Dear Citizens of Alaska,
It's all sunshine down here in the great State of California, and I really should be outside harvesting backyard tomatoes right now. Instead, I find myself again drawn to the circus that surrounds your governor, Sarah Palin. It's like rubber-necking at a car accident. You don't really want to look, but it's hard to avert your eyes.
Exactly how do you respond when your governor, a person who acted as if she really wanted the job, ups and quits on you? If she had a really good reason -- like a cancer diagnosis, for example -- you'd undoubtedly wish her the best and turn to someone else for state leadership. But how do you cope when your top state official delivers a rambling exit speech that falls short of any credible explanation and relies on both a dead fish metaphor and a "pass the ball" analogy.
Appearing to sense that these images, compelling as they were, might not be enough to sell you on her premature departure, she closed the speech by playing the mommy card. Mrs. Palin, citing her children's wishes that she spend time in their house instead of the statehouse, even quoted one of her offspring as offering a resounding, "Hell, yeah!" to the idea that Mom throw in the governor's towel. It's unclear if the hell-referencer was Bristol, Willow, Piper, soldier Track, or baby Trig. We'll find out eventually, though, as Mrs. Palin has promised to elaborate later on her family's team meeting, presumably because she thinks we actually care about this stuff.
And maybe we do. Self-absorbed governors give us headlines, water-cooler gossip, and potential jokes for many late-night talk show hosts. They help us to forget the dreadful economy, the over-heated planet, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Citizens of Alaska, I'm writing to you today because we, in California, feel your pain. We, too, have a wacky governor with an outsized ego. And, yes, we only have ourselves to blame. We duly elected him. In fact, we wanted him so badly that we recalled his predecessor, Gray Davis, who was a hard-working bureaucrat, because, as his name foretold, he was guilty of being a shade too gray for our vibrant state. Now the dysfunctional California government is sputtering along on IOUs. But at least our Arnold has stayed on the job and not flaked out on us, as your Sarah has done.
Maybe the task of governing one of these United States is just not that much fun, which seems to be Mrs. Palin's primary talking point. As best as one can tell from her speech, she appears to be quiting because the ethics complaints, the jibes at her family, and the other minutiae are making it too hot in the statehouse kitchen, so to speak. She's not the only governor to flame out, of course. Think Eliot Spitzer, Jim McGreevey, and now Mark Sanford. These fellows all had libido issues to contend with, but a resignation is still a resignation, extra-marital affair or not.
The long-term problem for Mrs. Palin is that nobody likes a quitter, which is precisely what she is. How her recent actions will play in Peoria remains to be seen. At the moment, while her national political future hangs in the balance, Sarah Barracuda, the Wasilla basketball star, has gone home to write her memoir.
Tell me, Alaskans, do you think this book will sell in your state, or are you just too mad at her? Personally, I'll wait for the paperback edition, or maybe the library copy -- if any neighborhood libraries are still operating by the time the Palin memoir is released. It's unlikely that California's local enonomies will function for very long on state-issued IOUs. Upon reflection, perhaps you Alaskans aren't in such bad shape afterall. Our state, too, might be better off if the Govinator termed out a little prematurely.
Mr. Schwarzenegger, isn't that your agent calling? Truth is, given your box-office appeal, you might just boost the state's economy more by taking on a leading role in a new Terminator flic (people love those) than by continuing your leading role in the state capitol. Just an idea.
July 9, 2009
June 19, 2009
Summertime Lime
We've waited years to grow a Mexican lime. Smaller than the Persian lime, the Mexican lime (aka "key lime") is used in margaritas, in a number of Mexican and Thai dishes, and in Key Lime Pie. Many seasons ago, we planted such a tree on our property. I don't remember what exactly led us to this flight of fancy. Perhaps others in the neighborhood had lime trees, and we wanted one, too. But keeping up with the neighbors can sometimes be easier than it looks.
In our impulsive quest for limes, mistakes were most definitely made. Our first misstep was in placement. We not only planted our lime tree on the North side of our pro
perty, we placed it within the shadow of the house. I can only think that we were young and foolhardy at the time to do such a thing. Quite healthy on arrival, the tree gradually turned pale and sickly from too much shade. Trying to correct our location mistake, we dug up the ailing citrus, transplanted it in a warmer, more westerly location, and crossed our fingers.
