On Saturday evening, we found ourselves standing in the arrivals hall of the international terminal at the Los Angeles airport, transfixed by the crowds. Dennis and I were meeting Joe, our 20-year-old son who was returning from his semester in London. Even though the crunch of Christmas travel was still several days away from its apex, the place was jammed with people from all over the world, awaiting the arrival of someone.
Checking the incoming flight board, we knew that Joe's plane had landed, but so had several other international flights, meaning that thousands of people were moving through customs with him. Settling in for a good wait, we stood in a spot that allowed us a clear view of the arriving throngs. We focused on the faces, watching for our human package to appear -- just like all of the other greeters waiting with us.
Passengers from the Munich flight came through first. Suddenly, a young couple standing near us erupted into vigorous waving directed at a silver-haired woman in an elegant black coat. Smiling widely and waving in return, she made her way toward them and fell into their exuberant hugs. One didn't have to be clairvoyant to see that the German woman was in California for the birth of a grandchild. The young woman who embraced her, either her daughter or daughter-in-law, was in the late stages of a pregnancy, seemingly ready to deliver on the spot.
Next, the travelers from the Taipei and Manilla flights began trickling into the hall. Unlike the German passengers, who carried stylish luggage, these people were overburdened with cardboard boxes, stuffed to the ripping point and taped at every seam. Despite the container's condition, each box was carefully addressed by hand with a black marker in big, block letters. The boxes broadcast their final destinations -- Simi Valley, Bellflower, San Diego and dozens of other Southern California communities. While the German travelers were obviously fatigued, the passengers from China and the Phillipines appeared beyond tired, closer to shell-shocked, as they folded into the American landscape.
By now, 30 minutes had passed, and no sign of Joe yet. At this point, Dennis and I decided to divide and conquer. We realized that as passengers reached the end of the ramp leading into the arrivals hall, they could turn either left or right. Based on where we were stationed, if Joe made a quick left, he might skip by us. Hoping to avoid the prospect of missing him, we separated, with me holding our original spot and Dennis carving out a space amid the crowd on the other side of the room.
The flow of people from all other over the world continued steadily. Travelers from Mazatlan and Manzanillo arrived next. Some of the passengers were tanned and prosperous-looking, clearly Americans who had hopped down to a Mexican resort for a quick vacation. But scattered among the returning vacationers were some Mexican nationals. One man, in particular, reminded me of many of the people I'd seen in Mexico. Leather-skinned and slightly hunched over, he wore a straw cowboy hat and a plaid shirt and jeans. I noticed that no one jumped up to welcome him. He simply pushed through the throngs and made his way to the door.
As the Mexico arrivals thinned, we heard cheering and joyful yelling from the next group to enter the hall. Joe's British Airways flight was finally coming in. Despite it being 4 a.m. London time, these passengers were by far the most exuberant of any we'd seen. Later, I realized that as English speakers, the Brits must have had a much easier time navigating U.S. Immigration and Customs than the other international arrivals. As this jovial group filtered into the room, I focused intently on their faces, looking for my son sandwiched among them.
After a few minutes, Joe had still not appeared. A little frustrated, I turned to the right slightly to see if I could make eye-contact with Dennis. And standing about 10 feet from me was Joe. He looked different than I expected, because he was sporting a full beard. But under the facial hair, yes, that was my son. Just like all of the others who finally eyed their human arrival, I found myself involuntarily jumping, waving, and yelling his name. He was back, and available for an enthusiastic motherly embrace.
In my freezer, I've been hording two containers of puree, made from the tomatoes we grew during the summer. Before Joe leaves again to return to college in Santa Cruz, I'll use that puree as the foundation for a large pot of sauce for pasta, one of Joe's favorite dishes. Watching so many travelers arrive in Los Angeles, clearly in a foreign place, I'm reminded that the tastes, aromas, and dishes of home sustain us and linger long after the meal is served. They help us to reconnect with our past and carry us into the days ahead.
December 16, 2008
December 2, 2008
Finished At Last
Finally. Our yard was finished in time for Thanksgiving. The remainder of the project was not that extensive, only a day and a half of work for the landscaping crew. Yet our yard had been stalled at 75 percent complete for many weeks, partly because I was out of town for most of October, which delayed things.
When a home improvement project is interrupted, getting the crew to return is no small feat. Accomplishing this is dependent on a combination of luck, good cheer and a solid payment history. You need luck to forestall any mishaps from occurring on the previous customer's job, which will undoubtedly keep the crew from your doorstep. You need good cheer because no one wants to labor at the house with the cranky homeowner. The payment caveat -- that's self-explanatory.
To our relief, the landscapers did eventually return for the last push. In finishing off our yard, they extended a river-rock border along one planter, provided the dog with a patch of St. Augustine grass, planted a Meyer lemon tree, and built two raised planting beds of generous dimensions, which they surrounded with pea gravel for a well-groomed appearance.
At this writing, the planting beds are sitting idle, because Dennis has not yet decided what vegetation will hold the special honor of the initiation crop. Sugar snap peas, perhaps. Maybe some carrots. I'm thinking fava beans. Last spring, I paid a small fortune at the farmer's market for a tiny scoop of emerald green fava beans. Three or four months from now, I know that I'll be lured by recipe after recipe urging me to combine fresh fava beans with pasta, to puree them into a vibrant green sauce, or to saute them with hearty bacon and lively fresh herbs. I'll have to steel myself from these cooking temptations, unless I can get Dennis to nurture some fava beans of our own. Fat chance, that. Too exotic.
Eyeing the new, barren planting beds the other day, Dennis casually commented that they were "like two lidless coffins." "For whom?" I quipped back. "Frankenstein and his bride? They're 12 feet long." Despite my husband's unfortunate imagery, the planting beds will look great as soon as they're put to their intended use, with leaves and vines and flowery shapes covering the dirt and cascading over the sides. Time for Dennis to make a trip to the nursery and get some production happening -- sooner rather than later.
As for me, I've been cajoling some lettuces into maturity. Not that different from raising teenagers, really. You keep them well hydrated, you do your best to clear away any rotting debris in their vicinity, you shield them from insects and other opportunists, and you talk to them when they wilt until they perk up and return to their best form. In essence, you do what you can and hope for the best. One noteable benefit over rearing adolescents, nurturing lettuces always holds the promise of a nice salad or two. Add a little olive oil and vinegar, and you're dressed and ready. What could be better.
When a home improvement project is interrupted, getting the crew to return is no small feat. Accomplishing this is dependent on a combination of luck, good cheer and a solid payment history. You need luck to forestall any mishaps from occurring on the previous customer's job, which will undoubtedly keep the crew from your doorstep. You need good cheer because no one wants to labor at the house with the cranky homeowner. The payment caveat -- that's self-explanatory.
To our relief, the landscapers did eventually return for the last push. In finishing off our yard, they extended a river-rock border along one planter, provided the dog with a patch of St. Augustine grass, planted a Meyer lemon tree, and built two raised planting beds of generous dimensions, which they surrounded with pea gravel for a well-groomed appearance.
