they're here

I am seriously sitting here trying to find a way to cleverly tie in a tacky Poltergeist reference to the surprising, bright light that fills my basement staircase on sunny days, in the late afternoon, at this time of the year. But, one, I'm a lot less clever on cue than I used to be, and, two, maybe Carol Anne isn't pop culture blog fodder in two thousand and nine. Maybe you didn't watch the movie when you were quite young (what was I? nine? and why? on who's watch was this approved?) and maybe you didn't have years of nightmares and creepy feelings about it and maybe you wouldn't have any idea what I'm talking about anyway.

But if you were in the habit of walking up and down my basement steps so many times a day, as I am, you would also know how really remarkable it is to have such light fill the space. It's not an area that natural light typically reaches and the presence of sunshine is really an amazing thing. It is blinding and ridiculous.

For a few steps, it is so intense that everything else disappears into a flash of yellow white. There is nowhere else to look.

So at the risk of being overly sappy and incomprehensible, I will say that this light-filled staircase, these pictures, have been burning metaphors in my brain. This is a time of year when I have to buck up and own my resolve. I have to survey the effects of our previous choices and acknowledge that, yes, unconventional and off the main road and lacking infrastructure as they may be, it seems to be working for us.

Taking blind upward steps is tricky, but there is no sense in turning back once you've already gone halfway.

If you think this is about the starting "school year", you think correctly. Among other things. But for so many, September signifies a new start, a new routine, a new excuse to hitch a ride on someone else's program. And as much as this (this "not sending the kids to school") remains the best choice for all involved, when assessing all possible area choices, I admit that I can get a little envious. I have been the IDEA person for a lot of years. There is certainly a lot of awesome to be said about the flexibility of our lifestyle. But flexibility is a two-headed beast. There is also a lot to be said about having marked setpoints to navigate the rest of one's time by. And the determining and the planning and the enforcing of those setpoints is a challenge. For me. This year, especially. Today.

It's intense but quick. The self-doubt will shift and I'll be able to see where I'm going soon enough.

let's do lunch

When I stayed up reading in bed late last night, the rain was charming. A lulling, nostalgic background noise I missed so much when I lived in the desert, I bought a sound machine to replicate it (digital precipitation: not the same thing). When I woke up this morning, the cool drizzle was cozy. My kitchen always feels extra warm and welcoming when color out the windows is gray. But by mid-morning, I was stuck without a game plan and (it wasn't even raining raining, mind you, just spitting) kids who weren't so keen on going OUT but were getting UNDER my skin and I was done with the wet day. Done with Saturday, done with feeling like a whistle-less, clipboard-less, unpaid activity director. Done with being the nutrition director and chef. Don't you feel like that some days? And while the clouds later gave way to sunshine and although our later afternoon and evening were spent outdoors and active, I was in no mood to make lunch mid-day. "But, mama, I'm huuuuuungry." But, babies, the fixin's are slim. And, also? Mama is busy imagining life as a single chic with a fat wallet. (not really. really. well. what can i say? i was awfully grouchy.)

So what did I do? I bucked up and dug out some leftovers and did a little kitchen magic and made lunch quickly and amused myself by taking pictures. Taking pictures is like an instant attitude adjuster for me. Which is maybe why I take so many pictures. Ahem.

Lentil/Patty Pan Squash/and other stuff Stew from a couple of nights ago. I liked it. The husband liked it. But the children were less enthusiastic. I whizzed some up in the blender and then warmed it up with a little bit of coconut milk. Instant creamy soup!

Okay, so soup. And?? Um. No time to bake anything. No bread. No crackers. No rice cooked up. Nothing. Oh, wait. Is that one tortilla languishing in the back of the fridge, getting crunchy in a left-open bag? Yes! So I sprayed it with a little olive oil and threw it in the toaster oven for a couple of minutes. When it was toasty, I took it out, ground some salt over it, and sliced it up. Chips!

And then I ran out to the yard and dug up some carrots and cut them into sticks.

There you have it! Lunch! Heavy on the wholesome, light on the grump, and apparently thrilling enough that I not only snapped photos of it, but I had to write about it, too. tralala.

i scream, you scream

Today I finally did something I've been meaning to do for ages: I made ice cream from raw goat milk. Last week I picked up a dandy ice cream machine for a cool three and a half bucks. I'll tell you what, I usually have decent thrifting karma; I picture the thing I want or need or wish for and (roughly) I find it on some secondhand store shelf soon after. But the ice cream maker eluded me for so long! We have a super source for farm fresh and tasty raw milk right now, so early in the summer I envisioned plenty of homemade ice cream in our future. But mid-summer or on autumn's doorstep, a cold frozen treat is welcome any time. I'm just glad I finally found one and the price was so low (cheaper than a store bought pint!), I had nothing to lose.

To be fair, what I really made is probably more of an "ice milk" than ice cream, seeing that I just used whole goat milk and no separated cream. Goat milk does not separate easily like cow milk does and the cream cannot be simply skimmed off the top; goat milk is naturally homogenized and contains a lower fat content, anyway. I read some recipes online, but in the end decided to wing it. I didn't go out on a wild limb or anything, I stuck to the standards, but didn't have any specific goat milk reference.

Here's what I did: in the ice cream bucket, I stirred together 2 C raw goat milk, 1/2 C organic raw sugar, 1 tsp vanilla extract, pinch of salt. In a saucepan, I whisked together 2 C raw goat milk and 2 eggs. I kept whisking until it got hot and bubbly. I don't know. And then I dumped the milk + egg mix into the maker bucket and stirred together and then followed the machine's instructions from there.

Oh, this machine, a compact seventies jobbie called, charmingly, "Ice Cream Parlor", instructed to use straight table salt, contrary to the tempting rock salt of my youth. Wasn't there always something so irresistible about sticking a finger in the cranking machine to sneak out a big lump of salt? I did have to make a special trip to the grocery outlet for regular salt, since I exclusively use sea salt in the kitchen. But that's a tiny expense (salt cylinders, 2 for $1, man, that grocery outlet always comes through for me) and worth the hassle.