We watched and waited -- years, in fact -- to see if our transplant took. The tree didn't seem to notice that it had been relocated. It stood much the same, neither improving nor getting worse, simply in a state of equipoise. One day Dennis reached his limit. He wrapped his fingers around the thin trunk and gave an upward yank. The lime tree easily uprooted. Clearly, we had waited too long for this damaged tree to recuperate. It was beyond done.
Undeterred, a few months later, we purchased a second Mexican Lime tree. This time we placed it where it would get plenty of sun. While it flowered, and formed tiny limes, they simply dropped to ground before maturing. But this tree looked healthy and was growing taller, so we waited some more. Meanwhile, several neighbors in the immediate vicinity reported good success with their Mexican limes -- even neighbors transplanted from the Midwest, who weren't exactly sure what a Mexican lime even was. Hmmm.
But, as the proverb says, good things come to those who wait. Finally, last winter, our tree produced actual limes, little dark green orbs loaded with powerful juice. Best of all, our tree is still giving us limes six months later. We've been adding slices of lime to our water, squeezing drops of lime on our tacos, and making the occasional quart of limeade. Now that summer is here, it may be time for a pitcher of margaritas and a few friends to partake.
Of course, if we do that, another proverb may be more apt: What soberness conceals, drunkenness reveals. Okay, so we'll go easy on the tequila.... Cheers!
In our impulsive quest for limes, mistakes were most definitely made. Our first misstep was in placement. We not only planted our lime tree on the North side of our pro
perty, we placed it within the shadow of the house. I can only think that we were young and foolhardy at the time to do such a thing. Quite healthy on arrival, the tree gradually turned pale and sickly from too much shade. Trying to correct our location mistake, we dug up the ailing citrus, transplanted it in a warmer, more westerly location, and crossed our fingers.We watched and waited -- years, in fact -- to see if our transplant took. The tree didn't seem to notice that it had been relocated. It stood much the same, neither improving nor getting worse, simply in a state of equipoise. One day Dennis reached his limit. He wrapped his fingers around the thin trunk and gave an upward yank. The lime tree easily uprooted. Clearly, we had waited too long for this damaged tree to recuperate. It was beyond done.
Undeterred, a few months later, we purchased a second Mexican Lime tree. This time we placed it where it would get plenty of sun. While it flowered, and formed tiny limes, they simply dropped to ground before maturing. But this tree looked healthy and was growing taller, so we waited some more. Meanwhile, several neighbors in the immediate vicinity reported good success with their Mexican limes -- even neighbors transplanted from the Midwest, who weren't exactly sure what a Mexican lime even was. Hmmm.
But, as the proverb says, good things come to those who wait. Finally, last winter, our tree produced actual limes, little dark green orbs loaded with powerful juice. Best of all, our tree is still giving us limes six months later. We've been adding slices of lime to our water, squeezing drops of lime on our tacos, and making the occasional quart of limeade. Now that summer is here, it may be time for a pitcher of margaritas and a few friends to partake.
Of course, if we do that, another proverb may be more apt: What soberness conceals, drunkenness reveals. Okay, so we'll go easy on the tequila.... Cheers!
LIMEADE
8 tablespoons sugar
4 cups water
6 tablespoons fresh-squeezed lime juice
Make a syrup by combining the water and sugar in a saucepan. Boil for about a minute and then let cool. Poor the syrup into a pitcher and stir in the lime juice. Serve with ice and mint leaves. Makes one quart.
June 5, 2009
Slug Fest
As you may have expected from the previews, our tomatoes are standing tall. More than 5 ft. tall, actually. One of the red cherry varieties has already produced a tomato or two for tasting, and if the early returns are any indication of the crop to follow, we're in for a very good season.
But the basil plants are a problem, and I can't have a massive crop of tomatoes without a massive crop of basil to accompany it. That's akin to salsa without any jalapeno or sushi without any wasabi. Basil adds the accent. The difficulty lies in the fact that the humans at my house are not the only ones who enjoy a nice bite of basil leaf. My plants are so popular with the insect crowd, their leaves are being shredded before they can get properly established.
