole bucket of water on the floor.

I climbed down, grabbed an old towel, stepped on it, and scoot-scooted across the floor. Hollered at the girl for more towels. Kept at it. And then, then it was all dry and, maybe, sorta, a little clean? I've eliminated every other method, I guess we'll see how long this skating on wet towels in cartoon house cleaning way lasts. Except, not really skating. Because it's hard to skate on sandpaper.

keep a stash of cash hidden in your glove box

Or, maybe not the glove box. That's the first place thieves look for enticing stealables, yes? So maybe in the little finger-well on the door on the passenger backseat that suspiciously fills up with paper scraps and ginger chew wrappers and the tips off of broken ballpoint pens. Do your self a favor and stick a twenty in there. Because you just never know.

You just never know that even though you laid out clothes for everybody the night before, even though you woke up bright and early and got breakfast going straight away, even though lunches and snacks for the day were packed, even though you restocked the car with diapers and wipes and car sickness vomit catchers, even though you threw a book into your bag in case the two-year old naps in the car and you won't be stuck without anything to do, even though you remembered EVERYTHING you could possibly need for a whole day in the city afoot with a toddler, you might still FORGET YOUR WALLET.

I discovered the offense half way in (on our hour trip). Too late to turn around. Forge ahead. I immediately launched into a grumpy IF ONLY. . . wishful thinking diatribe, feeling mad at myself for being so forgetful, mad at my house from being so far from my destination, mad at the world for not delivering me a time machine yet. Where's that De Lorean, Emmett Brown?

It's hard to remain too grumpy, though, when one travels with an encouraging life coach and motivational speaker in the form of a wild-haired nine year old. "Don't say How could I forget it", she told me, "say, What should I do now?".

A friend who answered my plaintive cell phone call suggested we check to see if the Zoo would accept phone payment and allow for Will Call ticket pick-ups. Nope. Well, then, no zoo. Which is unfortunate because, up until I discovered the missing wallet, and for the last several preceding days, I'd been talking up the Zoo big time to the boy, who was too little to remember the last time he went, a year ago. We deposited the girl at her drop off spot. And then we parked the car by the river and attempted a walk.

It was a decent twenty minute walk. But we have five HOURS to kill. And it's cold here today. Yeah, yeah, make up yer dang mind already. Last week was too hot and this week we're back down to the fifties. It was still in the high *forties* when I pointed out rowboats along the river and my little guy responded with, "peeese no more walk, mama. peeeese go back to car. peeese, i so tired mama".

So he napped all the way home and we've had lunch and I have forms of payment and identification again and if it took me having to go back and thorth and back and thorth (ah, my daughter, who just about came out of the womb with impressive and articulate language skills, had a few baby-words, that being one of them. it wasn't until she was five or six that she said back and forth, before it was always repeated twice and with the extra 'th' and, i must admit, i was sad to see it go) to learn it, this isn't a lesson I'll soon forget. The lesson, no. But my wallet again? Probably.

so like moles

Who was just wishing it would warm up already? Was that me? What? Who knew I had such powerful Magical Thinking? It's been hot here. Like so respectably Hot, not even my Arizona friends could sneer. Sure, it's no One Hundred and Seventeen degrees, but even 97 is sweltering when you don't have central air. Nobody around here has central air. Oh, sure, maybe some folks do, but aside from the occasional window unit, I'd say most households rely on fans and iced beverages for keeping cool. And, if you're lucky, auxiliary living space in a Basement.

I'm lucky.

I don't have an interior thermostat, but ground temps are still in the high fifties and our basement is probably about that. There have been movies watched under blankets and rowdy big movement play without breaking a sweat. Two nights ago, the children tossed about in their own beds (did you hear? the boy has been starting out every night in his very own bed in his very own room, sometimes lasting ALL NIGHT! which translates into hours of uninterrupted sleep for this tired mama, how about that?!) until long past bedtime, so we packed it all up and went underground. The children and I slept on our extra queen bed in the "guest room" (we have, in fact, hosted guests there, so I guess the title fits) and the husband retired to the sofa (our television is down there in a cozy little den space). My teeth may have chattered a bit that night: my children are cover hogs.


And if you try sometime, you just might find, you get what you need, aw yeah. I landed in this town which was not the town I was aiming for, I landed in this house, which was not the house I imagined, and yet, I keep being reminded, that it's all Just Right.

