Welcome October

Good morning, how are you?  I haven’t written in a while—for so long there is a back log and confusion over what to muse over this morning.  For years, my dedicated time to write has been every Tuesday morning in the library, barring unforeseen events—such as all of 2020 and a good part of 2021.  I digress… I made it to the library the first two Tuesdays in October, but I didn’t finish any thoughts and felt most of what I wrote was cat yack.  Last week, I was called to jury duty on Tuesday.  So here we are on the fourth Tuesday morning in October.  I’m at the library in the quiet room and most determined to write.  I’m out of practice with the flow of this time and space, so I’m going to go back to the basics.  A letter.

This may sound like a diary from my grandma’s journal or a long Christmas letter similar to the ones you hang onto until June then decide you really aren’t interested in reading them.  Before I wrote essays, Christmas letters were one of my favorite things to write, especially since we moved to Massachusetts away from Midwestern friends and family; it was my way to keep in touch.  However, the whispers of these letters’ stigma–and of analogies to fruit cake—made me rethink that tradition.  Perhaps I enjoyed writing them more than the receivers enjoyed reading them? 

I do like to receive Christmas letters; they feel like gifts to me.  I sort them out of the mail pile and find a couple quiet mornings in December to read them.  Then I feel a bit sad because of the distance between me and the writer, whether that be in miles or blocks that feel like many miles.  We’ve been shot from a canon or a bow into opposite life directions, yet something from a long-ago close friendship harkens us to communicate at Christmas time, whether by a letter or just a card signed in familiar handwriting.

Liam is a sophomore in high school and my nostalgic.  He has an iron grip on his most pleasant memories and so wants to replicate them.  Last week in one of our car chats, he said, “I’ve had the best childhood: the best babysitters, the best games of tag in Iowa, and the best hide and seek in our friends’ house in Chicago.”  This came up when we were talking about plans for Halloween.  More specifically, I was encouraging him to make plans with his friends.  Again, Liam wants a repeat: several years ago when we started our Halloween party tradition, we had a party in which the core of attendees were gymnastics families that we’d known for many years.  So when considering options for this year, that’s what he wanted: basically a trip to Halloween past when everyone’s kids were small and whole families came to the party.  I reminded him that as kids age they become more independent and make their own plans.  And now, with Will away at college, it’s Liam’s turn to start a new tradition for Halloween.  As of today, October 26th, it looks like it will be a quiet Halloween.  Although I was told at the beginning of October that I was trying to plan Halloween too early, so it may be a last-minute coming-together of Liam’s school and cross country friends.  I’ve unwound myself from the planning process and am letting it unfold as it will.  For the planner in me, this non-planning is a daily challenge.  The anticipation of and planning of events is where I thrive… not so for everyone.

My dad and brother got all the corn out of the field last week in just two days.  A neighbor helped them pick and shell load after load of corn.  My sights are set on being there for harvest next year, then writing 25 essays about the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and feels of that experience.  I can’t remember when I was last in Iowa during harvest season.  The whole experience is like an echo-y memory lurking in my head.  Mom told me that the corn was the most beautiful golden orange this year, and that flickered a moment’s light on the thing I know as “picking corn.”  No photos can bring the memory into clear alignment.  And corn field photos on my camera roll are either of 6-foot high stalks in July or a barren field in December; the months we most often visit.  Photos from Iowa at this time of year—combines working into the evening, shelled corn dumping into an auger, sunsets over cleared fields—lodge a lump in my throat.

In mid-September while standing on our deck, I saw the first leaf fall.  So quietly and bravely, it let go.  All the humid air from my summer lungs let loose as the leaf trailed to the ground.  And with the advent of October 1st, the month of fall unfolded…

…a trip to the Topsfield Fair (the oldest fair in the country) to eat BBQ pork and apple crisp and to see whimsical bunnies, chickens, and a 2,092-pound pumpkin… watching Liam run cross country and leaf peeping at the same time… smelling and tasting apple cider donuts…

…searching for warty pumpkins and gourds… decorating with mums and Montauk daisies… regularly walking and hiking in the woods near our house.  

Perhaps the abundance of fall in Massachusetts has made it hard to choose what to write about, for my senses are on fire.

The Boston Skyline from MGH

We’re in the midst the second New Year of the year: September.  School season.  Routines re-established.  Leaves letting go.  Temperatures turning down. 

September is transition month; I remind myself of that every year.  By October, we will have gotten used Will being at college, and we will have settled into Liam’s routines as a high school sophomore.  The newness of the always disjointed month of September will wear off by the time the autumn leaves hit their prime colors.

Last Friday, I had my annual check up with my oncologist at Massachusetts General Hospital (MGH).  All went fine.  I strategized the day making time for a quick visit with Will before my appointment; he’s going to college in Boston.  Then after my appointment I had a couple hours until I met friends for dinner and a play. 

On the 9th floor of the Yawkey building, floor to ceiling windows line the hallway on one side while doors to the doctors’ offices are on the other.  I sat on a chair facing the windows to take in the view of the skyline.  A little part of me considers this my personal space.  Over the years, I’ve dedicated a lot of time and money here, so I could sip on the view for a bit.

Like in a hidden picture puzzle, I first looked for the gold dome of the state building.  That’s the only recognizable building I can find.  This mini-search reminds me of the cow bells that used to hang on the crossbeams in the “shop” on the farm.  As a little girl, I would gaze at the menagerie of rusting metal hanging up there and once I spotted the cow bell, Dad would hoist me up high enough so that I could poke the bell with a yardstick and make it ring.  There is no similarity between a gold-plated dome and a cow bell other than excitement of seeking, yet that childhood memory taps my shoulder every time I’m on this floor overlooking Boston.

My gaze followed left to right at the horizon taking in the tallest buildings in the distance.  I remembered seeing this skyline for the first time in 2005 when we had just moved to Massachusetts; then I thought how tiny Boston was in comparison to Chicago’s skyline.  Pulling my vision to the horizontal mid-section of this vista, I made the distinction between trees planted in the ground versus those growing on rooftops.  My first visit to a rooftop garden was at MGH in 2009: the healing garden. This isn’t just a cement roof with a few bushes rooted in planters.  Despite being on the 8th floor, the 6,300 square-foot space feels like a true garden with luscious grass, stone paths, planted trees, a water fountain, and sculptures.  The garden is a surreal kind of escape from the adjacent cancer treatment floors.

Movement in my left hand peripheral caught my eye.  Below me on the street was a bustling woman in a black dress covered in large yellow polka dots.  The details of her person were swallowed in the cadence of the fabric as she walked across the street and disappeared between the buildings.  The intense design of that fabric made me want to see her closet!  Were all of her clothes of this ilk?  Or was this the one piece of her wardrobe that dared the status quo—perhaps she wore black shirts and khaki pants most days? 

Days later, I’m still wondering about her closet… and thinking about how many combinations I have of black and khaki.

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Weeds on the Berm

A comedy of errors has occurred in our yard over the last year; actually, in real-time, it has felt more like a Shakespearian tragedy, but with the passage of several months, it is now morphing into a comedy—with too many errors to be construed as true.  Yet it is.

In my book Cornfields to Codfish, I wrote about The Gold Maple and what it took to care for this tree when we first planted it a few years ago.  Like many of my past essays, an “And then…” sequel to this essay has emerged.  The following is an account of what happened over the last year—that resulted in this weedy vista outside my kitchen and living room windows:

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In the beginning, we cut down a few scrub maples to make room for the new Gold Maple.  To get the Gold Maple root ball into the ground, the tree company brought out a stump grinder and ground a hole through the heavily tree-rooted area to make room for the ball.  With persistent care over a couple years, the tree did well, until last year. 

The Gold Maple developed scales on the leaves and the trunk and the branches.  The old tree company that planted the tree went out of business, so we hired a new tree company to come out and give us a quote for removing nearby trees so the Gold Maple would get more light from the sky and more nutrients from the ground with fewer scrappy Norway maples to contend with. 

My final words to the new company was NOT to desecrate my canopy that surrounds the rest of the property.  I explained that these thick leafy overhangs create the privacy fence that makes me, a woman who grew up on a farm in Iowa with wide open horizons and no next-door neighbors, able to live in the city.

Come the day of the tree removal, I watched from my kitchen window as the workers fell one of the big maples and landed it on my Gold Maple.  The impact of the drop ripped the biggest branches off the left side of the little tree.  I ran out the door screaming.  “What are you doing? The ONLY reason we are doing this project is so that this little tree will survive!!” 

The trimmer was apologetic; he didn’t know this tree was anything special.  A bit later, he came to my door and asked if I wanted him to trim some of the other trees.  Having clearly stated in the job description that I wanted the canopy untouched, I assumed that he meant he would trim dead branches.  I retreated to the house away from the noise of the saws, the blowers, and the branch grinding truck.  An hour later I went out to see lollipop sticks all around the berm of the property.  The canopy was scalped so that I could see into the neighbors’ windows behind and to the side of me.  Leaves waved only on the upper eighth of the wooden sticks that dotted the perimeter.

I had words with the guy who gave me the quote: the one who wasn’t on site, who hadn’t conveyed the job description to the workers.  My tears made him feel like shit, but they weren’t thick enough to glue branches back onto the trees.  I got a bit of money back on the job: It felt like a cheap slap in the face for a wrong that couldn’t be righted.