At this writing, the planting beds are sitting idle, because Dennis has not yet decided what vegetation will hold the special honor of the initiation crop. Sugar snap peas, perhaps. Maybe some carrots. I'm thinking fava beans. Last spring, I paid a small fortune at the farmer's market for a tiny scoop of emerald green fava beans. Three or four months from now, I know that I'll be lured by recipe after recipe urging me to combine fresh fava beans with pasta, to puree them into a vibrant green sauce, or to saute them with hearty bacon and lively fresh herbs. I'll have to steel myself from these cooking temptations, unless I can get Dennis to nurture some fava beans of our own. Fat chance, that. Too exotic.
Eyeing the new, barren planting beds the other day, Dennis casually commented that they were "like two lidless coffins." "For whom?" I quipped back. "Frankenstein and his bride? They're 12 feet long." Despite my husband's unfortunate imagery, the planting beds will look great as soon as they're put to their intended use, with leaves and vines and flowery shapes covering the dirt and cascading over the sides. Time for Dennis to make a trip to the nursery and get some production happening -- sooner rather than later.
As for me, I've been cajoling some lettuces into maturity. Not that different from raising teenagers, really. You keep them well hydrated, you do your best to clear away any rotting debris in their vicinity, you shield them from insects and other opportunists, and you talk to them when they wilt until they perk up and return to their best form. In essence, you do what you can and hope for the best. One noteable benefit over rearing adolescents, nurturing lettuces always holds the promise of a nice salad or two. Add a little olive oil and vinegar, and you're dressed and ready. What could be better.
November 13, 2008
Finding A Righteous Solution
Emerging from deep within my psyche, an idea came forth the other day that intrigued me, but also caught me a little off guard. The question I was mulling over was how best to cope with the overabundance of jalapeno peppers now gracing my garden. I tried giving a few chilies to a friend who was visiting the other day. A white woman, she acted as if I were offering her plutonium. No matter that I assured her that if she striped away the seeds and the membranes, she would find that my little red jalapenos were quite sedate. Politely, she left my house with one pepper -- one. I have dozens and dozens of beautiful, red jalapenos on my hands.Should I attempt to dry them? Do they freeze well? Or should I quietly move in a rogue direction and toss 50 percent of them into the compost bin, pretending they never existed.
As I weighed my options, I thought of my foremothers. What did they do with prolific crop production? On my paternal side, where the family roots are deep in Ohio, I pictured an ancestral home where the basement was lined with jars of string beans, rhubarb and pickles. In all honestly, I don't know if this picture is an accurate one. I've never been to Ohio, except for the time when my plane made an emergency landing in Columbus, but that's another story.
On my maternal side, the Italian side, food waste was definitely discouraged and edged right up against committing actual sin. In my grandmother's kitchen, excess and over-ripened produce found its way into pots boiling on the stove. I watched many times as she transformed strawberries, or plums, or oranges into jellies, jams and marmalades. My mother, too, will put up some jam if she finds herself with too much of a particular fruit.
Was this the answer, then? Could my jalapenos follow a similar path? Could I find a righteousness solution by whipping up a jalapeno jelly? True, I had never preserved before, but I assumed that I carried the canning gene. Yes, the product was odd, but not unheard of. As I said, I was intrigued by this idea, but also a little startled by it. I felt that perhaps I was reaching for some generational link to my past. Then I did something my foremothers certainly never did. I went to http://www.williams-sonoma.com/ and typed "jalapeno" into the search engine. A recipe for a jelly that combined jalapenos and red peppers quickly popped up.
If Williams-Sonoma was on board, my notion no longer seemed so wacky. Now, my jalapeno jelly project was officially afoot. Next stop was the kitchen section of my hardware store for some Ball jars and pectin. While I had never made jelly before, I knew the steps. However, to guard against a kitchen disaster triggered by my noviceness, I invited my mother, who as I mentioned, had jammed and jellied many times before, to join in the festivities.
Inviting Mama Mia turned out to be a good idea, because she definitely added value. First she brought cheesecloth, a tool the recipe never mentioned, which we used in the straining step. Second, she advised me to cook the jalapenos and peppers in the tallest pot I owned in order to avoid a very messy boil-over situation. You'd be amazed at how high the jelly mixture bubbles up in the pot. I'd still be cleaning red syrupy goo off my stove if not for the tallest pot tip.
Anyway, the project was both great fun and a technical success. The mixture congealed, and I now have eight gorgeous jars of pepper jelly. The color is hard to describe -- a red, orange, pink hue, reminiscent of a sunset. But despite the stunning color, my jalapeno byproduct is still generating fear. Last night, I opened a jar to taste it, spreading some jelly on a plain cracker. Dennis, Nick and his friend, Paola, looked at me quizzically, waiting to see if I would bounce out of my seat to douse a five-alarm fire in my mouth. No such reaction. Despite the fact that each jar probably contains one whole jalapeno, the jelly is sweet, but not hot. It has the essence of jalapeno, without the burn. I managed to get all three of them to taste it, and they all acknowledged that the jelly was not hot, as they had assumed. Still, I don't see Nick reaching for a peanut butter and jalapeno jelly sandwich anytime soon.
So, I plan to give my jelly products away as holiday gifts, but only to those with brave and adventurous palettes. Of course, I still have many, many peppers on the plants. For his part, Dennis keeps asking me to secure a mortar and pestle, because he thinks he can grind the chilies into powder. I'm tempted to get him the equipment, just to see how far he'll go with this plan.
I have another idea. The Latino workers who installed my patio in the summer, the same men who actually planted the jalapenos in my yard, are returning this week to finish our landscaping. My guess is that these men will gratefully accept any peppers I'm willing to part with. I can see now that sharing the bounty with those who know how to salsa is actually the righteous solution.
October 25, 2008
October News
I've been neglectful. I've been trotting around Holland and England for most of October, and I've let my blogging responsibilities slip. Many apologies. Did you miss me?
Since landing at LAX a couple of days ago, I've recovered from some of my jet lag, and I've tackled the laundry and the other immediate re-entry chores. Now I can refocus on my normal daily routines, blogging included.
Let's cover the most important topic first. You must have noticed that October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. The little blurbs and news stories are everywhere. Coincidentally, on October 23rd, I marked my one-year anniversary since my diagnosis. While the past 12 months have been an ordeal, I'm viewing the whole experience as one of those tests that life unexpectedly throws you. You do your best to pass it, learning as you go. At this point, I can say that I made it through. I'm well. My stamina is returning, and I'm ready to move on. But with the authority of 20-20 hindsight, a word to the wise: Guard against the tendency to be ostrich-like about this disease. I've talked to so many women who have so much fear, they fail to take any action at all -- no mammograms, no self-exams, no doctor visits. Since breast cancer prevention is many years into the future, early detection is the best option we have. Take steps to educate yourself, and the other women in your life, about screening methods and stay vigilant. No one will do it for you.
After undergoing months of cancer treatment, I felt I deserved a reward, which explains why I've just returned from some international travel. My husband and I had already scheduled an October trip to Great Britain to visit our son, Joe, who is enjoying a semester in London. Coincidentally, I was offered a work-related trip to Amsterdam in the two weeks before my already scheduled vacation in the U.K. So what was originally planned as 10 days away extended into a three-week road trip. It was great. I had not visited Europe in far too long. I won't make that mistake again.