It took about 40 minutes, thereabouts, before the mixture was thick and ice-cream-like. I pulled out the paddle and licked a tiny taste and oh! hello unexpected time travel moment! I'm in my grandma's backyard! I'm 7! or 10! or 14! and I have a plastic cup held out, ready for my share. Somebody's complaining that Grandma didn't make butter pecan or something fancy but I'm so glad it's plain old vanilla. So so good.

I let the children have tiny tastes, also, but then I packed it all into a container and tucked it in the back of the freezer. I love the fresh from the maker softness, but I thought a few more hours of hardening (or, in official ice cream making terms, "ripening" but seriously? ripe? ice cream? let's just call it hard, okay?) would make it easier to serve. Besides, we weren't an extended family gathering in the backyard, we were going to be getting crabby if mama didn't make dinner soon. So the timing was perfect to make the ice cream earlier and then start right into dinner prep.

This has been the biggest hit since the first time I made cinnamon rolls, a few years ago, and finished them off with a powdered sugar icing and let the cat out of the bag that, yes, such delectable treats can be made, easily, right here at home. But that doesn't mean we're going to have them all the time! So stop asking! Special things are only special if you don't do them every ding day. But that's so much sugar and this is, still, healthy goat milk and not so much sugar and the unmistakable motor sound of an ice cream machine, the round and round and round whirring. I love that sound.

quit yer bellyachin'

Of course, of course, so soon as I whisper Cucumbers? What? How? My boy resumes his previous pace of consumption and I remember how right and delicious they are, sliced, alone, and doused with Goddess dressing.

Maybe the No Cooking part throws me off because (this is just between you and me, right?) for vegetarians, we don't eat a lot of raw vegetables here. And by "we" I mean "they" because I'm just one quarter of this gig. And this is funny because if you knew us when we made the leap from meat eating to not, you might remember that we did it with gusto. We were more Raw than not and every morning began with reconstituted barley grass juice.

Maybe tomorrow I'll tell you about why we stopped eating meat and why I still don't. But today I just want you to know one thing: almost everything is more beautiful when held up to the sun.

I miss August already. The light is changing, the evening more illuminated, in that glowy late summer way. I have to remind myself, I have to absolutely say out loud to myself, Be Here Now. Notice the beguiling shimmer of every plant at seven p.m. and do not stop to wonder about the missed sunrise or the passing of another month or how it's all going to possibly work out. Because this golden halo, this preternatural light, is the most important thing.

if you think her typing rambles, you should listen to her talk

I was just scouring my photo archives for a capture of before and afters of my (albeit puny) backyard. We've made a lot of progress back there. I don't really know why I bought a house with such a tiny backyard, it might have had something to do with the way our family was deteriorating and we were under the house hunting gun. But, in a turn of events that is atypical for me and mine, our quick fast utilitarian emotionless decision evolved into a home we love very much. I love the space, the feel, the floor plan, the openness, the simplicity. Sometimes I wish I could pick it up and plop it down in the city, but that's the stuff of fantasy and the here and now is fine enough. Our backyard was nothing, just an overgrown narrow mess of vines and weeds, when we moved in. And now it's usable. Small, but adequate. Play space and growing space (not the vegetables, those are in the front. but we do have some hefty old grapevines and 3 hazelnut trees) and a wide covered patio and plenty of room for hanging laundry in the sun. What more could I ask for, really? Anyhow, I did not find, in my fast search, the landscape photos I wanted. But I did find that one. A vintage tablecloth thrift score. I saw a hint of the colors and pulled that cloth out of a pile and swooned. Oh. I am such a sucker for bold graphics (of kitchen implements!) and thick, sturdy cotton, and paying four dollars for something so right.

Unrelated but on my mind: my boy's slowing down on his cucumber consumption. This is noteworthy since he and I are the only cucumber eaters in the house. If I put them on their plates, washed and sliced and ready to eat, the other two will swallow them down, begrudgingly. I sowed lots of seeds which have only produced one fruit, so far. But we got several from our ace farmers this week and maybe there will be more next week, and I have one or two leftover from *last* week. I love cucumbers. I really do. But out of hand and sliced in salads is feeling monotonous. I need to help with coming up with creative ways to use them. Suggestions? (um. edible ideas only. yeah.)

don't let this fading summer pass you by

Since the last time I came around here, the mister and I marked our thirteenth anniversary. Last year, I wrote a little about our whirlwind romance. And I'm proud that we made it through another year. A hard year. I keep thinking it will get easier and it keeps not getting easier and I'm not really sure what It is. But like the brilliant light that descends and casts shadows, marriage changes. I might not have to shade my eyes from the brightness of it so much anymore, but the sky can be so beautiful. And the stars in the dark night, worth waiting around for.

Also, I am still on a Neko Case kick and I am ever grateful for clever youtube users who post their own little videos, with songs I love as the background. So now I can share my favorite song off the the newest Middle Cyclone album with you. Here. I was going to tack it on at the end, but if you've never heard it, you can listen now and can catch up with me.

There is something for me, this year, about saying goodbye to summer that is so sad. Maybe it's a relic of growing up in the sunny southwestern desert. Maybe it's this stupid, nagging feeling that I missed out on the "best" years, those taut-bodied, reckless, careless days everyone seems to remember so fondly. I don't want to go backwards but I'm not ready to be in the winter of my life, either. And as much as I welcome a return to sweaters and endless cups of hot tea and seeing my breath in the outside air, I am thinking it wasn't enough. We're forecasting another warm spell this week, but it's not temperature alone I'm talking about here. It's being in the moment, it's not losing the pleasure in so much concern. It's holy heck! Thirteen years! Is this where we thought we'd be?

for science

Oh, be still my nerdy little heart. Did you know that They Might Be Giants is releasing (next month!) an album of science songs? TMBG is still our family house band, and even though I usually steer away from things I love once they become really popular (which implies that I'm partial to things that are not. which would be true.) I can't find one snarky thing ever to say about those guys. Maybe they're sell-outs and sing songs up and down the Disney channel (so I've heard, we don't have cable) and provide tunes for all sorts of things. But even a band needs to make a buck and I think they still produce consistently smart and quirky and singable songs. We love them. And I love that the Johns grew up and had kids and now devote a huge portion of their work to making music for children. I firmly believe that children will love all of their stuff (my kids sure do!), so I hope that the kid-centric albums are but an introduction to a band that should really be in everybody's music collection. I wrote a little some while ago about our history with They Might Be Giants, so I won't repeat myself too much. Suffice it to say, I'm looking forward to the new release very much!