I was complaining to my neighbor, an avid gardener, about this conundrum, when she oft-handedly mentioned the beer trick. I'd heard of this remedy before but always discounted it as an old farmer's tale, a sort of urban gardener's myth not to be believed. The idea is to put saucers of beer around the plants at dusk in the hope that, on the way to dinner, the pests will slip into the pub for a quick beer bath and thus, succumb to a maltly demise, well before they can belly up to the day's main course. This approach just sounded so fanciful, it was hard to take seriously, a notion conceived by a gardening Andy Capp.
But these were desperate times. June was upon me, the tomatoes were ripening fast, and my basil was nowhere near ready. So I went to the market and purchased a six-pack of inexpensive beer. Last night, before the sun finally set, I strategically placed a couple of saucers of the amber fluid around the basil plants, and hoped for the best.
This morning, like any eager trapper, I went out before 7 a.m. to check the results. Dead body count: Nine slugs afloat in the two little pools of beer I had set out. This plan was a smashing success. I had achieved slugs corpses without any need for me to do the actual killing. Tonight, I plan to repeat the process. Perhaps some slug cousins will come looking for their missing relations, or maybe they'll just be hankering for a dinner of basil salad. And like the nine souls who predeceased them, let's hope these slugs also get waylaid by the allure of a before-dinner drink.
But the basil plants are a problem, and I can't have a massive crop of tomatoes without a massive crop of basil to accompany it. That's akin to salsa without any jalapeno or sushi without any wasabi. Basil adds the accent. The difficulty lies in the fact that the humans at my house are not the only ones who enjoy a nice bite of basil leaf. My plants are so popular with the insect crowd, their leaves are being shredded before they can get properly established.
I was complaining to my neighbor, an avid gardener, about this conundrum, when she oft-handedly mentioned the beer trick. I'd heard of this remedy before but always discounted it as an old farmer's tale, a sort of urban gardener's myth not to be believed. The idea is to put saucers of beer around the plants at dusk in the hope that, on the way to dinner, the pests will slip into the pub for a quick beer bath and thus, succumb to a maltly demise, well before they can belly up to the day's main course. This approach just sounded so fanciful, it was hard to take seriously, a notion conceived by a gardening Andy Capp.
But these were desperate times. June was upon me, the tomatoes were ripening fast, and my basil was nowhere near ready. So I went to the market and purchased a six-pack of inexpensive beer. Last night, before the sun finally set, I strategically placed a couple of saucers of the amber fluid around the basil plants, and hoped for the best.
This morning, like any eager trapper, I went out before 7 a.m. to check the results. Dead body count: Nine slugs afloat in the two little pools of beer I had set out. This plan was a smashing success. I had achieved slugs corpses without any need for me to do the actual killing. Tonight, I plan to repeat the process. Perhaps some slug cousins will come looking for their missing relations, or maybe they'll just be hankering for a dinner of basil salad. And like the nine souls who predeceased them, let's hope these slugs also get waylaid by the allure of a before-dinner drink.
May 5, 2009
Collateral Damage
This is a story of unintended consequences, the Internet, and an attempt to un-stick the very stuck. But first, did I mention the rat problem?
Sometime last October, as I was preparing for a trip to Europe, I opened our storage closet, which is really a section of partially finished basement, to haul out a piece of luggage. Quelle surprise! Rodents had set up housekeeping in one of the old suitcases. Their housing efforts were quite an achievement, given that that the storage closet is very near our bedroom and none of us -- not the dog, nor Dennis, nor I -- had detected any incursion. We never heard a squeak.
Mercifully, at the time I went looking for my suitcase, the creatures were either out for the day, or had moved on to other accommodations. After much vacuuming and disposal of old baggage, Dennis and I discussed what to do. Since we were leaving the country in a few days, we decided to wait and see if the storage closet showed any further evidence of squatters upon our return. Several weeks later, the closet was unchanged, showing no signs of rodent life. Problem solved, we hoped.
But sometime in February, Dennis, Nick, and the dog all heard scratching at different times in another part of the house, in the walls behind our laundry area. Clearly, we needed professional help. I made the call, but to get a head start on the exterminator, I set out for the hardware store for some DIY supplies. The helpful woman at our neighborhood, not-a-chain hardware sold me some rat poison and some sticky traps, which carried no risk of crushing one's fingers. I scattered the traps in the garage, and Dennis put the poison under the house where the dog couldn't get it. (Apparently, this type of rat poison is only activated when the rats have a glass of water, and lacking a water source under the house, the reasoning is that they will succumb outside and not under one's kitchen. At least, that's the theory.)