My being away took its toll on my newly minted garden, however. In my absence, everyone disregarded their borders. The eggplants encroached on the chives, the peppers rudely extended their leggy branches into the adjacent hedge, and the basil stretched dramatically beyond its boundary. In addition, the Santa Ana winds deposited leaves and debris into every crevice, cranny, and corner. Hours of clean-up and trimming awaited me. But as I launched into clipping and tidying, what struck me, quite to my surprise, was that my presence did indeed make a difference here. While I was elsewhere, the landscaping had definitely suffered. Is that the lesson of the garden? In its silent way, a garden quickly shows if it's being neglected. On the other hand, a beautified patch outside your door is surprisingly pleasurable and restorative. But it doesn't stay inviting without tending and nurturing. If the gardener fails to keep order, Darwinian forces take over, and the stronger plants muscle out the demure ones, which robs the place of its delicacy. And that's to be avoided, I think.
Finally, October 2008 means that the election cycle is in a frenzied state. I noticed that the Europeans were following our presidential race very closely. They snickered whenever Mrs. Palin's name was mentioned, and appeared to be standing by, waiting to see if America will falter or pull itself together. If you've followed the earlier blog entries here, you know that I suggested to Senator McCain that I was at least as equally qualified as Mrs. Palin to be his running mate and that I could easily replace her. He didn't respond to my offer, but my feelings weren't hurt. I have plenty to do without running for elected office. But then so does Mrs. Palin -- with governing the State of Alaska, and planning Bristol and Levi's wedding, and tending to her special-needs child, and hunting for caribou, and working on her hair and make-up, she must be overwhelmed. She is probably spread so thin, that when put on the spot, she might completely forget the name of a single Supreme Court case, other than Roe v. Wade. Hmmm.
Since I've missed much of the October that is particular to Southern California (the fires, the heat, the parched ground), I have a few seasonal plans for the week ahead: Make a pumpkin pie, distribute some Halloween candy, go to a soccer game, and study up on the propositions. Mostly, I'm reminded that, in so many small ways, we all make a difference -- whether it's reminding each other about cancer prevention, beautifying our surroundings, or exercising our rights at the polls. Every voice counts, but not unless it's heard. Now is the time to speak up. Take time to vote and bring a neighbor with you.
Since landing at LAX a couple of days ago, I've recovered from some of my jet lag, and I've tackled the laundry and the other immediate re-entry chores. Now I can refocus on my normal daily routines, blogging included.
Let's cover the most important topic first. You must have noticed that October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. The little blurbs and news stories are everywhere. Coincidentally, on October 23rd, I marked my one-year anniversary since my diagnosis. While the past 12 months have been an ordeal, I'm viewing the whole experience as one of those tests that life unexpectedly throws you. You do your best to pass it, learning as you go. At this point, I can say that I made it through. I'm well. My stamina is returning, and I'm ready to move on. But with the authority of 20-20 hindsight, a word to the wise: Guard against the tendency to be ostrich-like about this disease. I've talked to so many women who have so much fear, they fail to take any action at all -- no mammograms, no self-exams, no doctor visits. Since breast cancer prevention is many years into the future, early detection is the best option we have. Take steps to educate yourself, and the other women in your life, about screening methods and stay vigilant. No one will do it for you.
After undergoing months of cancer treatment, I felt I deserved a reward, which explains why I've just returned from some international travel. My husband and I had already scheduled an October trip to Great Britain to visit our son, Joe, who is enjoying a semester in London. Coincidentally, I was offered a work-related trip to Amsterdam in the two weeks before my already scheduled vacation in the U.K. So what was originally planned as 10 days away extended into a three-week road trip. It was great. I had not visited Europe in far too long. I won't make that mistake again.
My being away took its toll on my newly minted garden, however. In my absence, everyone disregarded their borders. The eggplants encroached on the chives, the peppers rudely extended their leggy branches into the adjacent hedge, and the basil stretched dramatically beyond its boundary. In addition, the Santa Ana winds deposited leaves and debris into every crevice, cranny, and corner. Hours of clean-up and trimming awaited me. But as I launched into clipping and tidying, what struck me, quite to my surprise, was that my presence did indeed make a difference here. While I was elsewhere, the landscaping had definitely suffered. Is that the lesson of the garden? In its silent way, a garden quickly shows if it's being neglected. On the other hand, a beautified patch outside your door is surprisingly pleasurable and restorative. But it doesn't stay inviting without tending and nurturing. If the gardener fails to keep order, Darwinian forces take over, and the stronger plants muscle out the demure ones, which robs the place of its delicacy. And that's to be avoided, I think.
Finally, October 2008 means that the election cycle is in a frenzied state. I noticed that the Europeans were following our presidential race very closely. They snickered whenever Mrs. Palin's name was mentioned, and appeared to be standing by, waiting to see if America will falter or pull itself together. If you've followed the earlier blog entries here, you know that I suggested to Senator McCain that I was at least as equally qualified as Mrs. Palin to be his running mate and that I could easily replace her. He didn't respond to my offer, but my feelings weren't hurt. I have plenty to do without running for elected office. But then so does Mrs. Palin -- with governing the State of Alaska, and planning Bristol and Levi's wedding, and tending to her special-needs child, and hunting for caribou, and working on her hair and make-up, she must be overwhelmed. She is probably spread so thin, that when put on the spot, she might completely forget the name of a single Supreme Court case, other than Roe v. Wade. Hmmm.
Since I've missed much of the October that is particular to Southern California (the fires, the heat, the parched ground), I have a few seasonal plans for the week ahead: Make a pumpkin pie, distribute some Halloween candy, go to a soccer game, and study up on the propositions. Mostly, I'm reminded that, in so many small ways, we all make a difference -- whether it's reminding each other about cancer prevention, beautifying our surroundings, or exercising our rights at the polls. Every voice counts, but not unless it's heard. Now is the time to speak up. Take time to vote and bring a neighbor with you.
September 21, 2008
Cancer Fighters
When I gave Tom, our landscaper, the go-ahead to plant some fruits, vegetables, and herbs in our newly landscaped yard, I had no thoughts of an "anticancer" garden. I was more focused on pitching in to prevent global warming while simultaneously reaping the culinary benefits of quick and plentiful produce.
Our edible garden was installed in late July, a full six or seven weeks before I saw an ad in The New York Times "Book Review" for Anticancer: A New Way of Life. Having just completed 10 months of cancer treatment, I was intrigued enough to buy a copy. Written by David Servan-Schreiber, a psychiatrist who stumbled onto his own brain tumor while conducting research on the prefrontal cortex, the book is built on the premise that cancer cells lie dormant in all of us. The author lays out the argument that diet and other lifestyle choices have a dramatic impact on whether those cancer cells stay undeveloped or blossom into deadly tumors.
While we've all heard the advice to eat more fruits and vegetables, Servan-Schreiber goes well beyond this premise. He relates the following anecdote about his own cancer treatment: After completing his course of chemotherapy, he asked his oncologist what he could do to prevent a relapse. His doctor replied, "There is nothing special to do. Lead your life normally. We'll do MRI scans at regular intervals. If your tumor comes back, we'll detect it early." As a research scientist, he was dissatisfied with this answer, so he set out to learn more. The resulting book gives scientific explanations and specifics of how diet, exercise and mood can all work to prevent cancer.