And, being that it's about science and all, I couldn't help but be reminded of this link. Seriously, i if you don't already have this very old collection of science songs bookmarked, just click on over and do it right now. If you are already familiar with TMBG, you'll recognize Why Does The Sun Shine. But the whole collection is great. I've had it linked for years (I don't remember who sent it to me. I remember passing it on -to some of you, probably!) and the tunes are so catchy and informative they quickly became part of our life. Scroll down to the "experiment songs" and you can imagine my girl, when she was still a spritely age 6, dancing outside during a desert monsoon with an umbrella singing Who's Afraid of Thunder?. I love these science songs because they sound so much like the sort of hummy little numbers I like to make up myself, but with science accuracy!

your best polenta

Okay, you got me. This is about my best polenta. I've heard this rumor running around that some people don't like polenta. And since we like it a lot around here and find it quite versatile, I will tell you how I make it. The following might even resemble something like a recipe. With some exact, and some eh-whatever, amounts listed. It might become your best, too. No hard feelings if it doesn't.

I usually make a triple batch at a time, using 3 cups of cornmeal. You can buy coarse cornmeal that is specifically labeled 'polenta' but my regular cornmeal, which I buy 25# at a time from a natural foods bulk distributor, is coarse enough for me. I will just write up the amounts for a regular sized batch, but the pictures are from a triple.

4 C water
1 C cornmeal
3 TBSP olive oil
1 tsp sea salt
a whole buncha chopped up kale (or other greens)

Bring the water, oil, and salt to boil in a good sized pot. Slowly stir in the cornmeal. Keep stirring and turn the heat down so it's just simmering. If you pour the cornmeal in slowly and stir vigorously, there shouldn't be any lumps. Keep stirring while it thickens. I tend to start out with a whisk and then switch to a wooden spoon.

Once it's fairly thick, like pudding, I wash up a lot of kale and chop it. Tip: always put in more kale (or spinach or beet greens or whatever) than you think is right. Once they're cooked up they practically disappear and I like to err on the side of too many greens than not enough.

Then I dump the kale into the pot and stir it in completely.

It should be very thick. Very thick! Es muy importante!

Pour the whole mass into a greased bread loaf pan and let it set up. I put it in the fridge if I have a while or the freezer if I am in a hurry. Which for all my energy saving endeavors is an all around AWESOME idea, sticking just off the burner glop into a 0 degree freezer, I'm sure my freezer hates me. It takes a few hours in the fridge to get good and set up and hard. I think this is the key to making it my best polenta.

Once it's set up, I flip it out onto a cutting board and cut thin slices. If it was cooked slowly and thickly and had enough time in the fridge to set up, it will cut easily and will not fall apart.

I put the slices on a greased baking sheet and bake at 400 until brown and crispyish, about 20 minutes. I took pictures of the process, but you can see that the dinner frenzy, the "Mama! I'm Hungry Wight Now!"s and my "Yes, I know you're hungry, that's why I'm cooking dinner"s getting more frequent and closer together, distracted me and I did not grab the camera for the baking part or the eating part. I like to cook them until they're almost a little crunchy. Use your imagination.

We eat it under stuff, like pasta or vegetables or lentils, or on its own in a snacky way, or as a medium for dipping up hummus. So many ways to love polenta! My girl always requests that I whip up some "polenta sauce", which is her favorite way to eat it. The polenta sauce is one of those crazy things I made up once and was so well received it became a family staple (which is honestly the history of most of my dishes). It's stupidly simple and surprisingly delicious and you should make some and try it. It goes like this: you blend together marinara sauce and ground raw almonds. Es todo, no mas! I keep ground almonds on hand (and throw the stuff into all kinds of random things) but if you do not, you should. Gah, so bossy. No, if you don't, you should grind up your raw almonds first and then add the marinara sauce. I can't tell you amounts. I do it until it's thick and, this sounds weird but you'll just have to try it and see, cheesy. It becomes rich and creamy and is very reminiscent of cheese (I first made this when we were very very vegan and while we do eat -goat- dairy now, and have for some years, I'm still down with no animal product meals and eat a lot of 'em) and spooned on top of, or as a dipping sauce for, my best polenta? it's really good.

Oh, and I should mention that you could make this without the greens, but then you'd be making it without greens, and why would you wanna go and do that for?

the wrong and the right of it

Today was rotten. This is not my complainy place but I can't be one of those happy all the time, organic cotton and clotted cream bloggers. Oh you know the genre. Not the mommybloggers, but the betterthanyouraveragemommybloggers. I don't really think that everyone who blogs such constant contentment and harmony and unicorns is really like that all of the time. I appreciate presenting a certain public image. I do it myself, to a lesser degree. I'm not blogging with my pants down here, you know. It's me, but a muted me. The one that can say, hey internet! I'm here, too! But will hopefully not get me in trouble anywhere.

So even if I feel like I'm crashing some kind of blogging party by even daring to stick my words someplace and think other people might read them, I like being here. But as I was sitting on a blanket at the park today, at a park day sort of thing that is supposed to be friendly and fun and terrific, for children and parents alike, I was thinking about what a party crasher I always am, about how I really shouldn't bother. I managed, all morning, to be the same old cheerful mama that my children expect of me, the humorous and laughing mama, the engaged and patient one. It was a going through the motions morning, but the motions are such well-worn paths, I can close my eyes and steer without thinking and arrive, effortlessly, at the same gentle and kind (but firm) destination.