Working with Ernie, the exterminator, we plugged up all possible rodent entry points. During the next few weeks, Ernie checked the traps regularly, but we never ensnared any actual beasts, which I took as a sign that the furry folks had truly moved on. Eventually, Ernie declared us rat-free and took his monstrous traps with him. I, however, left the two glue board traps I had purchased in corners of the garage, just in case.
Meanwhile, as the rat events were unfolding, Dennis and I had both sighted a very adorable lizard, who had taken up residence in the yard. He seemed to be living under the patio table and feeding off the local insect life, which was fine with us. All was harmonious for a time, with the lizard setting up housekeeping outside and the rats blocked from further domicile inside. But the peace didn't last. Following the law of unintended consequences, the lizard ventured beyond the confines of the yard, wandered into the garage, and slithered right onto one of the sticky traps.
Neither Dennis nor I had the wherewithal to cope with a mortally stuck lizard, so for a day or two, we just averted our eyes every time we entered the garage. But eventually, I summoned up my courage, reached into the corner, and picked up the sticky trap with the intention of disposing of our reptilian friend. But then he flicked his tongue at me. Our lizard was very much alive and very much glued in his tracks.
Debating how to proceed, I consulted with Nick, who responded as all people under 30 would: He turned to the Internet and googled "un-stick rodent glue boards." Within 60 seconds, certainly no more than that, we were perusing a diatribe that highlighted the downsides of sticky traps, which mentioned, as I had already learned first-hand, that they don't really kill the prey. That job is left for you. The website also gave advice on how, should one undergo a change of heart, a mouse or rat might be released from this sticky predicament. Bingo.
So picture this, if you will: Nick and I are on our hands and knees on the garage floor. A bottle of vegetable oil and a box of q-tips are nearby. Both of us are applying oil around and, as we are able, under the lizard's belly, feet, tail, and throat, trying to counter the adhesive effects of the glue. Eventually, the oil did the trick, and we freed him. He slithered off under his own power, heading into the dark cover of the garage to recover from his ordeal.
Several days have gone by since this event, and no lizard sightings. I'm still hopeful that this glue-boarding incident, while definitely torture, did not lead to his untimely passing.
Sometime last October, as I was preparing for a trip to Europe, I opened our storage closet, which is really a section of partially finished basement, to haul out a piece of luggage. Quelle surprise! Rodents had set up housekeeping in one of the old suitcases. Their housing efforts were quite an achievement, given that that the storage closet is very near our bedroom and none of us -- not the dog, nor Dennis, nor I -- had detected any incursion. We never heard a squeak.
Mercifully, at the time I went looking for my suitcase, the creatures were either out for the day, or had moved on to other accommodations. After much vacuuming and disposal of old baggage, Dennis and I discussed what to do. Since we were leaving the country in a few days, we decided to wait and see if the storage closet showed any further evidence of squatters upon our return. Several weeks later, the closet was unchanged, showing no signs of rodent life. Problem solved, we hoped.
But sometime in February, Dennis, Nick, and the dog all heard scratching at different times in another part of the house, in the walls behind our laundry area. Clearly, we needed professional help. I made the call, but to get a head start on the exterminator, I set out for the hardware store for some DIY supplies. The helpful woman at our neighborhood, not-a-chain hardware sold me some rat poison and some sticky traps, which carried no risk of crushing one's fingers. I scattered the traps in the garage, and Dennis put the poison under the house where the dog couldn't get it. (Apparently, this type of rat poison is only activated when the rats have a glass of water, and lacking a water source under the house, the reasoning is that they will succumb outside and not under one's kitchen. At least, that's the theory.)
Working with Ernie, the exterminator, we plugged up all possible rodent entry points. During the next few weeks, Ernie checked the traps regularly, but we never ensnared any actual beasts, which I took as a sign that the furry folks had truly moved on. Eventually, Ernie declared us rat-free and took his monstrous traps with him. I, however, left the two glue board traps I had purchased in corners of the garage, just in case.