Similarly, when my treatment ended, I did not receive any detailed diet or exercise regimen. My oncologist prescribed Tamoxifen, which reduces estrogen, and he advised me that a low-fat diet helps to reduce incidence of breast cancer. But just as Servan-Schreiber experienced, my oncologist and I were more focused on detecting a cancer recurrence with MRIs and other tests, rather than on preventing one.
So when a patch of herbs and other edibles went into the ground at my house, I was not concentrating on growing foods to keep cancer at bay. But now I see the obvious connection. In his book, Servan-Schreiber names the five most common types of cancer and lists which vegetables are most effective at inhibiting their growth. Interestingly, garlic, leeks, scallions, brussels sprouts and cabbage are at, or near, the top of all five of the lists. The book also explores the cancer-fighting properties of such herbs as oregano, basil, mint, thyme and parsley. It must have been serendipitous when we put all five of these plants into the ground several weeks ago. In my mind, they were flavor enhancers, rather than cancer avengers.
I'm still making my way through this book, and as I do with every piece of health news, I'm reading it with a measure of skepticism. But you never know. Perhaps parsley tea will soon be the new pomegranate juice.
Our edible garden was installed in late July, a full six or seven weeks before I saw an ad in The New York Times "Book Review" for Anticancer: A New Way of Life. Having just completed 10 months of cancer treatment, I was intrigued enough to buy a copy. Written by David Servan-Schreiber, a psychiatrist who stumbled onto his own brain tumor while conducting research on the prefrontal cortex, the book is built on the premise that cancer cells lie dormant in all of us. The author lays out the argument that diet and other lifestyle choices have a dramatic impact on whether those cancer cells stay undeveloped or blossom into deadly tumors.
While we've all heard the advice to eat more fruits and vegetables, Servan-Schreiber goes well beyond this premise. He relates the following anecdote about his own cancer treatment: After completing his course of chemotherapy, he asked his oncologist what he could do to prevent a relapse. His doctor replied, "There is nothing special to do. Lead your life normally. We'll do MRI scans at regular intervals. If your tumor comes back, we'll detect it early." As a research scientist, he was dissatisfied with this answer, so he set out to learn more. The resulting book gives scientific explanations and specifics of how diet, exercise and mood can all work to prevent cancer.
Similarly, when my treatment ended, I did not receive any detailed diet or exercise regimen. My oncologist prescribed Tamoxifen, which reduces estrogen, and he advised me that a low-fat diet helps to reduce incidence of breast cancer. But just as Servan-Schreiber experienced, my oncologist and I were more focused on detecting a cancer recurrence with MRIs and other tests, rather than on preventing one.
So when a patch of herbs and other edibles went into the ground at my house, I was not concentrating on growing foods to keep cancer at bay. But now I see the obvious connection. In his book, Servan-Schreiber names the five most common types of cancer and lists which vegetables are most effective at inhibiting their growth. Interestingly, garlic, leeks, scallions, brussels sprouts and cabbage are at, or near, the top of all five of the lists. The book also explores the cancer-fighting properties of such herbs as oregano, basil, mint, thyme and parsley. It must have been serendipitous when we put all five of these plants into the ground several weeks ago. In my mind, they were flavor enhancers, rather than cancer avengers.
I'm still making my way through this book, and as I do with every piece of health news, I'm reading it with a measure of skepticism. But you never know. Perhaps parsley tea will soon be the new pomegranate juice.
September 9, 2008
Fading Summer
I waited eagerly for the phone to ring, but John McCain never called me about my idea that I should be his running mate instead of Mrs. Palin (see previous blog post). It's hard not to feel that, despite all the glass ceiling rhetoric, the beauty queen is still the one being selected, but have it your way, Senator. I will be very interested to see how Mrs. Palin's polling numbers look in a week or two.
On the upside, not running for the vice presidency frees me up to do some harvesting and cooking and writing. Along these lines, we had some great food over the past few days, all of it organic and grown under our watchful eyes. This weekend, Dennis and I consumed:
On the upside, not running for the vice presidency frees me up to do some harvesting and cooking and writing. Along these lines, we had some great food over the past few days, all of it organic and grown under our watchful eyes. This weekend, Dennis and I consumed:
- Thin slices of eggplant brushed lightly with olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt, and seared over hot coals.
- A mixture of Italian parsley, lemon basil and oregano pureed with meyer lemon juice and oil and poured, as a marinade, over chicken legs about to be grilled.
- Sweet cherry tomatoes and a jalapeno or two sauteed together with a piece of sole and then wrapped in corn tortillas for fish tacos with a little kick.
- Tiny concord grapes, well chilled to enhance their sweet-tart balance.
You can see from this list that the garden was broadening and transitioning this week. We are finally moving away from our over abundance of red tomatoes toward a more purple bounty, evidenced in the eggplants and the grapes. Since the tomatoes vines have been undeniably (and mercifully) winding down, I secured my husband's (reluctant) agreement that they could go.
The moment that Dennis signed onto this plan, I gleefully shot off an e-mail to the landscaper, telling him to bring his crew back to our house ASAP to finish our project, work that this season's prolific tomato plants had literally obstructed. Once the tomatoes are finally put to rest, the landscaper will install some raised planting beds and a square patch of sod. The new beds will be great for all kinds of food and flowers, including next summer's tomatoes. As for the sod, the dog has been yearning for a small patch of grass to call her own. How can I deny her that?
It's no secret that I'm not a gardener, and I'm out on a limb with much of this. Along with a few successes, I've had to cope with plant death, too. Yesterday, I pulled out the sage plants that had withered. I've also realized that I absolutely must pay more attention to the lavender. I know that lavender thrives in Provence where the summers can be really hot, but this dainty French import has been threatening to expire from too much California sun. It seems to be calling out for extra hydration. Perhaps it wants an Evian.
Mostly, this gardening experiment has been proceeding through trial and error, but there's room for optimism. If the past weekend was any indication, home-grown produce will continue to make its way to my table. Now my question is whether raising backyard edibles somehow negates the environmental costs of the three Australian oranges presently cooling their skins in my refrigerator. I suppose I should abstain from the distantly grown, but we all have our indulgences, n'est pas?
August 31, 2008
What About Me?
Dear Senator McCain,
I should be in my garden right now hunting for grasshoppers. They must consider eggplant leaves to be a delicacy, because they devour them and ignore the parsley and peppers, but that's neither here nor there. I've postponed the locust hunt for a moment, because I have something important to tell you. Should Mrs. Palin reconsider and announce that she no longer wants to be your running mate, I'm available as her replacement.
After reading this letter, you won't believe your good fortune, especially since I'm presently unemployed, which means I could dive right into the task at hand. It's true that we've never met, but I could fly to Arizona for a coffee or something. Anyway, after you look at my qualifications, you'll see that I have a compelling story that your team could really sell to the American people.