But by mid-day, the auto pilot went awry and I struggled to keep on track at all. Everything felt hard and wrong and rotten. So there I was at the park, and it happened that I had to be supportive of my daughter who had just experienced a huge disappointment (she was hoping to run into a kindred spirit she knows, who she has seen only once all summer and fell apart a little when she learned that was not to be). And in trying to comfort her, I just cracked. The plaster facade chipped away I have never been so glad to be wearing large dark sunglasses.

I sat there by myself and let all of my worries and regrets collide in a fiery explosion in my head. I sat there and wondered What The Eff Am I Doing Here?! Here being the park, an obvious outsider. Here being my town, lovely but not enough. Here being my life and situation, here being unknown and unemployable and thirty-three and, let me tell you, if you're going to have an existential crisis, maybe don't do it in a public park. Not that anybody noticed or that there was anything to notice, but it was an awful feeling. Maybe you call that feeling feeling-sorry-for-yourself, whatever. I was sorry and I was feeling and I was all by myself and if the shoe fits. . .

And then my boy fell off the play structure. His foot slipped on one of those big, curvey ladders and he fell, the back of his head bonking on the way down. He screamed, I ran to him, scooped him up, "I just want to go home wight now" he cried. And I couldn't have agreed with him more. We quickly gathered our things and made a beeline for the car. We've had other park day busts before, but this is the first one that felt weightier, more of a symbol of our not belonging, than any other.

I did not intend to write about this. I guess it just fell out and I am too jumbleheaded to erase and think of something else.

But even when so much is wrong, even when I seem to keep setting myself (and my kids) up for disappointment all the time, even when I don't know how to begin to get things right, I have to remember this: there are still books and blackberries, there are aprons and pockets and toast, there are songs and sunflowers, full moons and laundry on the line, and a dear little boy and his cat.

thoughts about purple

When I was young (my son tells me, "you are wung, mama. you are not old and winkley!" and i think he will probably need glasses like his sister) I really liked purple. This is nothing surprising, what given my age and gender and, oh, the fact that there was a lot of freaking purple in the 1980s. I had many purple things, most of which are memories now. Save for this terrible cotton/poly caftan sort of thing, I don't even know. It was a "bathing suit cover-up" when I was my daughter's age, but I sure tried to pull off wearing it as a dress, cinched in the middle with a silver sequined belt cast-off from my grandma. And once it stopped being the inspiration for failed fashion design attempts, I started sleeping it it. It was a nightgown thing, more ragged every year, for the rest of my childhood. I had it when I got married (nothing says wedding night like the bathing suit cover-up you wore when you were ten, hey baby! not specifically then, just I moved it with me and had in the back of the drawer). I found it and wore it, indeed, when I was in labor with my girl. It sort of went into hiding for a few years and now, I'm not quite sure how it happened, but my daughter found it and sleeps in it. Full circle. It is hideous. I think I like my purple better now when it's not in my closet (full disclosure: I'm wearing a purple stripey t-shirt today, so I'm fickle like that).

quickberry! quackberry! pick me a blackberry!

Yes, I know that blackberries are the invasive scourge of yards and farms and gardens all over this part of the country. Yes, a vexation, but, oh, so tasty. I don't want to imply that everyone born and raised in this area is across the board callous and hard toward the brambly fruit. But it seems to me that the longer one has lived around these parts, the more blackberries are a nuisance. The more their tart sweetness, their abundance, is taken for granted. Having grown up in the southwestern desert, and having had a recent 3 year stay in Arizona, I cannot help being in awe -still!- that berries grow wild, like, everywhere. You just take a walk and pick them. On the side of the road, wherever! Bring a bowl. Bring several. Because there are just so! many! berries!

We're on the front end of blackberries now. We rode our bikes the other day to a sure picking spot. The bramble was thick and the berries were plenty. The best ones are always just beyond reach, but if you're careful, you can slide a slow arm in among the thorns and get to ripe ones, the juicy ones that just fall off the vine when touched, the ones that drip purple juice down your fingers.

We came home with just a few pounds. Enough for having fresh blackberries on hand for a few days. There will lots more berry picking trips in the weeks to come.

My boy requested a blackberry pie, but I'm no good at pies. I'm a rotten, lousy, grumpy pie maker. This has, I like to think, nothing to do with my skills in the kitchen and is completely about my preference for using whole grain flours. Wholesome and healthy, right on! But I can't make a pie crust for anything. The dough is too thick and falls apart and I've given up (yes, this is the part where a committed pastry chef would scoff at my ingredient choice and wonder why I don't just get the right sort of processed flour. and, well, this where I respond that I guess I'm just not all that committed to pie. love pie, but slopping crunchy crisps and cobblers together is fine enough for me).

No pie, then. That's when I thought about a friend of mine who made and served a blueberry boy bait when she had our family over for dinner recently. It was delicious, light and fluffy and well-received by all. When she first said blueberry boy bait, I heard Blueberry Boy bait. A bait for blueberry boys. Which probably sounds like a ridiculous thing for me to have heard, until you consider how many times in my mothering tenure I've read aloud Peter in Blueberry Land. Many, many many times. The blueberry boys and the cranberry girls are practically my kids' cousins. But no, it's actually like this: blueberry Boy Bait. Like the "boy bait" is the product and it just happens to be blueberry flavored.

I have no business baiting boys. Apparently, the recipe was created by a fifteen year old contestant in the 1954 pillsbury bake-off. And you have to know that the naming is always everything. But it is a fun thing to say. Even if you're 33 and married and only glance up a little when the college track boys run by your house (wait, did I type that out loud?).

So I made a blackberry boy bait, using this recipe. I substituted, um, blackberries for the blueberries, upping the quantity a smidge. I also used (see above) whole wheat flour. I think the extra fruit makes up for the slight heaviness that the whole wheat flour causes. And, in my book, you can't go wrong with cooked up fruit, in just about any form.

