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.
August 31, 2008
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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