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I measured the large picture windows to hang curtains but couldn’t bring myself to close us off from the the space at the back of our property: the pre-trim view was the reason we had large picture windows installed.  I bought long stems of pussy willows and put them in two vases to interrupt the view.  This didn’t stop my neighbors at the back having an as-the-crow-flies view into my kitchen and living room.  And I didn’t like looking at their unmown, unkept weedy backyard with junk piled next to their little shed and a two-foot high mound of fall cleanup waste piled up to the side of their yard—all of which was in plain view after the trimming incident.

Finally, instead of curtains, we had a six-foot high wooden fence installed at the top of the berm in May.  We left an opening at the back corner for wildlife to cut through our yard; our property is on their route from the town forest to the state forest.  The sight-line in that corner is crowded with boulders and bushes.

We went to Iowa for two weeks in July, and while we were there it rained every day in Massachusetts.  We came home to healthy flower gardens adjacent to the house, albeit dotted with a few tall weeds.  However, on the berm to the back and right of the drive, the shady dormant woodland of past years had blossomed into a weed purgatory one step away from the innermost circle of hell.  The unstoppable rain and the newly unleashed sunshine on this previous shaded ground created a perfect storm where weeds of all shapes and sizes came forth like brazen, militant soldiers. 

When the rain lessened in mid-July, the humidity grew and stayed put until the end of August.  I’m pretty tough, but humidity strips me of energy.  For weeks, I watched from the windows inside the air-conditioned house as the weeds became stronger, until the scene looked like a post-apocalyptic horror show to this fair-weather gardener.

Last Saturday morning, the humidity broke.  Dressed in workout clothes and gloves, I took my trimmers, spade, and tall brown paper bags to the berm.  Where to start?  How could I make a difference?  I noted tall weeds that were just starting to go to seed.  I would first pull those and get them into the yard-waste bags and to the pit so they didn’t spread seed into next year.  I left tall green spiky weeds that were forcing yellow flowers off their shoots.  Imposters: not anything I planted but still, they were flowering.  I let them live.  The quack grass was thick and plastered over yards and yards of ground.  There was no way I could pull it all out. 

I went into the house for water and looked to the wall opposite the pussy-willow-picture-windows, and out the living room window where I saw the big boulder surrounded by weeds.  If I could get that vista cleared, my soul might find a bit of peace inside looking out.  Last winter, my younger son Liam found me at the kitchen sink looking out the window at the original destruction.  “Mom, please stop looking out there; it only makes you sad.”  He had caught me at a moment when tears could no longer be caged in the sockets.  In the spring, after the installation of the wooden fence at the back, my husband Bill, together with Will and Liam, built a beautiful waterfall for me for Mother’s Day; it’s straight out from the window over the kitchen sink.  The weed field starts to the immediate right of the waterfall and follows the curve of the drive.  The field is probably 100 feet long by 25 feet high onto the hill. 

Around the boulder, I weed-whacked the weeds right down to the ground, so low that old wood chips and rocks flew out from the weed-whacker string and stung my shins and calves on impact.  This strategized trim made the immediate area around the boulder look a bit better, so I continued whacking weeds all along the flat area, stopping at the base of the berm.  It was an improvement, but if I was my neighbor, I would strongly consider building a six-foot high wooden fence so I wouldn’t have to look at it. 

After two days of thinning, I gave my body a bit of time to recover on Labor Day while I wondered what the hell to do next.  Twenty-five years ago, I kept a spray bottle of Round Up in the garage to kill stray dandelions that popped up in our lush Midwest lawn.  That poison is powerful—too powerful for mass termination of the weed field.  In good conscience, I can’t spray it and then watch rain water wash it to the gutters on the street.

Labor Day evening, I researched how to kill weeds.  Several websites suggested putting down thick layers of newspaper on top of the weeds then spreading four to six inches of mulch over the top of that.  I’m not a big fan of mulch in my flower beds.  I patiently wait for the perennial roots to get thick enough so that they drown out the weeds.  However, here in this root-ridden ground, no perennials will grow, and I do not have a lead on goats to clear the land.

My best option is to smother the weeds with the news of the day and top it with a layer of decay.  Better them than me.

Word Count, Coffee, and Art

(A writing from June 2021…)

I made a second cup of coffee immediately after the first was empty. 

As a rule, I stagger the intake: one when I wake up and one midmorning after I’ve had something to eat.  I wake up with the sun; this morning that meant 5:37, even though I fidgeted to sleep well past midnight.  With my first cup of coffee, I read a couple chapters from Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, and with her encouragement, I broke out the computer to write. It felt like I deserved that second cup of coffee.

When I lived with four other writers for two weeks during a writers’ conference in Saratoga Springs, NY, we all came and went as we pleased.  We rarely gathered in the common space of the kitchen or living room, for each of our bedrooms had a desk and a door.  Two or three of us would sail across one another’s horizons on occasion and go to lunch or dinner.  I remember one morning there being some semblance of a plan between two of us, and we invited a third to join us.  “Thank you, but no.  I’m fully caffeinated and going to go write.”  Dawn was whizzing out the door as she spoke.  What lovely freedom Dawn had in those words.  Today, nearly three years later, despite a long day ahead, I poured myself a second cup of coffee before 6:30 a.m. and silently declare that I am going to write.

Anne Lammot suggests that if you have writer’s block, just try to get 300 words down about anything.  Working off of her advice, I can stop now having reached 342.  However, I’ve worked through my “writer’s block” already by committing to the keyboard, finding the cord to my uncharged computer, and brewing the second cup.  My block is finding the wherewithal to say, “I’m going to write.”  Once committed, I can generally put something down.  And this morning, the second cup of joe is like a power boost.

I opened the screen to many tabs skipping across the top of the screen.  Boldly, with one click on that little “X” in the top righthand corner, I come back to my muse screen: a cup of mocha latte artistry set against a notebook cover that says “Start Now” and a pen on either side of the notebook.  I don’t often see this sight, so many days I dive into yesterday’s tabs and start plowing through instead of smoothly moving forward from a blank page.  There was great silly glee in clicking that “X” without looking at the shells of yesterday.  If they were important, they’ll knock on the door later today, right? 

***

I rarely write without the pressure of pushing send in two hours.  I force my writing into that time much like an espresso machine forces hot water through the tightly packed mass.  That force is the shove I need in getting words flowing out of my fingers.  Without that tiny goal, perhaps only a weak, tasteless cup of joe would get served up?  Answer unclear. 

As of yesterday, both of my sons are done with school, so there will be no marching of solemn teens through the kitchen and out the door right around 7:15 each weekday morning.  This points to transition—room for something new.  Would it be conceivable to write 300 words each morning? If this act of regular writing is instituted, I’m confident that many more words would arrive—marking 590 now.  I’ve never written with a goal of words.  Rather once I make the commitment to write, I explore ideas.  Following threads of thought until I’ve manipulated the Thing and peeked into all of its crevices.

The Thing must be ready for such an intense perusal.  For instance, if I’m feeling a bit too emotionally close to Thing 1, it’s not going to get pulled from the back burner.  However, Thing 2 might be ready to go: perhaps Thing 2 happened twelve months or twelve years ago and, like a strong wine or cheese, it’s ready. Thing 2s are rare.  From my book, the essay “At the Edge of a Memory” about Great Grandma was one of those. For years, I tried to put my finger on the missing memory until finally it dawned on me that it wasn’t going to appear.  Ever.  Only then could I concede and write about the thing I didn’t know. 

On occasion, Thing 3 struts forth with gusto, and upon first consideration, it appears ready—so full of itself it’s about to burst.  Yet when I take a brief inventory of its parts before I project it out, there is something askew.  It’s not as fierce and consuming as a Thing 2.  It’s a bit like a beautifully intricate lattice-work pie that is missing one strip of crust.  Once I find that bit of crust, it will be complete.

My local coffee shop is under new ownership. This has planted true bittersweet in my soul.  Gone is the art served over a decade under the guise of mocha lattes.  Gone are red and green sprinkles in early October.  This coffee art a couple times a week was like a sprinkling of fairy dust.  The happiest of muse juice made by Gia.  (Here is a gallery of Gia’s Muse Juice creations.)  The new owners are young, and they are bringing huge vibrancy to the downtown as they partner with other businesses and change up their menu, but they are not artists.  While I tried to be a dedicated customer for a few weeks, I’ve moved farther down the road to a shop where the dark cocoa powder swirled into the espresso is powerful, not syrupy sweet.  Neither place serves up art, but the strength of the cocoa feels new and heightens the sense of taste where previously the sense of sight took precedence.  

***

Addendum, written July 30, 2021:

The historical fiction writer, Lisa See, writes 1,000 words every day.  Before this short addition, I was at 973.  Rather than set a goal of writing so many words a day from now to infinity, whether 300 or 1,000 words, perhaps I could set a short challenge period to consistently write day after day?  Perhaps I take the month of August and write for 31 days straight? 

And then, even the crickets stop chirping.

A Swimmer vs A Clarinetist

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I played the clarinet and saxophone in high school, and I took an adult piano class in my twenties.  Now, I’m putzing on the ukulele, taking occasional weekly classes with my son Liam’s guitar instructor.  The clarinet and saxophone are instruments in which both hands work in harmonious partnership to create music.  I find that not to be the case with the piano or the ukulele. 

The right hand on the piano was easy for me to learn: Oftentimes it’s the melody; it’s written in treble clef, the same clef as the woodwinds I played in high school.  The left hand plays notes written in the base clef, a foreign language to me.  With any piece I work on, I write in the notes on the music.  I slow the pace to a turtle trot until my fingers basically memorize the positions and then I rely less on reading that lower bass clef line for the notes but rather for the rhythm.