My three (a girl and a man and one little boy) all seemed to be quite taken by its charms. I guess it worked? I confess that I haven't had any yet, so I can't proclaim its deliciousness first hand. I'm saving my piece for tomorrow's breakfast.

the words are written in the air

Someday the herb bed in our front yard will (per the plan) border a reclaimed brick patio. Right now, it's just a big L cut into the middle of our grass. Really, it's the girl's herb garden, she is the current and future healer, the one who sings to plants and stops bleeding with leaves and has an apothecary of sorts underneath her loft bed. And maybe it looks funny, the way all these plants are springing up, surrounded by lawn. But so many of them are flowering now, and mostly they just look beautiful:

I was playing this song (this impromptu-esque live version, particularly, more than the studio version) a lot this past winter. And something made me think of it today. It's glad and hummy and oh, thirtysomethingwithkidsandworriesandbilllsandgrayhair don't you remember dancing?

Lykke Li & Bon Iver doing 'Dance Dance Dance' in L.A from Lykke Li on Vimeo.

one more

This is true: I can point out, on each of my children, the very first freckle that ever popped up on their fair skin. And this could be an embarrassing thing to admit. What sort of hyperfocused, hovering smothering mother would, could know such a thing?! But when something happens slowly, one little speck at a time, you notice. And since then I've lost count, of course. The way losing track of things happens the more things you have.

If you're here with me now, I guess you're all over other places, too. I don't read so many blogs, but enough that my Reader usually has something interesting for me and plenty, I'm sure, to keep me away from the pile of laundry on the bed (doing laundry? hanging it on the line and all that even? no problem, bring it on! but the putting away is something else entirely). I can keep up with what I've got, is what I'm saying and I don't seek out new folks to follow anymore, even when I read little bits that make me think, oh! yes! that!

Which is all to say, there's always room for maybe one more and I'm really glad that one of my favorite people is writing more and maybe you know and love her, too. Or maybe you don't but you might. Hey, milkstained this one's for you!

Also, those tomatoes were the first that our yard produced. I found and picked four the other day, took them in and washed them, put them on the cutting board, salad greens waiting in a bowl. But I had forgotten to take a picture! So I did stop making dinner and grab my camera and the tomatoes and run back outside. The first tomatoes must be documented! Oh, digital age, you let me be a memory hoarding freak so effortlessly; the obsession isn't just tolerated, it's practically expected, lauded, in some circles. Yes. So, I was holding four tomatoes in one hand, trying to hold and focus with my other and wait? what is that over there? another one! We have a lot of tomato plants (for our small gardening space) and expect many, many more. No worries: I won't take a picture of each one. Promise.

i've said it before and i'll say it again

Anybody who is lobbying for forbidding the use of cell phones while driving has NEVER DRIVEN WITH CHILDREN. I'm all for safe driving. I think it should be harder to get a driver's license. I'd be supportive of additional requirements to maintain said license, say, bi-annual testing or something. I do believe there are too many people on the road and that, in general, cars are not much respected and are totally overused. We sit behind these giant, heavy potential murder machines and we zip around like it's nothing. I like being a biker and a pedestrian when I can. But I also really, really love driving. Fast. And Far. It's a wonderful feeling. I like to think that I balance my enjoyment of motoring with my conscientiousness of other drivers, the rules of the road, the environment (but I'm not a hypermiler. No. I leave that one to the mister). And as much as I'd like to believe every other driver on the road is similarly mindful, I know that's not true.

I see stupid drivers all the time. Some of them are using cell phones, most of them are not. Studies apparently indicate that driving while using a cell phone is the same as driving while drunk.

And yet, I find myself the most distracted not while talking on a cell phone (our only household phone these days is one cell phone I share with my husband and sometimes, yes, I have it in the car with me) but while attending to the needs of my children. And any parent probably knows what I'm talking about. And any parent of carsick-prone children definitely knows what I'm talking about. Have you ever been hurtling down the freeway when you hear that unmistakable pre-puke chokey cough from the backseat?! Have you ever been the sole adult in a vehicle with two green kids with their hands over their mouths?! No? Because I have. I have scrabbled for some sort of vomit-catching vessel, I have flailed my short arms backwards and tried to dispense bowls and cloth napkins. I have tried desperately to keep my eyes on the road while assessing the damage behind me (did it all get in the bowl? do i need to stop to take the car seat cover off and give it a rinse with the water bottle?).

So I'll tell you what, Hang-Up-And-Drive-ers, I'll get on board with your agenda when you find someone to ride shotgun with me all the time. Or when you ban kids from the car. Because when they're not puking? They could be crying (my babies aren't babies anymore but I did not have little ones who tolerated the car well at all. There was screaming. A lot of screaming) or, maybe, singing, like, I'm Henry the 8th I am Hen-er-eeee THE EIGHT I AM I AM I GOT MARRIED TO THE WIDOW NEXT DOOR SHE'S BEEN MARRIED SEVEN TIMES BEFORE AND EVERY ONE WAS AN 'ENERY ('enery!), WOULDN'T 'AVE A WILLY OR A SAM (no sam!) over and over and over again (SECOND VERSE, SAME AS THE FIRST) until driving into oncoming traffic begins to sound like a sensible alternative.

So you know what I think? I think current road rules need to be enforced. I think driving has become a right and not a privilege (and really, rights vs. privileges is a subject that crosses many topics and deserves its own post). I think making rules against cell phone use will not make the roads safer. I think it should be much more difficult to become a driver in the first place.

And for the record, I'm not serious about banning kids from the car. Even if I relish solo drives by cranking up the speakers louder than growing ears should hear, I am in the car with my children more often than not and I like it that way. But let's call a spade a spade, ok? Distraction comes in many forms and good drivers need to be prepared to handle most of them.

it's friday i'm in love

When life gives you lemons, watch youtube clips of somebody else's peaches! Or pick your own blueberries! Or um, amuse yourself with silly words you write and share with other people. I do all three! And by 'peaches' I mean 'music videos' and not, well, I'm not looking to shake any trees, ok?