First, I grew up in a little house in Los Angeles, and, like Sarah Palin, I have solid blue-collar roots. Neither of my parents went to college. My mother worked in a bank, and my father was a warehouseman for the city's water and power department. I was a cute kid, and I earned good grades, so we won't have to worry if anyone leaks my childhood photos or report cards to the media.
Like Mrs. Palin, I also have a journalism degree. I don't know what she did with her J-school credentials, but I used mine to help support big oil. It's true. In the early 1980s, I worked as a public relations writer for a big oil company. My job experience here will go along way with your constituents, don't you think?
Continuing with the basics, I have a nice husband, whom I married in 1985 and helped put through law school. We have two sons, and I was president of their pre-school. This was a rough job that required lots of management expertise and a deft hand with people, but I excelled at it. Ask anyone.
I know I'm looking good so far, but it only gets better. While Mrs. Palin was running for city council in an Alaska suburb and, later, the governorship of that sparsely populated state, I was working as an investigator. I've ferreted out fraudulent invoicing by city contractors, and found compelling evidence of sexual harassment and discrimination against women. I've also shot down a number of bogus sexual harassment claims, too, so no one has to worry that I'm some bleeding heart investigator, who can't find her way to the truth.
On a personal note, like you, I've battled cancer. Really. I think the American people would like this fact because it shows adversity. I also know a thing or two about health care in this country. Maybe this could be my issue, unless Cindy wants to take it on. Maybe Cindy and I could flip a coin for it. But we can talk about that later.
Senator McCain, I've saved the best for last. While Mrs. Palin was cutting her teeth as a hockey mom, I was an actual Soccer Mom. You know the political power and cachet of the Soccer Mother. Only a relative few kids play hockey in this country, but every kid plays soccer, even where it's cold, even in Alaska. I know this because I'm friendly with some soccer-playing kids in Alaska, and I think their parents might campaign for me if I were on the ticket.
It's not all rosy, as I do have a few tiny negatives. I have to confess that I've never fired a gun of any kind, and I've never entered a beauty pageant. Mrs. Palin wins on those points. But I thought we could counter my weaknesses here with the fact that I volunteered as a junior life guard. The life guard thing has both a public safety aspect and a bathing suit component. Pretty good stuff, no?
Oh, and as long as we're weighing the negatives, I'm a life-long Democrat. Oh, and I have no foreign policy experience. I get confused about how the Asian countries are aligned. Where exactly is Singapore in relation to the Philippines? Oh, and my eyes glaze over when the pundits go into any depth about tax policy. (You'd have to nudge me if this happened.) Oh, and I have some pretty strong opinions about the war in Iraq, but then so do you. You and I would need to have a word or two about that little conflict, but I'm sure we could arrive at an understanding. Anyway, should Mrs. Palin drop out, Senator, I'm your fall-back female. We would be a veritable dream ticket, you and me. Just let me know when you're free, and I'll pop over to Arizona for a nice chat. Do you think your mom could join us? She's a person I'd like to meet. Right now, I have to get outside and see who's been eating my garden. Is hunting for grasshoppers in Glendale equivalent to hunting for caribou in Anchorage? Probably not, but no worries. It's all in the spin.
I should be in my garden right now hunting for grasshoppers. They must consider eggplant leaves to be a delicacy, because they devour them and ignore the parsley and peppers, but that's neither here nor there. I've postponed the locust hunt for a moment, because I have something important to tell you. Should Mrs. Palin reconsider and announce that she no longer wants to be your running mate, I'm available as her replacement.
After reading this letter, you won't believe your good fortune, especially since I'm presently unemployed, which means I could dive right into the task at hand. It's true that we've never met, but I could fly to Arizona for a coffee or something. Anyway, after you look at my qualifications, you'll see that I have a compelling story that your team could really sell to the American people.
First, I grew up in a little house in Los Angeles, and, like Sarah Palin, I have solid blue-collar roots. Neither of my parents went to college. My mother worked in a bank, and my father was a warehouseman for the city's water and power department. I was a cute kid, and I earned good grades, so we won't have to worry if anyone leaks my childhood photos or report cards to the media.
Like Mrs. Palin, I also have a journalism degree. I don't know what she did with her J-school credentials, but I used mine to help support big oil. It's true. In the early 1980s, I worked as a public relations writer for a big oil company. My job experience here will go along way with your constituents, don't you think?
Continuing with the basics, I have a nice husband, whom I married in 1985 and helped put through law school. We have two sons, and I was president of their pre-school. This was a rough job that required lots of management expertise and a deft hand with people, but I excelled at it. Ask anyone.
I know I'm looking good so far, but it only gets better. While Mrs. Palin was running for city council in an Alaska suburb and, later, the governorship of that sparsely populated state, I was working as an investigator. I've ferreted out fraudulent invoicing by city contractors, and found compelling evidence of sexual harassment and discrimination against women. I've also shot down a number of bogus sexual harassment claims, too, so no one has to worry that I'm some bleeding heart investigator, who can't find her way to the truth.
On a personal note, like you, I've battled cancer. Really. I think the American people would like this fact because it shows adversity. I also know a thing or two about health care in this country. Maybe this could be my issue, unless Cindy wants to take it on. Maybe Cindy and I could flip a coin for it. But we can talk about that later.
Senator McCain, I've saved the best for last. While Mrs. Palin was cutting her teeth as a hockey mom, I was an actual Soccer Mom. You know the political power and cachet of the Soccer Mother. Only a relative few kids play hockey in this country, but every kid plays soccer, even where it's cold, even in Alaska. I know this because I'm friendly with some soccer-playing kids in Alaska, and I think their parents might campaign for me if I were on the ticket.
It's not all rosy, as I do have a few tiny negatives. I have to confess that I've never fired a gun of any kind, and I've never entered a beauty pageant. Mrs. Palin wins on those points. But I thought we could counter my weaknesses here with the fact that I volunteered as a junior life guard. The life guard thing has both a public safety aspect and a bathing suit component. Pretty good stuff, no?
Oh, and as long as we're weighing the negatives, I'm a life-long Democrat. Oh, and I have no foreign policy experience. I get confused about how the Asian countries are aligned. Where exactly is Singapore in relation to the Philippines? Oh, and my eyes glaze over when the pundits go into any depth about tax policy. (You'd have to nudge me if this happened.) Oh, and I have some pretty strong opinions about the war in Iraq, but then so do you. You and I would need to have a word or two about that little conflict, but I'm sure we could arrive at an understanding. Anyway, should Mrs. Palin drop out, Senator, I'm your fall-back female. We would be a veritable dream ticket, you and me. Just let me know when you're free, and I'll pop over to Arizona for a nice chat. Do you think your mom could join us? She's a person I'd like to meet. Right now, I have to get outside and see who's been eating my garden. Is hunting for grasshoppers in Glendale equivalent to hunting for caribou in Anchorage? Probably not, but no worries. It's all in the spin.
August 25, 2008
Staying On Karma's Good Side
A farmer's life must be a dramatic one. Although they are portrayed as calm and jovial in storybooks, except for Mr. MacGreggor who found Peter Rabbit so vexing, farmers must be a very stressed out bunch given all the variables poised to undermine the crops. Every waking hour the farmer must have at least of modicum of worry over pestilence, bad weather, and falling market prices. And should good conditions prevail, and the farmer reap a bountiful harvest, with that blessing comes hours of work to bring the crop in and process it in some way.