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As for the ukulele, the dichotomy of hand movements is the challenge.  I can read the music, but the notes aren’t laid out on the fret board as systematically as those down the line on a piano keyboard.  The fingers on my left hand scramble to compress the right strings to create chords throughout a piece, and the fingers on my right hand are left to find a strumming rhythm that changes depending on the genre.  My hands must move simultaneously, but in different ways.  Reggae and rock music both have chord changes written over the measures, but there is no indication of what the strumming pattern is—that is an intuitive element. 

As my ukulele instructor gives me directions to “feel” the beat, I remind him that at my core I’m a concert clarinetist posing as a uke player; as a high school concert clarinetist, I read every note on the treble clef and obeyed commandments for loudness and speed.  When I try to understand the meaning of “imposter syndrome,” it’s clear in my statements about how I address the uke:  I do not say “I play the uke”; rather “I take uke lessons.”  To say that I play would be a false pretense.  During lessons, I practice hard and listen well; on my own, I know a few songs that I pump out over and over.

The challenge of multi-tasking on the ukulele is akin to the freestyle swim stroke.  I can dog paddle or back stroke my way across a pool, but matching breath to movement?  The thought of doing the freestyle, turning the head and grabbing a breath while moving?  Inconceivable.  I’ve been watching swimmers do this in the Olympics; surely, I would inhale water into a lung and choke.  Sometimes I wonder if I should take lessons: Do I want to know how to do this, or is the doggy paddle good enough?

Last week I read Bonnie Tsui’s book, Why We Swim.  Tsui is an open water, cold water, river and ocean swimmer.  In talking with three women about the book, they said they all experienced a renewed interest in swimming while reading the book.  After 45 minutes I finally fessed up with the question, “Did anyone else have huge anxiety while reading this book, especially when she talks about swimming in the currents of a river?”  My great-grandfather drowned when his boat went over a dam; consequently, the feeling of water moving so promptly in one direction is unsettling to me.  However, I enjoy the rocking nature of friendly ocean waves; I jump and paddle through them as they roll in.  That’s how I started “ocean swimming” when I was sixteen, and at 55, this is still the only way I swim in the ocean when I’m at the beach.

While I don’t swim by coordinating a stroke with a breath, I did scuba dive when I was younger.  These two activities are mutually exclusive to me.  To have mask, fins, snorkel, two air hoses, a tank of air, and a buddy is liberating in the water.  I’ve reached depths of 100 feet while chasing fish in the Caribbean.  I’ve felt the to-and-fro pull of underwater currents, and while seeing fish and plants move, I accepted that movement and mimicked their calm in going with the flow of the water.  Being able to see underwater and breathe underwater takes away surface unknowns, like currents in rivers and timing breaths with strokes.  Scuba diving is like playing the clarinet: all parts are dedicated to one, but the freestyle stroke on the surface is more of a piano or ukulele feat. 

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A few years ago, I was at the pool with a friend, and she was going to jump off of the diving board. I told her that I had never done that.  She convinced me that it was a wonderful experience.  With a lifeguard nearby, I tried it.  The only time I had previously jumped into water was when I was fully suited up in scuba gear, with an inflated buoyancy vest so that I would pop to the surface upon entry.  I remember jumping off the board, touching the bottom, then just hanging out for a bit.  I had expected to pop up like a fishing bobber.  I didn’t like the feeling; I paddled up to the surface.  I was glad I had done it, but I have not felt compelled to do it again.  Unnecessary.

For now, I choose to derive pleasure of the freestyle by watching the Olympians—for I am a clarinetist.

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Turning 55 in Iowa

I turned 55 while I was in Iowa earlier this month.  It was a good, low-key day spent with my family.  Grabbing an early rise and a cup of coffee, I staked out space near Mom’s flower garden to read.  At 6 a.m. the peacefulness was a deep hue, perhaps only deeper at dusk—for in the morning, the birds were chirping.  Mom came out and wished me happy birthday; I thanked her for all of her hard work 55 years ago. I think mothers should get more acclaim when celebrating days of birth.

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Before the humidity blossomed for the day, Mom, Dad, Bill, and I wandered around Mom’s tree lilies finding the tallest, the prettiest, the most colorful—snapping photos of all.  Each paints a distinctive vista: the close-up of a lily versus Mom standing next to flowers in the foreground, seemingly held up by my family’s cornfield and the neighboring Amish farm in the background. 

In some shots we cheated the scene; the lack of rain at Mom and Dad’s has left many of the tree lilies bending over from dehydration.  We propped them up with our hands for the portraits.  With the farm’s water source being a well, more than once Mom commented on rather having water for the livestock than for her flower gardens.  She gives the baskets and planters a daily sip, but as for the her flower gardens, they are on their own.

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Despite the drought, the field corn stood tall.  Like the prairie grasses before it, corn shoots its roots deep into the earth looking for water.   According to one Iowa State University study of corn roots, completed in 2016, when young plants in Northeastern Iowa had only four leaves, the roots were less than ten inches deep.  However, as the summer progressed and more leaves grew, the roots reached maximum depths of 60 inches—growing downward up to an inch a day.  The study also noted that once the roots hit the water table, they stopped growing.  These facts make fictionalized stories like Jack and the Beanstalk a bit more magical.  There’s much more to the story of a cornfield than watching the leaves, stalks, and tassels move in the wind and stretch up to the mid-day sun.

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With the neighbor’s cornfield behind us, in the afternoon I set up a folding table in the yard under a maple tree, covered it with a split, black garbage bag, and hauled out the tie-dye kits from my “craft stash” in Mom and Dad’s basement.  Tie-dye events never disappoint: people stick together side-by-side at their work stations, Mom and Dad join as spectators, color and design pursuits are briefly discussed, then the squirting of dye begins.  We’re fabricating an end product in which we have no idea what it will look like as we dye material, sometimes deliberately and sometimes in an “oops-I-spilled” fashion.  We’ve done this often enough that we know when there is an “oops” we just have to roll with it. 

My 15-year-old Liam, proving to be the treasure trove of all Iowa trips, was the one who asked in May if we could tie-dye in Iowa in July, just like we had every summer that he could remember.  A few weeks later, my 10-year-old niece also asked to tie-dye.  As we set up the space, my son made one request, “Can we keep my shirt away from the brown dye, like what was on the socks we made for Grandpa two years ago?” 

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Why did I use brown on Grandpa’s socks?  I vaguely remember the brown blob on Liam’s shirt that resulted from the unfortunate nestling of his freshly wetted shirt and Grandpa’s sock.  Happily acquiescing, I put a clean, double-layered piece of newspaper down before Liam started work on his XXL t-shirt.  After an hour’s work, we left the shirts under the tree to steep in bags until that night when, on a solo mission, I would rinse them all, take the bands off for the first glimpse at the designs, then wash and dry them.  I propose this task as a job that I’m taking on.  In reality, I’m selfish: I want to be the one to untangle these pieces of art for first viewing.

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Earlier in the trip, I planted a notion with my family who lives near Mom and Dad, that on my birthday I wanted to go out for supper, for pork tenderloins.  After a brainstorming of possible restaurants known for these fritters, we landed at Costa’s in Fairbank, Iowa.  This dinner-plate sized tenderloin was one of the best I’ve ever had.  Mind you, I’m sure I say that about every tenderloin sandwich I have when in Iowa! 

This Iowa icon, the pork tenderloin sandwich, needs three pages in its own right to do it justice.  After I published Cornfields to Codfish, I started making a list of topics I could’ve/should’ve included, and pork tenderloin sandwich was at the top.  Yet even now, I can’t aptly explain the draw to this Iowa phenomenon; I feel I won’t do it justice if I try to write about it.  (Until the time is right to write mine, this is a great article and recipe for this Iowa sensation.  One note, the only condiments I ever have on this sandwich are ketchup and mustard, plus a big squirt of extra ketchup on the plate to dip into before each bite.)  Iowa restaurants serving tenderloins are compared based on the size of the sandwich, as well as the quality.  Dinner plate size like the one at Costa’s is wowing.  Sometimes the pork tenderloin is more coating than meat, but the one at Costa’s was thick meat with ample coating. 

I haven’t read the recipe directions in the link above.  Like some of the recipes in my book, there are a few dishes that I’ve purposely not tried at home, for knowing how to cook them would be hazardous to my cardio health.  Iowa pork tenderloins will remain in Iowa.  For the time being.

At sunset, as my birthday came to a close, Will came outside to where I was rinsing t-shirts with the garden hose.  I was doing this near one of Mom’s flower gardens so it would benefit from the day of tie-dying.   

“Mom, the rash is back.  I can’t stop itching!”  It had first appeared 24 hours earlier.

We were flying back to Massachusetts the next day, and we had already tried over-the-counter ointments which worked sporadically.  I examined the welts on his hands, arms, and legs; then I turned over the t-shirt duty to Mom; she had the honor of unwrapping the last two t-shirts.  We don’t know what Will was allergic to, perhaps two weeks’ exposure to dust from the gravel roads, fur from taming kittens, tall grass, lake water.  The doctor at the ER shrugged and ordered a steroid shot to calm the fury. 

From the hospital, we drove fifteen minutes back to the farm through a rural countryside dotted with the silent yellow beeps of lightning bugs.  They hung in the air above the deep ditches alongside the fields of corn. It was a real-life version of a 3D light-up birthday card.

