Reconnecting

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.

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.