This summer, we co-existed with a mouse or two, but we otherwise experienced a convergence of good conditions, because we're still hauling in weekly mounds of tomatoes from Dennis's back yard crop. Naturally, I should be grateful for the endless bounty, and I am, of course. But my thankful spirit doesn't really assuage the demands of processing all those red-fleshed spheres. And unlike other chores, which one can procrastinate about forever (like cleaning the closet), tomatoes do not have an infinite shelf life. You have to act, or they will eventually turn to tomato mush. Consider this: If I allow produce grown on my own little patch of dirt to turn into tomato rot, then what have I reaped. Inaction here must be a karma train wreck, given all the starving children in the world who have neither California sunshine nor a little plot of land to tend. But still, I don't recall signing on to be a farmer's wife. Where was that clause in the marriage contract?
Anyway, for the past few days, I've been processing this year's tomato production, and I am more than ready to move on to another crop. When cooking fresh tomatoes, it's all about skins and seeds. Skin them? Seed them? Skin them, but leave the seeds? Vice versa? Or don't worry about any of it. Thanks to Cuisinart, you can go a long way toward knocking down the skin-seed dilemma without too much trouble. If you find yourself with an overabundance of tomatoes, here are a couple of ways to go: One is a lovely tomato soup, which is actually bruschetta in a pot. The other direction is to make a tomato puree, which will keep in the freezer and serve as a base for any number of pasta sauces in the months ahead.
Tomato-Bread Soup
This soup is the end result of a moment earlier in the summer when Dennis chopped up a massive bowl of tomatoes and I added some olive oil, balsamic vinegar, garlic and basil to serve on some slices of good bread. A few days later, we still had some tomato mixture and some hard bread, so in trying not to be wasteful, this soup emerged.
2-3 tbsp olive oil
1 lg clove garlic, crushed
about 2 dozen medium-sized tomatoes, quartered with seeds removed (but don't worry if some seeds slip by you)
12 basil leaves
4-5 stems of Italian parsley
3 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1/2 baguette or several slices of good-quality bread, crusts removed and torn into large chunks
1/2 tsp sugar
1 tbsp balsamic or sherry vinegar (optional)
cracked pepper
Heat olive oil and garlic in a large, heavy bottom soup pot with lid. When garlic is lightly browned, add tomatoes. Heat tomatoes until they are bubbling lightly, then cover partially with lid askew, and cook for about 1 hour over a low flame. Check periodically to stir and make sure tomatoes are not boiling. (In my book, letting tomatoes bubble rapidly is generally a bad idea, so do this at your own peril.) If left to cook at a leisurely pace, the tomatoes will eventually break down and the skins will start to separate. When you get to this point, let the mixture cool a bit and then pour it into a blender or food processor, along with the basil and parsley. Puree until tomato chunks disappear and you don't see any tomato skins floating about. Return puree to the pan, add the chicken stock and the bread. Simmer on low for about 20 minutes, then taste. If the soup has too much of an acid flavor, add some sugar to mellow it out. Or if you want the soup to have more zip, add the vinegar. Makes about 6 cups.
Tomato Puree
Follow the recipe above until the puree step. You can puree the cooked tomatoes without adding the fresh herbs, pour the mixture into containers, and freeze for a rainy day. I can foresee pasta sauces with porcini mushrooms, or little shrimps, or ground beef or whatever you like.
Buon Appetito. Oh, and feel free to stop by any time and take some tomatoes off my hands. I'd just like them to go to a good home, where they'll be appreciated and respected, and dealt with before they become a biology experiment. After all, I have my karma to consider.
This summer, we co-existed with a mouse or two, but we otherwise experienced a convergence of good conditions, because we're still hauling in weekly mounds of tomatoes from Dennis's back yard crop. Naturally, I should be grateful for the endless bounty, and I am, of course. But my thankful spirit doesn't really assuage the demands of processing all those red-fleshed spheres. And unlike other chores, which one can procrastinate about forever (like cleaning the closet), tomatoes do not have an infinite shelf life. You have to act, or they will eventually turn to tomato mush. Consider this: If I allow produce grown on my own little patch of dirt to turn into tomato rot, then what have I reaped. Inaction here must be a karma train wreck, given all the starving children in the world who have neither California sunshine nor a little plot of land to tend. But still, I don't recall signing on to be a farmer's wife. Where was that clause in the marriage contract?
Anyway, for the past few days, I've been processing this year's tomato production, and I am more than ready to move on to another crop. When cooking fresh tomatoes, it's all about skins and seeds. Skin them? Seed them? Skin them, but leave the seeds? Vice versa? Or don't worry about any of it. Thanks to Cuisinart, you can go a long way toward knocking down the skin-seed dilemma without too much trouble. If you find yourself with an overabundance of tomatoes, here are a couple of ways to go: One is a lovely tomato soup, which is actually bruschetta in a pot. The other direction is to make a tomato puree, which will keep in the freezer and serve as a base for any number of pasta sauces in the months ahead.
Tomato-Bread Soup
This soup is the end result of a moment earlier in the summer when Dennis chopped up a massive bowl of tomatoes and I added some olive oil, balsamic vinegar, garlic and basil to serve on some slices of good bread. A few days later, we still had some tomato mixture and some hard bread, so in trying not to be wasteful, this soup emerged.
2-3 tbsp olive oil
1 lg clove garlic, crushed
about 2 dozen medium-sized tomatoes, quartered with seeds removed (but don't worry if some seeds slip by you)
12 basil leaves
4-5 stems of Italian parsley
3 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1/2 baguette or several slices of good-quality bread, crusts removed and torn into large chunks
1/2 tsp sugar
1 tbsp balsamic or sherry vinegar (optional)
cracked pepper
Heat olive oil and garlic in a large, heavy bottom soup pot with lid. When garlic is lightly browned, add tomatoes. Heat tomatoes until they are bubbling lightly, then cover partially with lid askew, and cook for about 1 hour over a low flame. Check periodically to stir and make sure tomatoes are not boiling. (In my book, letting tomatoes bubble rapidly is generally a bad idea, so do this at your own peril.) If left to cook at a leisurely pace, the tomatoes will eventually break down and the skins will start to separate. When you get to this point, let the mixture cool a bit and then pour it into a blender or food processor, along with the basil and parsley. Puree until tomato chunks disappear and you don't see any tomato skins floating about. Return puree to the pan, add the chicken stock and the bread. Simmer on low for about 20 minutes, then taste. If the soup has too much of an acid flavor, add some sugar to mellow it out. Or if you want the soup to have more zip, add the vinegar. Makes about 6 cups.
Tomato Puree
Follow the recipe above until the puree step. You can puree the cooked tomatoes without adding the fresh herbs, pour the mixture into containers, and freeze for a rainy day. I can foresee pasta sauces with porcini mushrooms, or little shrimps, or ground beef or whatever you like.
Buon Appetito. Oh, and feel free to stop by any time and take some tomatoes off my hands. I'd just like them to go to a good home, where they'll be appreciated and respected, and dealt with before they become a biology experiment. After all, I have my karma to consider.