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Hollyhocks and the Ford Truck

The jet that carried us from Boston’s Logan Airport to Chicago’s O’Hare airport on June 30, 2021, was only slightly bigger than the three-person across jet that delivered us to Cedar Rapid’s Eastern Iowa airport.  Both were full.  At the gate in Chicago, the passengers looked familiar.  Their Iowa Hawkeye shirts and farm baseball caps pointed to the direction we were going: in one half-hour-or-less skipping flight, we’d all be in Iowa.  The jaunty flight wasn’t as bad as some I’ve taken, and once we crossed the Mississippi River, the green squares on the giant Iowa quilt took my mind off the lurching of the jet.  I grew up on a gravel road in northeast Iowa where potholes and washboard ribs were commonplace, so I tried to convince myself that these air bumps that rattled me were just the equivalent of a gravel road—and a necessary passage to maneuver.  And I worked to convince myself that after landing and getting to the farm, the anxiety of the journey would be obliterated from my memory.  Much like childbirth, so they say, or chemo.

As we danced closer to the airport, I noticed a block of land that wasn’t green with beans or corn but filled to the edges with roofs of houses.  This block of farmland, of rich black soil, would no longer grow acres of corn or beans which would feed people or animals.  Somehow its inherent value was lost in the movement from a farmer to a developer.  I doubt if this thought would’ve crossed my mind if it was within a suburban crawl, a development adjacent to another one or to a city.  But this square was surrounded by stalwart fields; it stood out like a blemish that would never heal now that it was infected.  The soil was no longer defined as such but rather as plots and yards with perhaps a fruitful garden here and there.  

Hovering a couple of miles from the runway, I thought about how I would or should respond to landing in Iowa.  I’m not one to kiss the ground after a long absence.  I felt no tears or intense emotion.  The word that settled over me was “familiar.”  Thank God, everything I could see was familiar.  Even the sight of that housed quilt block was surrounded by the green blocks—the green fields were familiar. 

Aside from one or two hugs with my Iowa niece that were tearful, most other experiences on the trip followed in the pattern of familiar.  The smell when I opened the car door and stepped out at Mom and Dad’s, as well as the smell when I went into the house: familiar.  I’ve never been so thankful for familiar.  I felt it as an emotion rather than an adjective.  It felt secure even when I knew change had taken place.

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I walked behind the barn, and as I scooted around the perimeter buildings next to the cornfield, the cornstalks shot over my head, probably seven feet tall.  The rows curved in a new way to the left behind the hay shed, and I got caught up in the soft gentleness of that curve where a perpendicular angle had always been before.  It made me stop and turn to work out why this was different: the old chicken coop was gone that had sat out behind the hayshed since I was a kid.  And with it gone, there was room for probably eight more rows of corn to tuck in closer to the back of the hay shed.  I’ve taken many photos of the chicken coop over the years, and I knew it was in bad shape.  Its disappearance didn’t shock me; instead, the familiarity of cornstalks smoothed over the changed landscape.  And that new gentle curve was most impressive.

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Throughout the two weeks we were in Iowa, the familiar was a balm to the changed.  There’s an old shed at my brother’s that will probably be taken down soon as it’s falling apart.  Like the chicken coop, it has clung to its supports for many years, but its time is getting short.  We were at my brother’s several evenings to see him and his family and to also pet kittens.  The kittens had been wild when we arrived, but with the kids’ (and Grandpa’s!) persistent, patient presence, they were tame when we left.  Each time we were there, I caught the sunset from the lane.  The barnyard buildings, gates, and fences filled the foreground.  I know that when this old shed is gone, there will be a gap in the scene, yet the familiar sunset will still hold tight. 

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There’s an old Ford truck my dad and brother used to use on the farm years ago that now sits dormant, backed into a covered tin structure that’s attached to the corn crib.  Its usefulness has expired.  Dad told me no one wants that kind of vehicle anymore.  To him, it’s a bit of an eye sore in that it hasn’t been easy to get rid of.  To me, it’s a piece of art when Mom’s hollyhocks bloom at its corner.  For a few years, this scene grows in the summertime, and the juxtaposition between the front of the Ford and these resilient pink hollyhocks pulls me into whimsical delight.  On this trip, I ventured out at different times of day and from any angle I could find, I recorded the scene of these two living side by side.  If Dad eventually sells the truck, the hollyhocks will be that familiar touchstone that point to more of a small change than a loss.

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Another Midsummer Day

Every once in a while I sit down to write and the topic that comes to mind feels familiar—as if I’ve already written about it. Today is one of those days. Here, I drop in a previous musing, written nearly a year ago to the day—but with fresh flower garden photos. With consistent watering, the flowers are flourishing in this humid heat, weathering it better than I am. Take a walk in my garden after my midsummer reflection…

***

I’ve always said I love the four seasons and would find it hard living somewhere without four distinct seasons.  If I look a bit deeper, what I really like is the change of seasons: the shutting off of one and the opening of another.  At nearly 54 years old, I see that the four seasons are actually splintered into subsets.  About a week ago, we moved from early summer to midsummer.  Despite heat and humidity of this new sub-season, I’m yearning for the outdoors: away from visual reminders of projects and chores.

Today, I’m parked on the porch, perched at the typewriter.  Oh, I see my folly: I’m perched at the computer—and still wishing that I could find perfect alliteration with perched.  Whether typewriter or computer falls through my fingertips, neither begin with a “p” to sit nicely with parked, porch, and perched.

Since the turn to midsummer, each morning I get a jump on the sun and water the flower beds before ten; this guarantees that I’ll be in the shade of the maples surrounding our property – not standing in the sun with water spraying from a hose and sweat dripping down from my knees.  After hauling a 100-foot hose around for a half-hour to water, I return inside to where I’ve adjusted the air conditioner for what was the early morning “working-in-the-house-mode.” That has now changed to meat cooler temperature.

I’m sitting at the two-person bistro table on my porch.  The tablecloths are damp from the humidity.  A small rechargeable-battery operated fan sits on the table directed at my neck, which like my knees has a propensity to shed water in the humidity; I awoke at 5:12 this morning with a neck sweat.  There is a breeze crossing the porch, and the ceiling fan is whirring above me where it’s securely attached to the porch roof.  I rarely use this fan, so when I flipped the switch on a few minutes ago, I stood a safe distance away in the doorway watching it spin and studying how its action created a smaller rotation in the light hanging under the fan.  After a minute or so, the light was still attached to the fan; I have faith that the light was engineered so as to move with the fan.  This phenomenon must be related to the way skyscrapers are built to sway, in particular what used to be the Sears Tower in Chicago.  On average it sways six inches, but it could sway—if need be—up to three feet.  Like heat exchangers, radio waves, and airplanes, I accept these beasts’ ways although I don’t fully understand the physics. 

We have air-conditioning in the house.  When we added onto the house in 2012, the old air vents in the bedrooms were connected to the new vents in the master bathroom and bedroom.  When the air comes on, the sound in all of the rooms in the new addition sounds like we are about to set sail on a continental trade wind—those dry, hot prevailing land winds. On an island, where the necessity for full clothing coverage is diminished, the maritime trade winds are wetter but still warm, strong, and prevailing.  Given the humidity outside, I imagine we are sailing on the latter—while still having to dress as if we are on land.

The thermostat for the second story where the bedrooms are is in the hallway outside our sons’ small 1880-circa bedrooms.  Down the hallway eight feet and around the corner is the sailboat on-high in the master bedroom.  If the thermostat is set at what might seem to be a comfortable 72 degrees, the old ducts halt air flow giving way to the streamlined ducts in the new part.  So while the thermostat dutifully holds the hallway at 72 degrees, the new 2012-circa bathroom, located three corners away, drops to 66, perhaps 64 degrees.  “Houston, we have a problem” says no one, for they fear the wrath of a women whose neck and knees sweat.  (An alliteration by sound if not by letters… so comforting.)

I sat down on the porch thinking I would be writing about green beans.  I thought after twenty years that topic might finally be ready to hit the paper.  This proves yet again that I’m a “pantser” and not a planner; a realization I came to only in my recent writing years.  Yet I will not go there now as there is a future piece reserved just for that topic—when deemed ready.

Today is reserved for one of my evergreen topics: hot, humid, midsummer days.  I will leave you on the edge of your seat for those percolating essays on green beans and being a pantser.  On the edge of the seat, like where I’m sitting—where the water dripping down my back, having previously glued my shirt to a chair cushion, has a chance to dry up with the various winds blowing out and about.

On the other hand, the flowers are looking sublime. I can make them happy in this heat with my personal gardening therapy. They are marching through their summer blooms, ebbing and flowing as they should.

Kitchen Island Conversation

Over his grilled cheese and carrot sticks, Liam suggested an improvement to celery.  “They should cross-pollinate it with crunchy iceberg lettuce. That would get rid of the strings in the celery.”

“Lettuce is delicate,” I observed.  “I think the cross-pollination should be with something like water chestnuts.  They’re sturdy and perhaps could overwhelm the strings in celery better than iceberg lettuce.”

Celery is something we would both like to like, but just thinking about taking a bite off the end of a piece of celery and feeling all those strings refusing to release?  It brings me close to a gag reflex.  As a raw vegetable, it’s nearly untouchable; if finely diced in a lobster roll that I order without asking what the ingredients are, I can eat it.  Although I struggle with celery in its raw form, I fully acknowledge its usefulness as a cooked vegetable to flavor food like chicken broth, along with carrots and onions.  And that makes me think there is a name for this veggie combo… and that it’s holy-something…

***Internet Search Interlude***

The Holy Trinity, in cooking terms, is the base of celery, onions, and green peppers in Cajun-style cooking.  This sounds familiar from the days of making jambalaya when we would start with this trio in tiny, diced pieces and sauté them in butter until they became intertwined so tightly they looked and smelled like a new vegetable species.  The Holy Trinity uses equal amounts of each vegetable.