Meanwhile, as the rat events were unfolding, Dennis and I had both sighted a very adorable lizard, who had taken up residence in the yard. He seemed to be living under the patio table and feeding off the local insect life, which was fine with us. All was harmonious for a time, with the lizard setting up housekeeping outside and the rats blocked from further domicile inside. But the peace didn't last. Following the law of unintended consequences, the lizard ventured beyond the confines of the yard, wandered into the garage, and slithered right onto one of the sticky traps.
Neither Dennis nor I had the wherewithal to cope with a mortally stuck lizard, so for a day or two, we just averted our eyes every time we entered the garage. But eventually, I summoned up my courage, reached into the corner, and picked up the sticky trap with the intention of disposing of our reptilian friend. But then he flicked his tongue at me. Our lizard was very much alive and very much glued in his tracks.
Debating how to proceed, I consulted with Nick, who responded as all people under 30 would: He turned to the Internet and googled "un-stick rodent glue boards." Within 60 seconds, certainly no more than that, we were perusing a diatribe that highlighted the downsides of sticky traps, which mentioned, as I had already learned first-hand, that they don't really kill the prey. That job is left for you. The website also gave advice on how, should one undergo a change of heart, a mouse or rat might be released from this sticky predicament. Bingo.
So picture this, if you will: Nick and I are on our hands and knees on the garage floor. A bottle of vegetable oil and a box of q-tips are nearby. Both of us are applying oil around and, as we are able, under the lizard's belly, feet, tail, and throat, trying to counter the adhesive effects of the glue. Eventually, the oil did the trick, and we freed him. He slithered off under his own power, heading into the dark cover of the garage to recover from his ordeal.
Several days have gone by since this event, and no lizard sightings. I'm still hopeful that this glue-boarding incident, while definitely torture, did not lead to his untimely passing.
April 28, 2009
Beet Trial
A Spanish-style tapas restaurant has recently opened in the neighborhood, and, for reasons I don't fully understand, been named Three Drunken Goats. Is there some significance to three goats in Spanish literature or culture? And why are the goats inebriated?
Maybe the restaurant's name is just a quirky marketing thing, but no matter. Although the owners are charging too much for a glass of wine, the food is well prepared and arrives on smallish plates, which are accompanied by appropriately smallish prices. As Dennis and I have reached the age at which unwanted weight affixes to our frames by merely inhaling good food, we need small portions in order to stay fit. So the other night, we visited the goat place and ordered a salmon dish and a salad with yellow beets, arugula, and, yes, goat cheese.
As mentioned in an earlier post, I am no beet eater. But I've been feeling like branching out lately. Also, I have to keep up with my husband, who, after a life-long aversion to mushrooms, recently tucked his fork into my order of porcini pasta. Eyes wide with amazement, he instantly regretted all of the fungi he had passed up, and, making up for lost time, has since asked me to prepare rissoto with porcinis at every opportunity.
So you can understand why I was hopeful about tasting the beets. Maybe a little too hopeful. Sadly, my reaction fell decidedly short of Dennis's porcini nirvana. Not that I want to disparage those simple yellow beets, but I found them underwhelming, just harmless roots that served as a foil to the much sassier arugula that accompanied them.
So, I'm following the lead of my President, who apparently asked Michele to skip the beet crop in the new White House garden. No reason to devote limited square footage to raising beets at my house either. Besides, I have to arm-wrestle Dennis for every inch of planting space. Although he has taken full advantage of the new raised beds we installed for his tomatoes, he still tries to sneak a tomato plant into every spare corner. At this point, he has 23 tomato plants in place and is angling for more, but I'm holding firm.
Aside from the tomatoes, we've installed some cucumbers, a yellow squash, and a few red and yellow bell peppers to accompany the perennial herbs and concord grapes. Happily, the strawberries are holding their own against the pests. So all is well. Only one little barren patch remains, which might be ideal for a melon of some sort. Time for me to research the needs of honeydews, cantaloupes, watermelons, and the rest of the melon cousins. I'll keep you posted.
Maybe the restaurant's name is just a quirky marketing thing, but no matter. Although the owners are charging too much for a glass of wine, the food is well prepared and arrives on smallish plates, which are accompanied by appropriately smallish prices. As Dennis and I have reached the age at which unwanted weight affixes to our frames by merely inhaling good food, we need small portions in order to stay fit. So the other night, we visited the goat place and ordered a salmon dish and a salad with yellow beets, arugula, and, yes, goat cheese.