Our Must-Have criteria included more than one toilet, walking distance to community resources, roomy kitchen, plenty of storage. Under the Wish List were items like, big front porch, clawfoot tub, tall trees. I didn't think about a finished basement, although as soon as we saw this house, and went downstairs, I realized how useful it would be. All that extra space, for playing, creating, hanging out. I guess we could have looked around longer, waited for the original bungalow with leaded glass and hex tile, but we put an offer on this place and the deal was done before I blinked. It is not at all what I thought I wanted, but for so many reasons, has been just what we needed.

It's cooling back down already. On Friday we stood so close to Triple Digits, we could feel that hot air on our necks, but today it's only in the eighties. I like having the main level doors and windows open, the breeze, the sounds, the children running in and out. But I like knowing that when it warms back up again (and it will, Oregon sees plenty of hot summer weather), we're just a flight of stairs away from relief.

but the river it goes right on

Every time Mother's Day rolls around, I think of this one particular quote from The Grapes of Wrath. It's well suited and is not some questionable word association that wouldn't make a lick of sense to anyone else. I have a lot of those. Words and images and ideas that randomly bumped into each other once in my brain and then, dubiously, remain attached. And it doesn't matter how long it's been, how weak the connection might be, the relationship endures. Like the way I'll always think of Clowns anytime someone says Clear when specifically speaking of traffic. It's all clear. And in my head, I see Clowns. Don't expect further explanation. I have no idea.

But this one makes sense. I think the first time I discovered The Grapes of Wrath it must have been in the spring and around Mother's Day and I must have read that little passage and thought, yes. Not the first time I read the book, that was much earlier, before I had any perspective. It wasn't all that long ago, really, that I brought the audiobook home from the library and was completely astonished by it. I was astonished that something so ubiquitous and referenced could actually be so good. And then immediately after listening to it (and if you haven't listened to it, I sure recommend it, says someone who loves to read and generally disdains audiobooks. The version read by Dylan Baker is fantastic), I borrowed an old harback copy and read through all my favorite parts.

So in my head, I can hear this certain passage being read and I can see it in the borrowed library book, but since I've never read through the thrifted paperback copy on my shelf, I can't find it.

You'd think if I hit the right google keywords, I'd be able to dig up the excerpt somewhere online, but the only quotes I pull up are from the movie.

I've seen the 1940 production and I enjoyed it, but it's no substitute or even near comparison to the book. But Ma Joad has a line that's just about the same as the book, so I'm sharing that one with you. I can't remember how it's different in the book. I'll keep looking and report back.

A woman can change better'n a man. A man lives, sorta, well, in jerks. Baby's born and somebody dies, and that's a jerk. He gets a farm or loses it, and that's a jerk. With a woman, it's all in one flow like a stream. Little eddies and waterfalls, but the river it goes right on. A woman looks at it that way.

Yeah.

the pox, take two

The boy's outbreak occurred two weeks after his sister's. And about six weeks after beginning his most recent (and most virulent!) objection to bathing. So the frequent baking soda baths that helped the girl aren't an option for my boy. There's nothing therapeutic or relaxing about his baths lately. In fact, I'm a little bit not looking forward to warmer weather (even though, yes, really, I am looking forward to warmer weather: it's been one long and incredibly cool spring around here) because that means we'll have the windows open and that means the whole neighborhood will hear his I HATE WATER! screams. Of course, they might be the same neighbors who would find him soaked and dripping any time we have the garden hose out. That boy will find the one muddy puddle in the backyard and be totally drenched in the time it takes me to turn around and sneeze. He doesn't hate water, he just hates baths, and I don't even think he hates baths all that much. It's just a convenient thing to have a fierce opinion about. Which is one of the most charming and most frustrating parts of toddlerhood, the fierceness. Such big ideas in such little people!

So as much as he's been letting me, I've been giving him a rubdown with oatmeal water. I pour rolled oats into an old stray sock, tie off the end and let it steep for a few minutes in barely warm water. Then I squeeze out the sock to get as much milky oat water out, and wipe him down with a cloth. I'm not so sure if it's helping or not. He still tells me, "me no feeling so good, mama". But it makes me feel a little better, to be doing something. When your baby is hurting, you just want to help.