Similarly, mirepoix, pronounced meer-pwah, originated in France and is a base of celery, onions, and carrots.  The standard ratio of vegetables is heavy on the onions for mirepoix: 2 parts onion, 1 part celery, and 1 part carrots.  Again, this finely diced vegetable base is cooked in butter on low heat until soft.  The Irish Potato Chowder I make at Christmas time starts off with mirepoix simmered for ten minutes before adding the chicken stock and potatoes.  Then the magic of the base simmer melds into the potatoes.

These combinations of vegetables and herbs are considered “aromatics.”  Across cuisines, a standard base often defines the beginning flavor of a dish.  These combinations anchor a taste profile for many ethnic foods, yet there is no absolute aromatic combination that defines one type of food.  For instance, Chinese stir-fries might start with a quick cooking of ginger, scallion, and garlic, but if the dish is traditionally from the Hunan or Sichuan area of China, there’s a good chance for a pop of heat from chilies in the aromatic. 

For Thai cuisine, shallots, chilies, garlic, and lemongrass are commonly used as an aromatic.  This is one base that I’ve discovered from a bottle in the form of Red Thai Curry Paste.  This beautiful shortcut houses the aromatics in one jar of intensity and makes it possible to create Jamie Oliver’s Red Thai Chicken Soup with only five ingredients.  Basically, someone else has shopped the fresh aisle, then chopped and cooked down the aromatics to a thick paste that’s ready to set the stage for Thai cooking.

All of this aromatic chatter reminds be of a standby in many recipes from my past: Dry Onion Soup Mix.  Do people ever make onion soup out of this?  This seems like a kind of aromatic staple and reminds me of recipes found in hundreds of church cookbooks and Taste of Home magazine recipes.  While a super boost in flavor, I take a closer look at the sodium content and remember why I rarely use those boxes of envelopes in my cupboard that expired in… 2007.  Thinking about the bottled Red Thai Curry Paste, I should peek at its sodium content as well.

While recipes in this Taste of Home collection look tempting, dry onion soup mix is a world away from fresh celery, onion, and carrots building taste as they simmer away in a bit of butter.

Sources:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holy_trinity_(cooking)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mirepoix

https://www.seriouseats.com/chinese-aromatics-101-mild-ginger-scallion-garlic

https://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/chicken-recipes/thai-red-chicken-soup/

https://www.lindamalcolm.com/recipes/2019/11/17/irish-potato-chowder

https://www.tasteofhome.com/collection/soup-mix-recipes/

Back to Dining Out

A couple weeks ago, I went out to lunch with four friends and ordered a caprese sandwich, a simple sandwich known for luscious tomatoes, creamy mozzarella, and fresh basil.  We sat outside laughing and chatting under an umbrella while we waited for our food.  Finally, my meal was delivered in the form of an extra juicy tomato and wet cheese sandwich, with not a leaf of basil in sight.  I called the restaurant from the table outside and asked about the basil.  They were out.  I ate the soggy tomato and cheese lunch, but I couldn’t let it go.  I called the restaurant when I got home and said that a caprese without basil wasn’t really a caprese.  The manager apologized saying she had new staff who didn’t realize the importance of basil—or telling the customer if they were out of an ingredient.  She refunded the $13.00.

Saturday my husband Bill and I ventured out for dinner with two other couples.  I had snagged a table for six at a lively restaurant in Lynn, about twenty minutes from our house.  Our table wasn’t ready when we arrived, but the two-host staff quickly pulled three high tops together against a wall, leaving about sixteen inches for three of us to scooch into; the wives looked at one another and with a nearly non-present nod, we slid in.  The men sat across from us where their bar stools had more space.  We laughed, we chatted, we fell into one another’s smiles. 

After fifteen minutes of delight, I caught the eye of a host, waved her over, and quietly told her that we hadn’t been served.  She rushed to find a server who promptly appeared at our table with pen and paper in hand; she asked what she could start us off with. 

“Menus?”  I suggested, and then second-guessed myself.  Was there a sign with a QR code that we should’ve popped into our phones? Some restaurants had gone to electronic menus, skipping paper altogether.  Alas, paper dinner menus arrived, and following our request for cocktail menus, those appeared as well from the host staff. 

A dozen raw oysters were delivered with our other appetizers as an appeasement for the rocky start.  The calamari, baked brie, and fries with truffle oil were delicious.  The guys enjoyed the oysters.  Five dinners came out just as we finished the appetizers.  Oh, the joy of having a plate of hot food delivered to you!  Er, to them.  My plate didn’t arrive.  

I encouraged the others to start eating without me, for the waitress said mine would be arriving shortly.  For five minutes, we all continued chatting over their food.  I joked that my salmon was still on the hook, so when it arrived it would be incredibly fresh. Finally, a tap on the hostess’ shoulder and a request to follow up on my salmon resulted in our waitress returning to the table.  “I’m sorry but your dinner was given to another table.  The kitchen is making another one for you, and you won’t have to pay it.  Can I get you another round of drinks?” 

I had already splurged on my one drink for the evening, but the others were served up another round.  “Glad I could get that one for you!  I’m taking one for the team!”  Knowing my salmon had slipped from the hook, they all started eating their dinner.  I had no more salmon jokes, but I held tight to the smile on my face.

My friend next to me said, “You can have anything on my plate, really!”  Moms are so easy to spot; lovely and thoughtful, they’d give you the food off their plate.  My over-done salmon arrived as the others were nearly finished eating.  Long after the plates were zipped away, we continued in our huddle of laughter and discussion.  We were one of the last parties to leave the restaurant.

Memorial Day Monday, Bill and I went out to a diner for breakfast; the parking lot was full, so we were surprised to be immediately seated.  The diner was hopping with a large group of twelve and most of the tables full.  We ordered food, and I ordered a mocha latte, but the espresso machine was broken.  I settled for ice water.  We sat and sat and sat.  All diners must have rolled into the parking lot around the same time.

Twenty minutes later the table of twelve was served.  Dribs and drabs of food was delivered from the kitchen over the next few minutes.  Finally, a half hour after we had been seated, our food was delivered.  My scrambled eggs were steaming hot and were hiding the corn beef hash underneath.  Eggs are like chicken in that they can soak up any flavor, yet these eggs were little more than fork scrambled, fried in a thin crepe shape—no seasoning, nothing fancy, no hint of even a bit of salt.  Basic diner scrambled eggs.  I ate enough to get some protein, then remembered the words from Prue on The Great British Baking Show: “It must be worth the calories.”  She was talking about eating desserts, but the same sentiment applied to the plate-loaded-for-two in front of me. 

Our return to dining out was eye-opening: the experience wasn’t as it was before the pandemic.  Most certainly, there will be a learning curve as restaurants rev back up.  While staff need to be hired and trained, my expectations of service need to be adjusted. 

The other eye-opener?  We’ve been cooking most meals at home for at least 400 days.  We wobble close to what Malcolm Gladwell states about people, “outliers,” who succeed amazingly well in their field: They’ve put in 10,000 hours.  Quick math:  400 days x 24 hours = 9,600 hours since March 2020.  It feels like I’ve been planning for, dreaming about, foraging for, and preparing meals for approximately 10,000 hours. 

The result?  My scallops and salmon are exquisite; my vinaigrette is kick-ass; my scrambled eggs are sublime.  I can make mac’n’cheese and grilled cheese sandwiches in my sleep; my steaks (barring no fire in the grill and not running out of propane) come off the grill tender pink inside with black grill marks on the outside; my risotto is too dangerously creamy and satisfying to make more than once every couple of months.  I no longer need a roasted chicken from the deli to make homemade chicken and rice soup; I can roast chicken thighs, make broth from the skin and bones, and deftly toss in memorized ingredients to complete this soup—the making of which is more cathartic than is the eating of it.  I slice up apples and swivel out stems of strawberries as if my knife is a magical sword. 

Despite all of this deliciousness, daily my head feels like I’m completing complex calculus problems as I figure out what will come forth from my kitchen to feed four people who have vastly different preferences.  How to work enough roughage into the carb-preferred diet; how to add protein to a ramen noodle soup day; how to make that burger edible five hours after it’s come off of the grill; how to avoid gluten, carbs, and sugar bloat. 

For respite, what do I want in “eating out”?  Am I wanting someone else to slide a plate in front of me and be content with whatever it is—as long as I didn’t have to make it?  Or, do I expect the food on that plate to be elevated to the likes of Gordon Ramsay’s overly-thought-out-but-scrumptious scrambled eggs  or Jamie Oliver’s roast beef to die for? 

I have turned these questions inside out and backwards looking for the answer.  I’ve walked away from this writing four times because I couldn’t put the answer down; couldn’t come to clear decision.  I now realize I’m trying to answer this eating out question with the wrong parameters. 

Given what we’ve been through, contemplating the quality of food served feels petty as I read back through this.  More important are smiles, laughter, and chatting across a table.  Give me this, and I’ll happily eat anything, anywhere.  

I should repeat this mantra five times daily and post it on the back door as a reminder when we are on our way out to eat.

Back to It

May 29, 2021

Back in the quiet room at the library, I thought there would be a bigger crowd fifteen minutes after the doors opened this morning.  I’m the only one here, so I am sitting in my seat.  On the five-minute drive from my house, I had acknowledged that I probably wouldn’t be able to snag my same old seat; I thought there would be a crowd.  And, yet, here I sit.  All is the same as if the pandemic never happened; perhaps the historical books ringing the room are making the old-book-air smell a bit stronger than usual? My face cracked into tears when I approached my table.