As mentioned in an earlier post, I am no beet eater. But I've been feeling like branching out lately. Also, I have to keep up with my husband, who, after a life-long aversion to mushrooms, recently tucked his fork into my order of porcini pasta. Eyes wide with amazement, he instantly regretted all of the fungi he had passed up, and, making up for lost time, has since asked me to prepare rissoto with porcinis at every opportunity.
So you can understand why I was hopeful about tasting the beets. Maybe a little too hopeful. Sadly, my reaction fell decidedly short of Dennis's porcini nirvana. Not that I want to disparage those simple yellow beets, but I found them underwhelming, just harmless roots that served as a foil to the much sassier arugula that accompanied them.
So, I'm following the lead of my President, who apparently asked Michele to skip the beet crop in the new White House garden. No reason to devote limited square footage to raising beets at my house either. Besides, I have to arm-wrestle Dennis for every inch of planting space. Although he has taken full advantage of the new raised beds we installed for his tomatoes, he still tries to sneak a tomato plant into every spare corner. At this point, he has 23 tomato plants in place and is angling for more, but I'm holding firm.
Aside from the tomatoes, we've installed some cucumbers, a yellow squash, and a few red and yellow bell peppers to accompany the perennial herbs and concord grapes. Happily, the strawberries are holding their own against the pests. So all is well. Only one little barren patch remains, which might be ideal for a melon of some sort. Time for me to research the needs of honeydews, cantaloupes, watermelons, and the rest of the melon cousins. I'll keep you posted.
April 11, 2009
Nest: Devoid of Offspring
On the road with back-to-back trips (one for school, one for soccer), our son, Nick, has been gone for the past 12 days. He returned home from his senior retreat toward the end of last week, but was only in the house for a scant seven hours. He had barely enough time to shower, pack his cleats, and catch a few minutes of sleep before boarding a flight to Dallas for a week-long soccer tournament. His absence, although only temporary, has served as a pilot episode, if you will, of the long-running series scheduled to begin this September when Dennis and I will find ourselves with both of our kids away at college. Empty nest looms large on the horizon.
With our older son, Joe, already a college junior, I know from past experience that, although you miss your kids, you're mostly glad to see them spread their wings. The question remains, however, of how to spend the hours that one re-gains each week when teens are no longer dwelling under-roof.
For example, during Nick's absence, we noted fewer dirty cooking vessels in the sink, a paucity of competition for the washer/dryer, and a reduced need for groceries of all categories -- deli meat, juices, quick prep frozen foods, baked goods, etc. One notable food group exception, the broccoli inventory seemed unaffected by his departure. We also realized a downturn in trips to the drugstore/office supply/bookstore for (fill in the blanks, really) toothpaste/printer paper/the novel assigned two weeks ago in English class.
While the recent days have been restful, I can see that the life awaiting us this fall is going to take some getting used to. Twenty years of parenting is a long haul, and it's hard to remember what we did back in (do I dare say it?) the 1980s. This was before we occupied ourselves with pre-school fundraisers and playdates, and then Cub Scouts and Little League, followed by Boy Scouts and serious soccer. I suppose I could look for a full-time job now, but with such a perfect excuse in the floundering economy, seems like a wise person would milk the under-employed thing as long as possible. All the more reason I should get my hands dirty, and justify my lack of full employment by growing something edible.
To this end, we added a Santa Rosa plum tree recently, which is now bearing dozens of tiny green orbs -- baby plums in the making. About 24 tomato plants are also tucked in their beds, along with some basil and red and yellow bell peppers. The strawberries have many new flowers, which means some excellent fruit ahead if I can snatch the berries before the pests get to them. The grape vines have rejuvenated themselves after their winter siesta and are climbing vigorously.
As I write this, Nick is on his way to the Dallas airport, happy to be headed home, and we'll be happy to have him back. But his many days away have foreshadowed the not too distant future -- a life that will be both changed and ripe with possibility.
With our older son, Joe, already a college junior, I know from past experience that, although you miss your kids, you're mostly glad to see them spread their wings. The question remains, however, of how to spend the hours that one re-gains each week when teens are no longer dwelling under-roof.