So, instead of totting up a pile of troubles, I present a few things that are glad things which I am loving right this moment:

Blueberries. Maybe my favorite fruit. They're so easy and snackable and versatile. I like other berries, too, but blueberries aren't messy and seedy and thorny. We have a place right local that picks on shares: pick and leave half and take the other half for free. And you know around here we've got more time than money these days, so it's a great trade.

Most of our berries go in the freezer for post-summer snacking and such, but I have been banging out a batch of muffins about every week (I'd make them more often but then we'd just eat more). I make some delicious muffins. If I do say so myself. And I do. I use this recipe as a guide, but I sub and fiddle as I go. Following recipes exactly makes me itchy.

And while we're in the kitchen, let's give a shout-out to the newly installed and fabulous DISHWASHER. A fanflippingtastic electric machine that washes dishes WHILE I AM IN THE OTHER ROOM like magic. Beautiful. It's been a long time coming, in the idea and the design and the securing of salvaged and secondhand materials and building and the putting in and everything. Because, oh? My handy husband constructed an island to house said dishwasher and then had to finagle electric and plumbing to the middle of the kitchen. He is an ace. And now I have more very useful counter space. I had a lot of counter space already, but having an island in the middle, accessible from all sides, is extra great. The island has an outlet, also, so I can operate my stand mixer from it, which is more convenient than hefting it across the kitchen, where it doesn't work so well anyway because the above cupboards are too low for it to slide underneath. So, dishwasher island? All around Win!!

Eventually, we'd like to procure a fat butcher block, the island top is currently a scrap of old varnished and trimmed plywood we found in the garage. It has faint perforated cutting marks all over it, so I think it was Mrs. Duerst's pattern cutting board for sewing. That's my guess anyway. I'm sure she'd be glad to see it getting new life in the kitchen, instead of gathering dust up in the dusty rafters.

OH! Bonus! I almost forgot: check out the dishwasher picture again. Notice anything else? Anything wonderful and yellow and smooth and clean? That's right, chickens, somebody got a new kitchen floor! We've been living with it for a few months now and I never got around to posting about it here. Having a floor that actually is clean-able and is not the texture of sandpaper is pretty terrific. The before and after contrast is astounding and, trust me, every bit of complaining I did about the old floor was justified. Really, the old floor was so awful it deserved more grousing about and public humiliation. I've lived in a lot of different homes and I've had as many different kitchen floors and I've never felt so defeated as with that nasty surface. Really, if your floor gets dirty and cleaning it is a trial, remember: it could be worse! It could be so rough and pitted and scratchy nothing will clean it! Floor cleaning was sure put into perspective for me.

Okay, and this is sort of kitchen related, too, because if you were in my kitchen now you'd hear Neko Case's newest, Middle Cyclone. I've been listening to it all this past week and I'm not done yet. She has, so says me, maybe one of the best singing voices in the history of voices and singing. She sounds like a huge sky and deep blue and perfect clouds and I love her. I could listen to her singing all day. Oh wait, I have! I'm nothing if not repetitive! Anyhow, this song I'm sharing isn't my favorite off the album, but the video is tops. You'll like it.

oh, southern new mexico.

I am from goatheads in bicycle tires, from Sunny Delight and sunburns.

I am from a single story ranch with stucco exterior, so dry, the sand in windstorms attacking legs like a thousand tiny knives.

I am from yucca pods and anthills and hundreds of acres of green grass in the middle of the desert.

I am from restaurants with salad bars and not talking about it, from Johnnie and Dave and Ruth.

I am from funny and acting like everything is fine.

From too big for your britches and ENOUGH!

I am from a southern baptist deacon and the church secretary and vacation bible school and being there every time the doors were open (of being the ones who opened the doors).

I'm from The Land of Enchantment and Hatch Chile and pizza delivery.

From a large man with a larger personality who broke his back in the rodeo, lived loud and wild and then settled down with a small town girl. They eloped three months after meeting.

I am the school pictures in frames on shelves in my grandma's house, alongside so many jars of marbles. Faces stuck in contrived smiles, bad haircuts, dated styles holding little bits that I thought I wanted to forget, but as it turns out, I do not.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I snagged the bones of that poem whilst booking some face yesterday. (Also, and only precariously related to the subject at hand, hence the overused parentheses: how much do I simultaneously love and hate the facebook? A Lot. On one hand, I am tempted to get all Tyler Durden-ish and flip the whole insane concept the bird. Knowing where we come from is one thing, but keeping tedious record of every step along the way is something completely different. We are so much more than status updates, than folders of photos, than lines of basic info on profile pages. . . We are thoughts and words and relationships. We are not things to be collected. But, then, I do like having a list of folks handy, like a loaded, useful Rolodex. And I do play some mean Scrabble. So. . . I stick around).

You can make one, too. A 'Where You're From' poem. Let me know if you do. I had my girl write one, and asked her if I could post it here and she declined. Maybe later, she said. She had some tweaking still to do.

For your creative writing enjoyment (the following copied and pasted from a friend's facebook post, which I will assume she lifted from elsewhere and so on):

"If you don't know where you're from, you'll have a hard time saying where you're going." Wendell Berry, among others, has voiced this idea that we need to understand our roots to know our place in the world. A poem by George Ella Lyons is called "Where I'm From." The poem lends itself to imitation and makes a wonderful exercise of exploration in belonging.

I'd like to suggest that you give it a try. The prompts have a way of drawing out memories of the smells of attics and bottom-drawer keepsakes; the faces of long-departed kin, the sound of their voices you still hold some deep place in memory. You'll be surprised that, when you're done, you will have said things about the sources of your unique you-ness that you'd never considered before. What's more, you will have created something of yourself to share--with your children, spouse, siblings--that will be very unique, very personal and a very special gift.

The template is below. Give it a try, and post your own "Where I'm From" poem. Then tag a few friends, and see where they are from...

I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______.

I am from the _______ (home description... adjective, adjective, sensory detail).

I am from the _______ (plant, flower, natural item), the _______ (plant, flower, natural detail)

I am from _______ (family tradition) and _______ (family trait), from _______ (name of family member) and _______ (another family name) and _______ (family name).

I am from the _______ (description of family tendency) and _______ (another one).