My 10-year-old Facetime niece was at Mom and Dad’s yesterday.  “Aunt Linda, I will probably cry when I see you,” she announced, like that would be a bit of a thing we would have to get through when I came home.

FaceTime niece and me—in real time: 2019.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll cry when I see you, too,” I assured her.

Then she plugged her face tightly into the camera and did a finger swish between her and my mom who wasn’t yet on the screen, and she whispered, “Notice we don’t have masks on!”  Her wide-eyed face was lit with a knowing smile. 

Mom and Dad joined her at the table, pulling chairs in on either side of her.  She was right in the middle.  “All three of us won’t fit on the screen,” she announced.

I know this screen pretty well: When Mom and Dad are on Facetime at the kitchen table, sometimes I just see Dad’s left ear and Mom’s right ear.  Between them, I’ve kept an eye on the wall calendar in the corner of the kitchen.  We’ve cycled through 15 different monthly pictures on two calendars.  Throughout 2020, the calendar featured farm animals; they got that calendar from the feed store, as they normally do every year.  However, they hadn’t been to the feed store in the new year, so 2021 is a bird and flower calendar, I think; from where, I don’t know. Above the calendar are the hooks attached to a 12” long 1”x12” board for what seems to be 100 keys.  It’s where I hang the rental car key when I go home—except for the $900 key fob I accidentally threw into the garbage that was then incinerated in the burn barrel.  That happened on my last visit in December 2019.

Fly swatters hang to the right of the calendar, always at the ready for when there is a “damned fly” irking Dad. To the left of the calendar is a plate that has hung on the wall as long as I can remember.  “Come in sit down, converse. Our place doesn’t always look like this, sometimes it’s even worse.”  I have the same plate hanging in our entry way.

Occasionally, if Mom swings the camera so that Dad is in the center of the screen, I can see over his shoulder into the living room, and on the top shelf of the bookcase are our wedding photos: mine and my sister’s.  I know that more family photos, including my brothers’ wedding photos, cascade down the shelves that I can’t see.  The light blue curtain to the right let’s in the bright, early morning summer sunrises.  And in December, the sparkling Christmas tree will sit to the right of those shelves in front of the curtain. 

This year, I’ll be there for both seasons of light.

Flights to Iowa are booked for June 30th.

The Pelican Floor

Good morning from the full-size keyboard back in Massachusetts! 

Earlier this month, I was in Daytona Beach, Florida, with Will for the National Gymnastics Championship.  Over the past few years, his goal has been to make it to Nationals by the time he graduated from high school; he did it!  In fact, his competition was May 14th at 8:00 a.m. and his graduation was at 3:30 p.m. the same day.  We watched graduation on Zoom where his name was announced followed by the Latin phrase “in absentia.”  Will didn’t place in the top 30 that moved on to finals, but that’s OK—he had met his goal before he even competed: to qualify for Nationals.

One of Will’s long-time gymnastics buddies and his mom flew down to watch the competition and to spend the weekend with us.  It was good to reconnect after so many months apart.  “Good” isn’t an adequate word.  Much like “thank you” doesn’t convey all that is felt.  For many years, together with a dozen or so other families, we had been on the gymnastics circuit of gyms, hard seats, and post-meet meals together.  And weekends away at Hampton Inns.  Where I discovered my favorite pens: lightweight and smooth rolling…

In Daytona Beach, we stayed across the street from the Ocean Center where the competition was held.  This gave Will the freedom to walk over and watch hours and hours of competition.  We rented a condo so that we would have our own kitchen.  The first afternoon, I went grocery shopping, and it wasn’t until I was about five minutes from the condo that I realized I was in a conundrum: I had thirteen bags of groceries; we were on the 23rd floor; Will was asleep.  I spotted a luggage cart in the parking garage and snagged it.  It wasn’t a grocery cart: the bottom was designed to hold wide luggage not small plastic bags.  I stacked items precariously and willed them to stay on the cart as I backed it down a hill in the garage, through double doors, and up the elevator to the 23rd floor.  Not a thing fell off!  I’d forgotten how powerful “willing” can be.  This feat made me wonder: could I be a big city, skyscraper dweller, like our friends who live in New York City?

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I can’t remember when I last stayed that high up in a building.  While sitting on the balcony late in the afternoon on the first day, wide flying objects from the right startled me.  Thirteen pelicans glided by!  In my few travels to pelican populated areas, my memory of these big-beaked fliers is of them perched on an old piling near the water.  Whether that comes from real life or post cards, I don’t know, but to see them soaring by the 23rd floor… well, I felt like Will when he saw Big Ben for the first time: gleeful.  As I birdwatched throughout the day, I saw the pelicans fly low to the water in the morning.  Fishing?  Perhaps happy hour was celebrated with higher flights at the 23rd floor, with full bellies.

The first morning, I was up in time to watch the sunrise over the ocean from the balcony.  I felt a kinship with the people on the beach at 6:15 a.m.  One couple had spread out a quilt to watch the show.  A beach quilt. I have one in my van that my sister-in-law made for me when the boys were toddlers. A dozen people were standing perfectly still watching the eastern sky.  Once the sun cleared the horizon and the orange avenue of light on the ocean dissipated, the people came out of their trances and moved on their way.  I turned to see a slice of early morning light cast onto the bedroom wall; it reminded me of the sunrise in Iowa, but it wasn’t as orange as that light I wrote about three years ago. 

I put my shoes on and headed down for a walk on the beach, where there was a new set of early-morning-people.  I walked toward the pier down the beach from the condo.  At night the restaurant mid-pier gleamed with lights.  From the beach below the pier, the morning light coming through the pilings echoed light flowing into a church through a multitude of windows.  A white snowy egret marched along the smooth waves, cocking its head to look for bits of food; he was oblivious to the Light. It was that kind of Light, with a capital “L.”

During the day, I walked again to the pier this time with the intent of hanging with the people fishing off the end of the pier.  I found an empty spot where I could lean over and watch the lines to the left and right of me.  I had a brief conversation with a young couple from Georgia; they were fishing with shrimp and octopus.  “I hate live bait,” the pregnant woman said with a thick drawl.  I told her that I had grown up fishing with my granddad and threading nightcrawlers onto a hook to catch bullheads.  In the twenty minutes I stood on the pier, there wasn’t a single bite.  While I never would have put “fishing” and “meditative” together growing up, I think that’s what a good part of fishing is.  I wish I could go fishing today, but I can’t get past taking the fish off the line.  Whenever I caught a fish with Granddad, I’d walk my pole over to him.  Much like Grandma’s patience with grandkids at the game of Scrabble, Granddad spent most of his fishing time with grandkids taking fish of the hook and threading worms on.  I remember him getting poked many times by a bullhead’s spines hidden in the dorsal (top) and pectoral (side) fins.  Similar to a porcupine, bullheads pop those fins out when in danger.  I prefer hobbies that do not draw blood, but I do miss fishing.

To travel often means visiting new places for new experiences.  However, Daytona Beach nudged me to the past—clearing layers of dust and uncovering a menagerie of memories.  It felt “good” to reconnect with them.

Mountain Dirt and a Horseshoe Crab Shell

When I gave in to morning a few minutes ago, I left the sleepy world of dreams where Bill and I were both pregnant and Bill was experiencing morning sickness. 

I’m not a big dreamer nor do I normally remember the dreams I have; hence my trouncing out of bed at 4:30 to be rid of these.  I think the dictionary played a part in this, for the second definition of pregnant is “full of meaning; significant or suggestive.”  And that’s where we stand today, April 29, 2021.  After a strange melee of a year, I’m feeling more forward motion than spinning, and being so used to that spin, the forward motion is dizzying. 

Will’s last day of school is tomorrow; prom is tonight; the outdoor promenade is cancelled because of rain; Will needs to select a college by the end of the day May 1st.  And through all of these things, Will is the main actor as my supporting role grows smaller and smaller—just as it should be.  Yesterday morning, he announced that he was leaving for school saying that he probably wouldn’t be home until after gymnastics in the evening.  I left strawberries and grilled steak on the counter for him when I went to bed.  This independence feels natural and exciting—as long as I don’t think too long about the stage were leaving. 

Over spring break, Will and a buddy went up north to look at University of Vermont and then to ski Tuckerman, a big, wide open bowl on the side of Mt. Washington, the highest mountain in the Northeast.  Will planned the trip himself with no requests from Bill or me.  “Just check in on occasion, when you get to each destination, maybe?” I asked.  Short texts emanated from Vermont and New Hampshire over the next 36 hours as Will hiked four hours up Tuckerman with skis on his back then decided to summit Mt. Washington, which meant another hour and a half of vertical climbing, before skiing down.  All completed in his snow boots meant for sledding and building snowmen.

“Arrived at hotel.”

“Heading up!”

“At the top”

“Hiking down”

“It was good”

“Heading home”

Last week, I was picking up the back porch; it was littered with a couple weeks’ worth of residue.  I took a brush to the snow boots and hung them over the edge of the deck as I cleaned the dried dirt off of them.  Mountain dirt.  It made me smile.  I glanced down to the corner of the deck and saw the treasure Will had brought home from Rhode Island a few days after the trip of north: a twenty-inch long horseshoe crab shell he found on a beach.  With his sense of smell still missing from having COVID in December, he managed to carry this beast home on the back seat of his car.  Will bounded into the house with his bags and said, “Mom, you won’t believe the horseshoe crab shell I found!” Will knows that I’m a sea treasure fanatic; I went to retrieve it from his car.  When I opened the door, a whiff of old sea hit me.  Never have we seen such a big horseshoe crab shell! 