Last night was pretty miserable, we were in bed for nearly twelve hours, but there sure wasn't much sleep going on. He's been much more chipper today (which translates currently into ripping his sister's reading material from her hands and pulling her hair, for attention, eek!) so I hope we all make up for lost rest.

she's got electric boots, a mohair suit

There's something about the long stretch of highway between our house and the big city that makes my kids puke. They're both car sickness prone, just like their mama (who abates sickies by being the driver), so it's not a surprise or anything. Our car is well stocked with extra towels, empty lidded containers and plastic grocery bags. We've got a regular gig going that gets us up and out the door early, when tummies are less settled. I've built into our driving time enough room to stop for one clean-up. I've almost declared it an inevitability. I am a careful but speedy driver, hurrying (within limits!) to beat the dreaded up-chuck. I keep one eye trained on the rear view, so I can rally the girl into throwing her brother a bowl or whatever if he gets that very particular green look.

Today I noticed a few quick urgent movements from the backseat, oh no! And I glanced behind me, but it wasn't what I was expecting, it was just my daughter rocking out to Elton John on the radio and my son throwing back his head in laughter. She saw me watching her and said, "you probably don't know this, but this is one of my favorite songs. Who is this guy, again? Does he have any CDs?" And I think I might get her a greatest hits album, but maybe minus any candle in the wind.

fizzy lifting drink

I have vague memories of visiting my grandparents many years ago and listening to my grandma tell me all about some wonder mushroom tea she and my grandpa were drinking every morning. But I also have vague memories of watching bad saturday television while eating -cold and uncooked, one after another- those frightening processed wiener dogs with the cheeze product in the middle. Which is to say, my childhood wasn't exactly a compendium of good nutrition, so one particular health supplement wasn't bound to make much of an impression.

Kombucha has been on my radar for a long time. I have been curious but not compelled to try it. Until now. I've lived in my new town almost eight months now. Which isn't long enough to, say, be recognized by clerks at the store or library, or have finally gotten the house organized after all those last years of moving (on the average: at least one move a year!), but it is long enough, as it turns out, to have made a friend who will gladly have me over and then send me home with symbiotic yeast and bacteria cultures and an extra pickle jar to brew it in.

I'm already a big fan of cider vinegar, so kombucha isn't that much of a stretch. Oh, and I'm also quite a tea drinker. And I like carbonated things. But not soda. I haven't had a soda since I was pregnant with the girl, lo! a whole decade ago. I cut it out for the good of the little alien critter in my womb and found out, after all, that if you don't drink sodas for a long time, it's nearly impossible to start again. Too sweet and sickening. So I'm particularly fond of slightly carbonated and unsweet beverages. Like beer. I'm particularly fond of beer. For the ritual of five o'clock, for the snap of the opener on the cap (no twist-offs, please), for the tiny, tiny ice crystals that form when I leave one in the freezer just long enough (but not too long!), for the way it feels in my mouth. . . for the way it feels in my head.

I don't expect kombucha to be all that, but I do think it will do me well to have a new drink in my end-of-day repertoire. Also, not even the best northwest brew ever claimed to assist with inflammation, aid arthritis (someday maybe I'll tell you about my stiff and clicky joints, and my increasingly crooked fingers, but I've still sorta got my head in the sand about that stuff), or level one's metabolism. You mean, I can drink this fizzy, fermented tea drink every day and it might boost weight loss? Because beer? Yeah, it works the other direction. See my shrinking wardrobe and my expanding waistline as evidence.

I've read conflicting information on its neurological properties, that it either gives a little energy burst or it instills a sense of well-being. Maybe it does both. Quick and mellow? I can use some of that.

I can't give much of a personal report yet, though. I drank a few glasses from my first batch today. Two days ago, five days into the brewing process, it was still too sweet to my liking. Today it was just right. I shared with my children (the eldest sincerely liked her serving and looks forward to more, the youngest took a mouse sip and said, mmm, that's good, but refused further tastes) and had two small glasses myself. And I like it.