From _______ (something you were told as a child) and _______ (another).

I am from (representation of religion, or lack of it). Further description.

I'm from _______ (place of birth and family ancestry), _______ (two food items representing your family).

From the _______ (specific family story about a specific person and detail), the _______ (another detail, and the _______ (another detail about another family member).

I am from _______ (location of family pictures, mementos, archives and several more lines indicating their worth).

home bittersweet home

Having 13 different addresses in 13 years has blurred my concept of Home. I am more attached to things than place. I am always one foot out the door. I am tired of starting over (with people, routines, what's familiar). I am envious of those who can Stay.

Almost every time I listen to a To The Best Of Our Knowledge podcast, I hear some little piece (or sometimes, the whole thing) that I want to talk, to someone, about. A friend of mine said it's a little too "baby boomer"-ish and, well, it's true. The intended audience might be a few decades ahead of me. But when I was in the 5th grade, I honestly wrote, for an autobiographic school report, that my favorite television show was 20/20. Which is to say: I've always been a little old for my years (what's quirky at ten is maybe less so come thirtysomething).

The other night I listened, riveted, to an episode about Home. The segments were not so compelling, but the subject is just so confounding to me.

Confession: I always feel like an interloper.

The last 13 years of my life have provided very little continuity, the setting keeps changing and the supporting cast revolves and I stand on the periphery, out of place. I don't know what it's like to be an integral part of anything beyond my own little family of four.

I was so attached to the place I grew up, I bolted at first chance. This is not uncommon (but neither is a grown-up desire to move back, which I don't have and would not consider). My story is not unique. We've changed homes a lot. So what?

So I'm done. I don't want to pack up and move again. I don't want to cram my stuff into the back of a U-Haul one more time. I don't want my furniture to get more bangs and scrapes from smashing through doorways, up staircases.

But I don't know if I can call this place Home. We just ended up here. I said I wouldn't move to this town and then, so quickly, here we were. Here I am.

Who knows how much longer we can keep the bank happy. As it turns out, joblessness is not so compatible with paying one's bills. Which means the shuffle shimmy balancing act will topple one of these days and our house will be on the chopping block. And we'll be. . . ?

Home is rest. Of not thinking about where you might be living down the road, of the question not even entering the equation. Because it's always in the back of my mind. I'm always wondering, anticipating the shift in the wind that will cause circumstances to change and have us scrambling for a new place. My how we've scrambled.

So it might happen that I'm not done. That there's more moving in store for us. It's a worry. And not such a great lurking shadow to have around if becoming more invested in this place is the goal (is it?).

Yeah, I don't know.

don't be afraid of what you've learned

Some while ago, NPR All Songs Considered shared for free download a collection of songs from the SXSW music festival in Austin. (It is endlessly amusing to me that my number one source for new music is national public radio.) I listen to it often and this is probably my favorite of the bunch.

I had this great idea that I'd share a song I'm currently enjoying on Sunday nights here, and that has worked out some, but I'm so sporadic with my posting, it's better to just put stuff up as it occurs to me.

Tonight we loaded up the bicycles (3 plus a trailer for the boy) and zipped down to an outdoor concert. We sat on a blanket, near friends, and listened to fun music (not music I'd share here, or want on my ipod, say, but just right for hanging out with a picnic dinner in an oak grove) and basked in the perfect loveliness of a summer evening in this part of my green state. I am not musical. I sing in the shower. I think about singing karaoke (but have never done it!), and wish I could *play* something. I can't. The radio. That's it. Yet, even so, music is such a force. Such a perfect background. Like the right color paint on the walls. And I'm glad for it. That's all.

the freshy fresh

(plus bonus proof that my kids are all kinds of awesome)

I never ate a fresh pea, right off the vine, until I was an adult. I grew up with a peripheral, suspicious, disdainful relationship with vegetables. There were salad vegetables (assumed mostly for my dad, who can build and eat a salad the size of a breadbox) and there were side dish vegetables, which arrived to the table via their interim life in a Del Monte can. Globs of slimy spinach, Flaccid asparagus (which, it's true, I still sometimes get a craving for, though I haven't indulged in well past a decade), and Mushy peas, too limp to bother rolling off the plate.

It's a stark contrast, then, how my two run outside. How the little one asks me, before he plucks a pod, "is this one fat enough, mama?". How they sit on the front steps, together, dropping the shelled peas into a bowl. How they eat them up by the handful, how they always want more.

So, it's like a triple whammy of wonderfulness here to me. Fresh, delicious veggies in my own yard. My children being sweet and cooperative, a little pea-picking team. Knowing that fond memories, of food and family alike, are being created every day.

the garden post

Earlier this spring, a lady drove by my house, screeched to a stop, threw her car into a fast reverse and pulled over by our curb, "I love what you're doing here."

We love what we're doing, too, even if I have a hard time seeing past all the Undone stuff to appreciate the accomplishments we've made in our 20 months of living here. Of course any outdoor improvements are for our own sake, but a little compliment goes a long way. It was nice to hear something positive, even from a stranger.

And then she asked, "Were you inspired by the First Lady?"

Ok. I admit that my first reaction to that question was something like, really? Results from all those pushups I've been doing are that noticeable? Dang.

Oh wait. Random friendly stranger lady was not talking about my biceps. Michelle Obama's upper arms have sure had a lot of media attention in the month's following her husband's inauguration. But let's just say that I wouldn't want to arm wrestle her. Yet.

She was talking about our raised beds. She motioned toward the the first baby kale leaves coming out of the ground, "She's planting vegetables in the White House lawn, you know."

I do know. I think it's wonderful.

But the presidential garden was not an inspiration for our decision to use a chunk of front lawn for food. No, I told the lady, we were doing it already.

Our garden is in our front yard because our backyard, while giving us grapes and plenty of hazelnuts, is too small and shady for much of anything to grow. The orientation of our house on our lot is such that we have more open space in the front than we do in the back. As in, the exact opposite of the way most city houses are situated.