Fifteen years ago, we were in Iowa for a celebration that brought all of my family’s extended family and friends together, maybe an anniversary or a birthday?  Will was two years old and had discovered a short ramp inside the hall where we were all gathered.  For ages, he walked up and down the ramp—falling over and looking a bit befuddled at the slanted floor.  None of the falls brought tears, and he hauled himself up each time.  I kept a peripheral eye on him.  One of our neighbors had been watching him… and me.  “You know, a lot of moms would be over there picking their sons up each time they fell.  Good for you letting him work it out himself!”

That moment made me question whether I should’ve been more alert.  Were there others who thought the opposite—why isn’t Mom helping?  Still, there were no tears and Will was entertaining himself; his mostly yellow outfit would be a bit dirty by the end of the day and he might perhaps have a few bruises on his knees, but otherwise he’d be intact.  Without a doubt, that question of how-much-should-I-do? has been the one most self-asked throughout these seventeen years. 

Over the last year, I’ve learned to respond more than to interject.  I’m supporting the adventures rather than planning them.  And I’ll forever be thankful for one-line texts.

“Can you make a grilled cheese?”

Yes.  Any time.

The Barn Loft

When we moved to the Boston area in 2005, we bought a barn and moved into the house on the same lot.  We needed that barn to store all of the stuff we were bringing to thickly settled New England from the spacious Midwest.  And, just like the goldfish that grows to the size of its bowl, the barn is full. 

The main floor of the building is a three-car garage; the huge loft houses all past hobbies, seasonal decorations, old furniture, and mementos.  The dirt cellar stores outdoor furniture and miscellaneous junk that we aren’t ready to part with.  With the exception of the cars, this is how much of the stuff in this building could be categorized. 

In 2014, we had an extended family of squirrels make their way into the loft.  We hired a pest removal company to catch them one-by-one in live traps, for around $100 per squirrel.  In Massachusetts, at least back then, it was illegal to catch and release squirrels, so the pest company took them from our property and destroyed them.  In a few hundreds of dollars – er, days—they were gone, and we had someone come in to help us stop up the holes in the walls where the squirrels had entered. 

The loft would be a great spot for a man-cave or a she-shed.  In the wall facing the driveway, there is a large sliding patio door with a small deck and an octagonal window above it.  It faces east and the morning sun cascades into the space.  At the back of the barn is another small octagonal window high up toward the peak.  The old wooden roof beams rocket to the sky, mimicking the architecture of a church sanctuary.  The prior owners were working toward making this a poker room and had started plumbing a bathroom in the front corner.  The idea got no further than pipes sticking up through the floor that now act as tripping hazards.

Once the squirrels were gone, we found remnants of squirrel poop scattered throughout.  The patio door proved extremely useful at that point: we parked a big dumpster under the door and dropped damaged goods out from the deck above the dumpster.  Squirrel poop had an amazing effect on determining what was good and what was garbage.  What were we willing to clean poop off of in order to keep?  A powerful decluttering technique.

We get into the loft through a doorway in the back corner of the garage, on the ground level of the barn.  A long steel staircase runs up the back side of the barn.  Early in the spring of 2014, I opened the door and saw Christmas ornaments spewed down the stairs, together with the shoe box that had contained them.  Momentarily, I was convinced a human trespasser had been or still was in the loft.  I called out and listened for a reply.  Nothing.  That was my introduction to the squirrels in the loft.  The ornaments were not just boxes of red Christmas balls that could easily be replaced.  They were plaster of Paris, hand-painted ornaments that I had made in 1982.  I collected the broken pieces, rewrapped them in the strewn tissue paper, and tucked them back into the box.  I put the lid on it.  Last November, I handed the box to Bill to see if he could find glue to hold the pieces together.  Bill, an engineer, knows these things about materials and what kind of glue will hold.  I’m good with Elmer’s glue.  Read that as for seven years, I couldn’t bring myself to fix these ornaments, for I knew they would never be perfect again.  Bill worked his magic, and for Christmas, I laid the mended ornaments out on a table for a few days, then returned them to their box, wondering how to more safely display them in the future.

In early March, I carried out the last tub of winter decorations to put away in the loft.  At the loft door, I loudly knocked three times and called out, “Coming up!”  If there are any small animal species up there, I want them to know I’m coming up.  And they should go hide.  This is how I have entered the loft ever since the squirrel incident in 2014.

All of our seasonal decorations are in the loft.  They are stored in rodent-poop-proof tubs.  We’ve been in the house for 16 years, and now as seasons roll around the prospect of pulling these tubs down from the loft and across the drive to the house, especially in snow, appeals to me less and less. I went up to look through the Easter tubs ten days before the holiday.  I had to dig past three craft tubs to find the two Easter tubs—they were to the right of the twenty Christmas tubs. As I dug through those big plastic vessels, I decided that the spring decorations I already had on display, blue and yellow vases and flowers, would be more utilitarian and last for the months of spring rather than just the week of Easter.  The baby chicks and bunnies would not be making an appearance. 

Then, having a change of heart, on Maundy Thursday, I made two trips to the loft and brought down an armful of Easter decorations each time.  I left my sons’ childhood Easter decorations in the tubs.  I brought in glass rabbit bowls, a wicker Easter basket, and metal silhouettes of a light green bunny and a light yellow chick.  Each are about ten inches tall and have small white light bulbs around their perimeter that light up.  I flanked the blue vase on the mantle with these creatures.

This past winter, Bill entertained the thought of setting up an indoor net in the loft where he could hit golf balls when snow was on the ground.  We went up to the loft one time together.  With few words we came back down.  Overwhelmed.  A dumpster was needed.

I returned to the loft a few days later on my own; I thought I’d look specifically for documents that could be destroyed—a starting point for perhaps making room for a golf net next winter.  Four boxes of tax papers and old bills, dated from the early 2000s, would be a good start at thinning out the loft.  A week later, Bill and I went up together so I could show him which ones could be shredded.  After I pointed out those boxes, I picked off the lids of a few others with mysterious labels thinking we could each take one box into the house to sort.  “Bill’s stuff from June’s loft” was written on one tardis.  This box from his mum’s loft looked compact and therefore easy to deal with.  However, it was as deceiving as our ranch-style house that we lived in when we were first married.  The house looked small from the front, but inside, the rooms strung out toward the backyard and to the side behind the garage.  The steps to the basement revealed a lower level the full length of the house that was invisible from the street.  And the patio door in the basement opened up to a three-quarter acre lot filled with perennial flowers and a lush green lawn.  This smallish box in the loft was that complex.  And, it was a time machine.

Boxes like this are the reason I do not want to start this clearing-out-the-loft project.  One box can be cavernous in memories and in the decision-making of what to keep and how to store the treasures.  Bill was catapulted to his childhood with an A-level test book, an old yearly planner, various medals, and his judo certificate among the artifacts.  Similarly, I lifted another box lid to find a cloth bag full of papers, and out of the top peeked a letter.  “Dear Linda,” in my grandma’s handwriting.  I would take this one bag to the house and go through it.  It was a start.  A tiny start.  I left Bill in his tardis and made my way back to the house. 

I held the bag by the handles as I brought it into the house, and all the papers settled to the bottom of the bag.  My grandma’s handwriting had shifted and sunken into the pile.  I grabbed a handful of greeting cards and pulled them onto the counter.  I’ve only started recycling hand-written cards in the last couple of years, and every time it pains me to place them into the bin.  In this bag were cards from family, friends, acquaintances, and strangers—friends of friends.  They were sent to me in 2009 and 2010, the breast cancer years. 

In those chemo days when my immune system was compromised, I lived relatively close to home.  I wore gloves to the grocery store and had coffee once a week with two dedicated Tuesday-we-have-coffee-and-normal-non-cancer-conversation friends.  Otherwise, I avoided public places and pre-school events where there might be snotty-nosed kids, and even kept my distance from my two sons if they had a fever or a cough. 

Back then, those cards stood in for physical connections.  Finding and reading them this week did the same thing again.  The wishes were still warm some twelve years after they were written, and their balm welcome in the thirteenth month of the pandemic.  I’m now set on the task of finding a place to keep them—well away from the recycling bin. I cannot yet part with the warmth that flooded over me from this small collection of paper.

The Professional Golfer

I’ve FaceTime’d with my mom and dad most days since March 2020.  Sometimes we just raise our eyebrows at one another, shake our heads at the events of the day, and confess we have nothing to say. 

Sometimes my husband Bill has a project going, and if Dad is on the other end, I flip the camera around so Dad can get in on the action.  In addition to being a professional golfer—an unpaid professional golfer—Bill has also dipped into the glories of design and construction geekdom. 

(After I mentioned that Bill was “retired” in my last musing, Bill corrected me with his actual title of “professional golfer,” backslash “unpaid.”) 

The major equipment that Bill-the-engineer frequently uses includes a 3D printer, an electric whet stone to sharpen knives, and most recently a log splitter was added to the mix. One Sunday afternoon this winter, Dad watched Bill sharpen knives on the kitchen counter for twenty minutes.  Satisfying for both guys, I think. 

(Local people, please read this as free kitchen knife sharpening available.) 

I asked Bill if, as a professional golfer, he’s ever bored: never.  And he added that he sleeps without the work worry that chased his dreams for the fifteen years we’ve lived in New England.

New construction is much more thrilling than repairs.  Since we’ve lived in New England, if a fence blew down or the hot water heater stopped working, I used to call a repairman as chances were that Bill was traveling for work when those events occurred.  Now, I text Bill. “Do you want to look at this or shall we call someone?”  If you want to crawl under professional golfer/engineer’s skin, suggest that you call a professional to fix something before a proper consultation with said professional golfer/engineer.