August 15, 2008
Mad for Tomatoes
My husband is a tomato zealot. Each spring, Dennis visits a high-quality nursery and returns with a carload of tomato plants, which he lovingly and organically coaxes into bearing fruit. This year was no different. Despite our on-going discussions with a landscaper about upgrading our dilapidated yard, 28 plants went into the ground last May. I'm not exaggerating here.
He planted yellow cherries, tiny grape tomatoes, romas, zebras, some big beefy varieties, a few heirlooms, and some delicate orange-fleshed orbs. The young plants were given a patch of earth that bakes under the full Southern California sun. Dennis amended the soil, caged the plants, watered them regularly, and prayed to the tomato god for a good harvest.
To protect his investment from human destroyers, he included a clause in the landscaper's contract stating that his workers were to take "reasonable care" not to harm the tomatoes during the six weeks of patio and fence construction. Zealot, right? Can you foresee the litigation? Property owner sues for breach of contract and intentional infliction of emotional distress caused by workers' willful disregard of cherry tomato vine.
Anyway, we got through the yard project with the tomato plants mostly intact. Instead, the assault on the harvest came from a different front, the furry, four-legged rodent variety. Although we usually have an outdoor cat around, this summer, we were sans kitty, which created an opportunity for the neighboring mice to move freely about the yard. They targeted the very large, low-lying fruit. Given that they've kept coming back for more, the mice seem to be as focused on eating my garden as I've been. Dennis has been setting traps and trying to lure them to their deaths with cheese. No luck. The mice just take the provolone, grab a bite of tomato, and snatch a basil leaf from a pot nearby. Appetizers, anyone?
Despite the rodents, we've still reaped more tomatoes this year than we could possibly use. The neighbors have been finding little gift baskets on their doorsteps, and I'm considering cajoling my sons into setting up a roadside tomato stand. They just need the oversized straw hats and some clever signage. Of course, my kids would never agree to this, which is a real shortcoming. Suburban kids are so lacking in solid 4-H credentials.
As I said, the yard project is completed for now, but given the tomato situation, we left a swath of ground untouched. Landscaper Tom has promised to return in September to finish the last quadrant by installing raised beds, a little lawn, and a meyer lemon to go with the existing Mexican lime and tangerine trees.
I know that some of you have tomato envy, but admittedly, I'm very close to my tomato limit. This year's bounty has been too much of a good thing, but I can't in good conscience wash my hands just yet. I have a few gallons of pasta sauce and tomato soup to whip up and freeze for October. By then, my tomato intake levels will have adjusted, and I'll be craving a big dish of penne bolognese.
Recipes coming soon.
He planted yellow cherries, tiny grape tomatoes, romas, zebras, some big beefy varieties, a few heirlooms, and some delicate orange-fleshed orbs. The young plants were given a patch of earth that bakes under the full Southern California sun. Dennis amended the soil, caged the plants, watered them regularly, and prayed to the tomato god for a good harvest.
To protect his investment from human destroyers, he included a clause in the landscaper's contract stating that his workers were to take "reasonable care" not to harm the tomatoes during the six weeks of patio and fence construction. Zealot, right? Can you foresee the litigation? Property owner sues for breach of contract and intentional infliction of emotional distress caused by workers' willful disregard of cherry tomato vine.
Anyway, we got through the yard project with the tomato plants mostly intact. Instead, the assault on the harvest came from a different front, the furry, four-legged rodent variety. Although we usually have an outdoor cat around, this summer, we were sans kitty, which created an opportunity for the neighboring mice to move freely about the yard. They targeted the very large, low-lying fruit. Given that they've kept coming back for more, the mice seem to be as focused on eating my garden as I've been. Dennis has been setting traps and trying to lure them to their deaths with cheese. No luck. The mice just take the provolone, grab a bite of tomato, and snatch a basil leaf from a pot nearby. Appetizers, anyone?
Despite the rodents, we've still reaped more tomatoes this year than we could possibly use. The neighbors have been finding little gift baskets on their doorsteps, and I'm considering cajoling my sons into setting up a roadside tomato stand. They just need the oversized straw hats and some clever signage. Of course, my kids would never agree to this, which is a real shortcoming. Suburban kids are so lacking in solid 4-H credentials.
As I said, the yard project is completed for now, but given the tomato situation, we left a swath of ground untouched. Landscaper Tom has promised to return in September to finish the last quadrant by installing raised beds, a little lawn, and a meyer lemon to go with the existing Mexican lime and tangerine trees.
I know that some of you have tomato envy, but admittedly, I'm very close to my tomato limit. This year's bounty has been too much of a good thing, but I can't in good conscience wash my hands just yet. I have a few gallons of pasta sauce and tomato soup to whip up and freeze for October. By then, my tomato intake levels will have adjusted, and I'll be craving a big dish of penne bolognese.
Recipes coming soon.
August 7, 2008
Bringing Down The Fence
Before the escrow papers were signed on our current house, my husband Dennis and I agreed on the following: The old fence had to go. Top of the list. A Sears product from the 1950s, the chain link barrier between us and our neighbors stood about 4 feet high. Over time, vines had wound their way around the metal openings, softening its appearance, yet it was still too short to provide any real privacy.
But as every property owner knows, initial home improvement dreams have a tendency to slip away. Almost from the first moment we moved into the house, our son, Joe, who was then a five-year old, befriended Dusty, the boy living on the other side of the fence. Joe and Dusty began to carry on lengthy and important discussions through holes in the chain link. Having just arrived in the neighborhood, Dennis and I sensed that immediately erecting a taller, more private barrier between us and Dusty's family might seem a tad rude, especially since Joe was marching forth with such neighborly goodwill. We turned our attention to other projects, and the fence continued to stand tall --just not tall enough.
Eventually Dusty moved away, and our dreams of replacing the chain link resurfaced. But inertia, an amazingly powerful force, had taken root, impinging on our ability to act the moment the new neighbors arrived. As luck would have it, rather than playmates, they brought a dog named Kilo, a huge fluffy Samoyed. Kilo took up residence in the very spot that Dusty had vacated, and my two boys grew fond of her. Soon we acquired our own dog, and Kilo, a good-natured canine, befriended our new puppy, Zephyr. They nuzzled noses through the chain link and greeted each other every morning.
Over time, I came to understand that the dilapidated, low-slung fence was not really a four-foot eyesore, but a means of facilitating communication -- between kids, between dogs, between kids and dogs, and sometimes between the overworked adults. My grandparents' yard had featured a very similar Sears-brand fence. As a young child, I spent countless hours with my grandmother. I can still see myself handing wooden clothespins up to her while she hung her clothes to dry and chatted over the fence with the neighbor, Mrs. Worley, who was simultaneously hanging her own laundry. Dennis and I eventually forgot about the replacing the fence, and the years passed. Who cares if I had a very good view into my neighbors' bathroom window while standing at my kitchen sink. I just needed to do the neighborly thing and avert my eyes.