Who knows if it will do me any good. I am assuming that it will, or at least won't do any harm, and I am not at all opposed to any possible placebo effects. Because in addition to having a refreshing, barely bubbling beverage, I guess I already enjoy the process. You know me and process and ritual. I appreciate having an oversized pickle jar sitting on my kitchen counter for a week, covered with a napkin affixed with a rubber band, and doing sniff and taste tests every couple of days. I like taking a slimy starter (which is really called a scoby, so much for the magic mushroom tea) and turning it into something we can drink and use. I mean, when I usually find symbiotic cultures of bacteria and yeast growing in the back of my fridge, I throw them out, not drink them, right?

And, yeah, I guess I like having a reason to use these cool self-corking bottles from ikea:

faith like a kale seed

Kale is in the mustard family so I'm not exactly taking liberty with that reference. And I'd consider it a common reference, but maybe you haven't read the new testament lately, or at all, so I'll tell you that it's from the book of Matthew, Chapter 17, verse 20. And He said to them, "Because of the littleness of your faith; for truly I say to you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move; and nothing will be impossible to you.

I'm not so sure about moving mountains. But doesn't putting such a tiny speck into the ground with the hope it will yield a bounty of nutritious greens seem just as impossible? It's biology, sure. Or not. Like raising babies.

Anything could happen. But you trust it will all turn out for good in the end. If you don't believe it will, then don't even start in the first place.

If you're certain that the birds will eat the seeds before they germinate, don't waste an afternoon getting mud in your fingernails, poking them into damp soil, just don't.

It's hard to believe. My gardening past has been spotty. Flowers in pots and sporadic attempts at container vegetables. One year we had piles of romaine lettuce but the broccoli was anemic and wilted before maturity. We've moved around a lot (no really, I never stop playing that broken record) and I haven't grown all that much. So it's not rote yet and still very much fantastic and magical.

Maybe it never becomes routine. Maybe serious gardeners with years under their rubber clogs still believe in magic. Like having babies. You can do all the right things, you can read the right books and put forth your very best effort, but these little people come to us so full of their own ideas and dreams and predilections: the resulting yield might not be what we are expecting. Or it might be so much more. Amazing!

We hope for the best. We have faith. We water and weed and shoo starlings away.

i love the smell of bay in my kitchen

There is a pox upon our house. A little over twenty-four hours after discovering a fresh crop of red blisters across her chest and stomach, my girl is growing tired of couch life. The littlest one in the house has surely been exposed, but has yet to show any symptoms. I mean, symptoms other than inexplicable crabbiness, which could be the start of something sicky or could just be my current taxed patience. Or could just be a being Two, with all the rights, privileges and frustration therein.

At any rate, this isn't my long awaited discourse on my take on the increasing eco-green industry. The whole Let's Save The Environment by Buying More Stuff! insanity. I've been meaning to write that all week, what with earth day this past week and all, and while I hope if you have some mind reading supertool, you're using your power for good, I don't expect that you've aimed it at my head and rifled through my random blog post ideas. Which is to say, by long awaited, I mean, I've been long waiting to write it, not you've been waiting to read it. And I'll write it later, which is why I'm mentioning it at all right now, so I remember.

So this is just what I'm having for dinner. An easy recipe to share, a variation on the old lentil and rice stand-by. From the Vegetarian Times Cookbook. I tweak it a little, you know I do, but this is the recipe as written.

Lentil-Chickpea Stew with Spinach

1 C dry lentils
3 tbsp virgin olive oil
3 C diced onions
2 tsp ground cumin
2 tsp paprika
1/4 tsp ground allspice
1/4 tsp ground turmeric
1/2 C uncooked long-grain rice
6 1/2 C water
2 Bay Leaves
1 1/2 tsp salt
freshly ground pepper
1 C cooked chickpeas

Cover the lentils with hot water and let sit. Warm the oil in a soup pot over medium-low heat, and cook the onions and spices, stirring, for 8 minutes. Remove 1/3 of the onion mixture and reserve it for garnish. Add the rice to the onions in the soup pot, and cook 1 minute to cat the grains. Drain the lentils and add to the onion-rice mixture along with the water, bay leaves, salt and pepper. Simmer, covered, until the rice and lentils are tender, about 30 to 45 minutes. Add the chickpeas and heat until warmed through. Discard the bay leaves.

Steam the spinach, chop coarsely and stir into lentils. Ladle the stew into bowls and top with a spoonful of yogurt cheese or yogurt. Add the reserved onions, lemons, pepper and parsley or cilantro.