If we wanted to grow anything -and we did!- we had to depend on our front yard space. Last year we put in one raised bed in a funny unused strip along the front side. And this spring we added two more, and beds around the perimeter.

Certainly front yard gardens are not so unusual. I notice them here and there. But it's much, much more common to have vegetables in the back.

We did what worked for us. And it's working, still. What I didn't expect, though, was how people would react. Not just the I Brake For Gardens lady driving by, but others. They ask us what we're growing. They nod their heads and say, oh, my back yard is shady, too. They smile.

I like having food growing in a place that is so visible to the street. I like owning our decision to have a garden in a way that makes our gardening part of the landscape of my neighborhood. I can't grumble about my neighborhood if I'm not doing anything to make it better. The more we're out in it (and we spend so much time out front these days), the less I grumble.

My front garden isn't going to wow anybody. It's humble and weedy and cobbled together. But it might encourage somebody else to use some of their front sunshiney lawn for something a little more useful (I'm not a lawn hater! Everything I ever had as child was a direct result of lawns! My dad was/is a sod farmer!). And it will certainly give us some food (which is important!), and a shared activity, more pleasure in our own space.

Here are our front beds 3 months ago:

And a picture from today:

warts and all

I'm sure you love me just the way I am. I, however, have been less than fond of the pesky lump on my wrist for some time. Now it's small, nothing anyone would probably notice. But it would itch sometimes and I'd see it and feel chagrined. Stupid wart, killing my chances as a wristwatch model. What to do? (this is so simple and unbelievable and effective and simple it's going to blow your mind a little).

Don't worry, while this is a home remedy anyone can do, this is not the wart removal technique I heard growing up. My great-grandmother legendarily instructed the afflicted individual to take a kernel of corn, rub it on the wart, look out into the yard and mentally choose a chicken, toss the corn into the yard, and if the chosen chicken ate the corn - voila! Bob's your uncle, the wart is gone!

But say you're low on chickens or superstitions? Then what?

You pluck a dandelion. Squeeze the stem. Spread the milky juice on your wart. Okay, wait. Back up. It helps to have a cute little fella in overalls and rainboots pick your dandelion.

This is what my wrist looked like before I smeared any dandelion milk on it at all. It's a little red and, though the picture isn't wonderfully clear, definitely raised.

My intent was to take a picture every day, but I forgot and that's kind of boring anyway. A picture of my wrist every day? hah-shoo, hah-shoo. Also, I neglected to apply the dandelion milk again for a few days. After the first application, the wart skin got dark and scabby. I really should have taken a picture of that, but it's probably for the better that I didn't. For your sake, anyway. And then the scabby came off in a shower and the area was no longer raised. I have only bothered to put the dandelion milk on one more time.

And now it looks like this:

There's a shiny dot of fresh, happy skin now! Could anything be cheaper, easier, less invasive?!

I can't remember where I picked this up, but I do remember it's something we did to effectively remove a wart on the husband's hand years ago and I remember taking family walks and the girl would pluck dandelions and rub them on her hand, too, just like her dad. She was about 2 then, so I guess this has been in our home remedy arsenal since then, 8 years or so. We've used it numerous times.

Not that we're a particularly warty bunch.

it is what it is

Monday night at my house = soup, stew or chili night. More or less. My menu ideas are always so broad, the esoteric details not typically revealed until right at prep time. If I know, vaguely, what sort of thing to make, I work from that point and use what I've got. Am I doing a casserole? A stir-fry? Pasta? Each category gives me a good beginning direction and I take what's in my pantry, my fridge, and go from there. I can follow recipes but it's more comfortable for me to throw things together, some of this. . . a little of that. . . the way my boy does in the backyard. Holly berries, dry leaves and dog water? No problem. I got chili simmering (my old 3 bean + quinoa standard) early enough today -before lunch even!- and had visions of an early dinner and an early bedtime (for the children, anyway; more light means they stay up so late and the husband and i zonk out soon after and lose out on any grown-up teevee watching time) but an unplanned late nap and all the other things that come to a head in the late afternoon happened and here it is now: just after six and I'm my second jam jar into a bottle of cheap pink wine and the cornbread's still in the oven.

just going through the motions

There was something both complete hilarious and utterly grotesque about listening to a few backlogged episodes of James Howard Kunstler podcasts while painting my half bath yellow. (psst! If you're not listening to JHK's Kunstlercast, I guess I don't know why, maybe because you didn't know about it? Well, hey! Now you do!). It's not that I am a big fan of climate change and the end of cheap oil and drastic transitions. It's that I think they're all inevitable -sooner than we think even!- and I'd rather know what I'm up against than be caught with my head in a vat of air conditioned petroleum when the stuff hits the fan, you know.

So while my head was thinking about this stuff, my hands were so frivolously changing the color of a bathroom that is mostly used by guests (when I remember to tell guests it's there, so hidden it is around the corner where no one notices, and when we have guests at all, not so often, really). And it seemed like a foolish sort of task.

Life in the Bleak House here (really, we could take a number because our plight is not unique, but it's hard to always keep that perspective) has been full up with foolishness. I'd like to stand tall and declare how everything we do is purposeful, useful, good. But our home improvement projects (and there have been many!) are mostly for our own pleasure. I'm indescribably pleased about the new kitchen floor. I'm delighted every time I walk into my cheerfully blue laundry room. I cross my fingers that if, as we suspect, we might have to put this home we love on the chopping block real estate market sooner than later, the improvements will make all the difference.

But we're still totally protected by the comfort of cheap(ish) oil. We still have the luxury of doing fluffy things, frivolous things, things that will matter less when life is leaner and our collective amusement ranks lower.

However, tonight's Sunday and I made pizza, like I do, and now, because I swear I haven't forgotten, I will share a song, and that's amusing.

I find myself humming this song all the time. It's used as the opening song for the kunstlercast and it stuck in my head so much that I had to look it up and download it for my very own. And then! When looking for a decent quality version to embed here, I found this little gem, the only non-live copy on youtube and it made me smile. (I am a responsible adult who does her own dishes! Ha! Yes!)