For example, during Nick's absence, we noted fewer dirty cooking vessels in the sink, a paucity of competition for the washer/dryer, and a reduced need for groceries of all categories -- deli meat, juices, quick prep frozen foods, baked goods, etc. One notable food group exception, the broccoli inventory seemed unaffected by his departure. We also realized a downturn in trips to the drugstore/office supply/bookstore for (fill in the blanks, really) toothpaste/printer paper/the novel assigned two weeks ago in English class.
While the recent days have been restful, I can see that the life awaiting us this fall is going to take some getting used to. Twenty years of parenting is a long haul, and it's hard to remember what we did back in (do I dare say it?) the 1980s. This was before we occupied ourselves with pre-school fundraisers and playdates, and then Cub Scouts and Little League, followed by Boy Scouts and serious soccer. I suppose I could look for a full-time job now, but with such a perfect excuse in the floundering economy, seems like a wise person would milk the under-employed thing as long as possible. All the more reason I should get my hands dirty, and justify my lack of full employment by growing something edible.
To this end, we added a Santa Rosa plum tree recently, which is now bearing dozens of tiny green orbs -- baby plums in the making. About 24 tomato plants are also tucked in their beds, along with some basil and red and yellow bell peppers. The strawberries have many new flowers, which means some excellent fruit ahead if I can snatch the berries before the pests get to them. The grape vines have rejuvenated themselves after their winter siesta and are climbing vigorously.
As I write this, Nick is on his way to the Dallas airport, happy to be headed home, and we'll be happy to have him back. But his many days away have foreshadowed the not too distant future -- a life that will be both changed and ripe with possibility.
April 5, 2009
Presidential Garden
Dear Mrs. Obama,
While I know that my suggestion here to convert the South Lawn into crop-producing acreage had nothing to do with you green-lighting the project, many thanks nonetheless. I was so pleased to read a couple of weeks ago that you turned 1,100 square feet of grass, visible to those traveling on E Street, into an organic vegetable garden.
Apparently your husband doesn't care for beets, so they've been banished from the plant list, but you've put in an impressive variety of produce. In addition to the old standbys of carrots, broccoli and spinach, I read that your list of seedlings included fennel, shell peas, onions, several types of lettuce, chard, and rhubarb, plus an herb garden and a berry patch.
What is it about beets? While my father ate them with gusto, my mother had a distaste for beets, too, that she unwittingly passed onto me. In retrospect, I'd probably relish a freshly grown beet, although I'm still skeptical of the canned variety that adorned my father's plate. Is it possible that President Obama never ate a fresh beet, either, and was only exposed to canned beets swimming in deep red liquid? He seems like an adventurous eater. Maybe the White House chef could put together a dish that would change his beet opinion. Just an idea. He has already has more than enough on his plate. (Puns are just so hard to resist.)
Anyway, many thanks for stepping in and showing us how to be a little more self-sufficient. Looking forward to following the garden's progress.
While I know that my suggestion here to convert the South Lawn into crop-producing acreage had nothing to do with you green-lighting the project, many thanks nonetheless. I was so pleased to read a couple of weeks ago that you turned 1,100 square feet of grass, visible to those traveling on E Street, into an organic vegetable garden.
Apparently your husband doesn't care for beets, so they've been banished from the plant list, but you've put in an impressive variety of produce. In addition to the old standbys of carrots, broccoli and spinach, I read that your list of seedlings included fennel, shell peas, onions, several types of lettuce, chard, and rhubarb, plus an herb garden and a berry patch.
What is it about beets? While my father ate them with gusto, my mother had a distaste for beets, too, that she unwittingly passed onto me. In retrospect, I'd probably relish a freshly grown beet, although I'm still skeptical of the canned variety that adorned my father's plate. Is it possible that President Obama never ate a fresh beet, either, and was only exposed to canned beets swimming in deep red liquid? He seems like an adventurous eater. Maybe the White House chef could put together a dish that would change his beet opinion. Just an idea. He has already has more than enough on his plate. (Puns are just so hard to resist.)
Anyway, many thanks for stepping in and showing us how to be a little more self-sufficient. Looking forward to following the garden's progress.
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