Okay, so I didn't list all the garnish ideas on the ingredient list. I skip that part. Actually, I use fewer onions from the start and don't remove any to use later as a garnish at all. The people for whom I cook much prefer onions all cooked up in the mishmash of a stew, not plopped on top of everything. I think we'll be eating this soon with feta melted on sprouted wheat english muffins, for no other reason than the pickings are slim in my kitchen today and that's what I've got.

I like this recipe because it's so fast to make, everybody in my house likes it well enough to eat several bowls full, and it gives me a good excuse to pluck leaves off of the bay plant in my backyard.

suspended animation

It's been a while. I've been meaning to report here with some progress on some of my recent subjects. Namely, the haircut conundrum and the push-up endeavor. I actually titled this post 'progress report' but this week's This American Life episode about cryogenics is fresh in my head and it seemed fitting. It's been cold here. And I've been hovering, waiting, freezing. This might be a missive from the insulated chamber. Don't mind my choppy thoughts and empty complexion: I'm not completely thawed yet.

Exactly three seconds before I grabbed my haircutting shears and whacked off the front of my hair in some imprecise approximation of the same shorty-bang bob I sported six or or so years ago, I was convinced that I'd give long hair one last hurrah and see what braids are like come summer. But, oh, the allure of sharp metal on dry hair. The scissors were just right there. Okay, so I had to open the drawer and root around for them a bit. But then they were in my hand and I had a fist full of hair and when you have scissors in one hand and hair in the other, there's really only one thing to do. Because deciding could really take all day. And growing hair is so passive, it's a decision by default, a body tagging along on the ride of so many hair follicles, hoping it works out in the end. Vanity thine name is wonky-hormone induced existential crisis. I know all about decisions and defaults. Snip. And that first cut is always such a relief. Yes. I can do this. It's a little thing, but it's mine. I trimmed up the sides and back, too. Which isn't as bold and important at all as harnessing some new career or returning to school or creating some fantastic, inspiring piece of something worth remembering, but there are only so many decisions I can make while wearing pajamas in the bathroom.

For the first week or so after my push-up test, I faithfully practiced every day. I admit to having slacked some since then, but BUT! I am now doing ten solid, serious pushups every time I try. Near daily, not quite. I don't think I've built stronger muscles so rapidly, rather I think this experiment indicates that exercise is, indeed, partially a practice in muscle memory. My arms know what to do now. They drive down the street without thinking and turn into the driveway while my thoughts are elsewhere. I just personified my arms *and* gave them a driver's license. Which is the least I could do, really, since I've been secretly fond of my shoulders for many years, hushing my self-deprecation just long enough to notice how nice and strong they are (and the freckles, so cute, but, no, such worrisome little reminders of excessive sun exposure, shhh).

make your own kind of music, sing your own special song

There was a moment this past weekend when my daughter rushed by me, on her way outside, and I didn't so much take notice of what she was wearing. A few minutes later, I peeked out the living room window to see her marching in a circle in the front yard, a large cardboard box embellished with color and eye-holes over her head.

And it made me think of a recent conversation I had with a friend. She was relaying something her son did that might have made some of his friends snicker a little bit, or else, if there wasn't overt snickering, there could have been, but my friend's son didn't care. We talked about how admirable it is to do something, choose something, or maybe be someone a little unexpected, a little unusual, a little different, and be fervently and unabashedly okay with that.

The box on my daughter's head? Apparently some attention grabbing tree disguise, made with the intention of compelling questions (from neighborhood kids, I reckon, maybe something like, What are you doing with a box on your head? Weirdo!) so she could jump into a conversation about nature and conservation.

For the record, no children asked her what she was doing. Which, considering the veritable parade of costumes and funny play often present on our front lawn, is unsurprising. But she kept at it a good long while and then came back inside and wrote this:

The trees trees
that sway in the breeze
I stand by these.

Good and strong
they'd live long
if man would not destroy them.

Trees are not some toys -ahem!-
Man has no right
to toy them.

They are strong, they are true
they live not to make
boards for you.

So stretch a rope
from me to tree
and tie it very tautly.

You'll cut this tree down
over my Dead Body.

To get the proper delivery, you'll have to do like my girl and raise your fists in the air for the last line, bellowing it out loudly. Which isn't so over-dramatic at all if you know Freya, whose passions have always ran deeply. I love that about her.