But at long last, there is a time to every purpose, and more than a decade later, the time for our new fence was nigh. Kilo had died some years earlier, and her owners, who had enlarged their family by two new babies while living next door to us, eventually sold the property. We had new neighbors for the third time. They brought a little girl, but no dog, which meant no new friend for Zephyr. Since Zephyr was the only one among us who would have still benefited from a fence buddy, I started thinking one more time of tearing down the chain link.
Dennis and I began to plan. But what should our new fence look like? What material was best? How tall should it be? Almost immediately, we realized that if we replaced the fence, the rest of our neglected yard would look even worse by comparison. Our problem was much bigger than just a stretch of chain link. The brick patio was shabby, the grass was weedy and brown, and we had no real place for ping-pong. Aside from Dennis's annual tomato crop, our yard was not a space we used. We didn't gathered there, entertain there, or relax there, presumably because the yard needed a serious face lift. Without question, we needed professional landscaping help, which resulted in another year or two of floundering as we adjusted to the idea of the staggering cost and scale of such an undertaking. Then I got breast cancer, which actually pushed us into action. If not now, when? So, after some more searching for a contractor, we hired Tom, a landscaper who agreed to build a new fence, give us a new patio with room for ping-pong, and help us with some planting.
After 15 years in our house, the summer of '08 became the summer of the yard project. The chain link was demolished and hauled out in July, and a new wooden fence was erected in its place. Standing 6 feet tall, this fence is beautifully designed and stained a rich chocolate brown. (Our current neighbors are benefiting, too, since I no longer have a clear view of their bathroom window.) Our shabby brick patio was carefully deconstructed, and the bricks were reused to form a ribbon around a new expanse of bluestone. Rather than being in full sun, the patio was reconfigured to take advantage of the yard's natural areas of shade. We also added a little river rock sitting wall under the trees. Finally, in a wild moment of inexplicable enthusiasm, I let Tom talk me into installing an edible garden around the patio's edges. While Dennis is an avid tomato gardener, I tend to let the upkeep of green things slip. I'm good at the mom thing, and I can definitely cook, but I've historically gotten a little bored with the botany. Plant life has been known to wither under my watch.
But not this time! This time I'm fully committed to tending to the herbs, peppers, grape vines, and lettuces that Tom has brought over. I plan to cook and eat my way through all of it. Stop laughing! I can do this. I'm on a quest for my inner gardener. Besides, we live on a feverish planet, and we can all do more to cool it down, even if we have to step outside to do it.
Finally, I think that growing things that I will later devour is symbolic for me in all of those cyclical rebirth and renewal kind of ways. This garden is a post-cancer, stop-and-smell-the-compost, one-more-year-until-I-have-an empty-nest, midlife undertaking. So come along and let's see if I can pull this off. If you promise to keep reading, I promise to post recipes. Are you with me?
But as every property owner knows, initial home improvement dreams have a tendency to slip away. Almost from the first moment we moved into the house, our son, Joe, who was then a five-year old, befriended Dusty, the boy living on the other side of the fence. Joe and Dusty began to carry on lengthy and important discussions through holes in the chain link. Having just arrived in the neighborhood, Dennis and I sensed that immediately erecting a taller, more private barrier between us and Dusty's family might seem a tad rude, especially since Joe was marching forth with such neighborly goodwill. We turned our attention to other projects, and the fence continued to stand tall --just not tall enough.
Eventually Dusty moved away, and our dreams of replacing the chain link resurfaced. But inertia, an amazingly powerful force, had taken root, impinging on our ability to act the moment the new neighbors arrived. As luck would have it, rather than playmates, they brought a dog named Kilo, a huge fluffy Samoyed. Kilo took up residence in the very spot that Dusty had vacated, and my two boys grew fond of her. Soon we acquired our own dog, and Kilo, a good-natured canine, befriended our new puppy, Zephyr. They nuzzled noses through the chain link and greeted each other every morning.
Over time, I came to understand that the dilapidated, low-slung fence was not really a four-foot eyesore, but a means of facilitating communication -- between kids, between dogs, between kids and dogs, and sometimes between the overworked adults. My grandparents' yard had featured a very similar Sears-brand fence. As a young child, I spent countless hours with my grandmother. I can still see myself handing wooden clothespins up to her while she hung her clothes to dry and chatted over the fence with the neighbor, Mrs. Worley, who was simultaneously hanging her own laundry. Dennis and I eventually forgot about the replacing the fence, and the years passed. Who cares if I had a very good view into my neighbors' bathroom window while standing at my kitchen sink. I just needed to do the neighborly thing and avert my eyes.
But at long last, there is a time to every purpose, and more than a decade later, the time for our new fence was nigh. Kilo had died some years earlier, and her owners, who had enlarged their family by two new babies while living next door to us, eventually sold the property. We had new neighbors for the third time. They brought a little girl, but no dog, which meant no new friend for Zephyr. Since Zephyr was the only one among us who would have still benefited from a fence buddy, I started thinking one more time of tearing down the chain link.
Dennis and I began to plan. But what should our new fence look like? What material was best? How tall should it be? Almost immediately, we realized that if we replaced the fence, the rest of our neglected yard would look even worse by comparison. Our problem was much bigger than just a stretch of chain link. The brick patio was shabby, the grass was weedy and brown, and we had no real place for ping-pong. Aside from Dennis's annual tomato crop, our yard was not a space we used. We didn't gathered there, entertain there, or relax there, presumably because the yard needed a serious face lift. Without question, we needed professional landscaping help, which resulted in another year or two of floundering as we adjusted to the idea of the staggering cost and scale of such an undertaking. Then I got breast cancer, which actually pushed us into action. If not now, when? So, after some more searching for a contractor, we hired Tom, a landscaper who agreed to build a new fence, give us a new patio with room for ping-pong, and help us with some planting.
After 15 years in our house, the summer of '08 became the summer of the yard project. The chain link was demolished and hauled out in July, and a new wooden fence was erected in its place. Standing 6 feet tall, this fence is beautifully designed and stained a rich chocolate brown. (Our current neighbors are benefiting, too, since I no longer have a clear view of their bathroom window.) Our shabby brick patio was carefully deconstructed, and the bricks were reused to form a ribbon around a new expanse of bluestone. Rather than being in full sun, the patio was reconfigured to take advantage of the yard's natural areas of shade. We also added a little river rock sitting wall under the trees. Finally, in a wild moment of inexplicable enthusiasm, I let Tom talk me into installing an edible garden around the patio's edges. While Dennis is an avid tomato gardener, I tend to let the upkeep of green things slip. I'm good at the mom thing, and I can definitely cook, but I've historically gotten a little bored with the botany. Plant life has been known to wither under my watch.
But not this time! This time I'm fully committed to tending to the herbs, peppers, grape vines, and lettuces that Tom has brought over. I plan to cook and eat my way through all of it. Stop laughing! I can do this. I'm on a quest for my inner gardener. Besides, we live on a feverish planet, and we can all do more to cool it down, even if we have to step outside to do it.
Finally, I think that growing things that I will later devour is symbolic for me in all of those cyclical rebirth and renewal kind of ways. This garden is a post-cancer, stop-and-smell-the-compost, one-more-year-until-I-have-an empty-nest, midlife undertaking. So come along and let's see if I can pull this off. If you promise to keep reading, I promise to post recipes. Are you with me?
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