Bill has consulted for start-ups a bit, and in that process, he has learned how to use the latest and greatest design software.  Weekly there is manufacturing happening in the Malcolm house as Bill designs products on the software and then prints them on his 3D printer.  This feels like a little bit of magic dust sprinkled over utilitarian problems. 

My all-time favorite 3D-printed adaptation, from the 25 or so in the last year, is the flashlight holder mounted to the handle of the grill.  The grill sits outside our kitchen window, and on dark winter evenings, we couldn’t see the grill temp from inside.  Bill designed a gadget that holds a little flashlight in place to shine on the grill thermometer.  We can easily see when the grill is hot enough to add meat, and also when it has surpassed 800 degrees—an indication of fire in the hole.  The frog and the rose that Bill 3D-printed for me are quirky and whimsical, but that flashlight bracket made my heart sing on cold winter evenings.  

This is Bill’s 3D printer, and the white block in the middle is a 15-hour project: the down spout insert to divert water to the rain barrel.

Today, Bill is designing and printing a rain barrel spout to insert into our down spout so our rain barrel is functional this season.  We bought it a year ago from the town, but it hasn’t functioned properly because the spigot was missing—and it was haphazardly collecting rainwater from the heavens rather than directly from a down spout. 

Last week, Mom and I were comparing to-do lists of those things that should be done but didn’t have a deadline, so they just trailed along in life like an unwanted wart.  I mentioned that I needed to call the town as surely a spigot should’ve been included in the purchase price.  “Have you looked inside the barrel?” Mom asked.  That afternoon, I sent her a picture of three spigots floating in the mucky water inside the barrel. 

In the same Facetime session, I told Dad that Bill was hand splitting logs that were too big to go on the log splitter and that his ax kept getting stuck.  “Well, he needs a splitting maul,” Dad said.  Later that afternoon, I saw a photo on Bill’s computer with the caption something to the effect of “Using an ax versus a splitting maul”—probably a result of the Googled question “Why is my ax getting stuck in the wood such that I have to pry the wood apart with crowbars to get it out?”

We’ve lived our married life without family in the area, and we know no difference as this is the way it’s always been.  Yet these two events made me think how different the day-to-day would be if Mom or Dad occasionally dropped in.  Dad would have immediately noticed the rain barrel and curiously inspected it, noticed the hole in the side where the spigot should be, and had the lid off to look for the spigot.  Similarly, he probably would have said, “Bill, let’s fire up that log splitter and see how it works.”  And in that vein, together they would’ve discovered the logs too big for the splitter, had a discussion over Bill’s chopping ax, and then ridden together to a DIY store to find a splitting maul.  In the end, both jobs are done, just in a rather round-about, independent fashion.

After adequate consultation, we’ve decided to call in professionals to fix the furnace, the fence, and the lawn.  For there are down spouts to be designed and golf to be played.

Planning Backwards

I like to think of myself as thriving while teetering on a fence that divides routine and change.  Dipping my toes into the goodness on either side, alternating between the excitement of new and the comfort of the known.  Thinking myself a real woman of adventure, I once told a friend that I love the change of seasons—that newness that comes with every tilt of the earth either away or toward the sun.  She replied, “But it’s the same every year.”

I’m taking an executive functioning class with my 15-year-old son Liam.  The systems of middle school fell away with his move to a new high school, and together, we thought taking this class would be a good way to build a skillset to plan and organize, manage time, and prioritize goals and tasks.  My thought is to build and use the skillset in the confines of high school so that when Liam goes to college, the foundation of this strategy will be in place.  The instructor requires a parent to join their child in the class, and it didn’t take the instructor long to realize that our family was getting a two-for-one deal.

We’re nearing the end of the nine-week course; we meet via Zoom once a week.  We are in the thick of application: logistics.  It’s one thing to learn “how” in an ivory tower, but the magic of any education is in the “how-to.”  Last week, we planned backwards from the due date to complete an imaginary three-page research paper.  The steps were concrete and logical from breaking down tasks in the project and assigning each of them times to opening a calendar and choosing specific days to complete each task.  Looking at a paper calendar and fitting the tasks around other commitments moved the lofty project to reality. 

Over the years as a mom in a family, I’m at the hub of… well to be brief, making shit happen.  Looking for a draw to join our family of four to one room, I’ve suggested to my family that we should watch the new Avenger series “Wanda Vision.”   I’ve only seen a few Avenger movies, so to get into this new series, my sons suggested we watch a few movies to brush up on Wanda and Vision’s history.  For most Avenger characters, it’s easy to see their special abilities: Ironman builds a full body of armor around himself, Thor couldn’t do much without his hammer, and Captain America has a boomerang shield.  Then, there’s Wanda.  She holds balls of electro-fire in her hands and pushes and pulls and throws things; if it’s a particularly challenging task, her eyes glow red.  I asked my sons what her superpower was, and they replied rather something to the effect that she can move things around.  How?  They weren’t sure. 

In the early comic strips when Wanda first appeared, she was called the Scarlett Witch and was credited with magic and telepathy.   However, Wanda has evolved on-screen to use more telekinesis: “her ability to move and manipulate objects with her mind.”  Watching Wanda in action, using her power to push and pull objects into place, feels… well, like she’s making shit happen in a way that no one really understands—because she’s doing it without an iron skin, a hammer, or a shield.  She’s simultaneously an enigma to some and a touchstone to many.

Back to human reality… Looking at my calendar, I notice major gaps.  Commitments have fallen away.  Some have fallen suddenly and quietly like ashes to the earth, from traveling to see family and friends and eating out with friends at restaurants to in-person book signings. Others were more predictable given the passage of time, yet they have left a hole.  At the beginning of September, Will got his driver’s license.  While excited for him and this new independence, I knew I would miss our daily conversations to and from the gym.  What was more surprising was how those driving commitments anchored time on my calendar like stone cairns marking paths on a mountain. 

For years, my weekly calendar has been built around our family’s commitments.  And within the space of a couple years, and pointedly within the last six months, those cairns are gone.  My husband Bill has retired.  Will drives himself.  Liam makes ramen.  My seasons have shifted.  My planning backwards is no longer predicated on using Wanda powers in the same way as before. 

For many beginnings of school years, it took the month of September to massage the seasonal school calendar into place.  When the boys were younger, I naively looked to September as the place where waters would calm with new routines.  However, it took September to set and settle into the routines.  October was the month of new calm.  Once the family’s commitments were set, I could plan backwards from them and fill in the empty spaces for myself.  This year, when Will’s gymnastics calendar reset, I lived for weeks thinking I needed to get his practice and coaching times on the family calendar.  That task hovered like a gray cloud pointing to the undone. About a month ago, I realized that there was no reason to put his precise gym schedule on my calendar: Whether to practice or to coach, Will drives himself to the gym.  He’s never at home in the evenings and eats dinner late.  Cairns dissolve.

In the coming months, there will be a few Will-outliers on the calendar: graduation, college selection, and college move in dates.  As for picking Liam up from school, Bill golfs near the school, so he likes to golf nine then swing through the pick-up lane.  More cairns dissolve.  To get my executive functioning functioning properly again, my points from which I plan backwards need to be redefined. 

As I look forward, I remember back to a spurt of rock climbing Liam did a few years ago.  Climbing straight up on a rock wall builds confidence so that when that challenge is no longer a challenge—through time or choice, the next wall tilts outward, defies gravity a bit, and forces the climber to rely on old skills while building new.  

Surely, Wanda powers are transferable.

Yoga and the Nude

I’ve had the unforgettable Zoom moment.  Late Sunday afternoons, I sometimes do yoga with a group of friends on Zoom.  In my bedroom, a trunk corrals my rolled up floor mats, bands, belts, balls, pillows, and other exercise equipment.  At the foot of our bed is a long seat where I prop my iPad.  A few minutes before class, whether Pilates, yoga, Qi Cong, or body mapping, I find the Zoom link and open it up; then I roll out my mat, gather equipment I might need, and make the bed. 

I adjust my mat so that the middle of it is centered with the middle of the headboard.  Hyper-focusing on a point in front of me to maintain balance when standing on one leg is easier to do when my bed is made, and I can stare at the Zen center of the middle-most pillow of the eight on the bed. Making our bed is like building a sculpture every morning. Bill goes along with it; I’ve removed all pillows from the couch where he sits in the living room to offset this morning pillow task.

I was following this early bird strategy one Sunday and logged in ten minutes early to my yoga class.  I was surprised to see the instructor already in her box and another friend in hers.  Like a tail-wagging dog greeting its owner after a long absence, I leaned over waving and smiling and saying “hi” to these human forms.  Smiles and “hellos” came across the screen.  I glanced at my own box and realized that a good portion of my screen was filled with cleavage, for in the excitement to see my friends, I had leaned over into the screen rather than sat down in front of it.  I quickly lowered myself onto the floor to be level with the screen.

No more had I sat down, than I heard a man’s voice.  My yoga instructor teaches from her bedroom, and her husband’s words “…the camera’s not on, is it?” came from stage right just seconds before he entered the screen.  Stark naked he crossed behind her to get his shorts from the other side of the room.  “Yes, it’s on…” or words to that effect were being spoken as he entered the scene. 

I hit the mute button, rolled my body off screen, and flattened onto the floor as I listened to the argument unfold on stage.  I think my friend was too flustered to change the connection, for the audio and video stayed live while they argued over the mishap.  Meanwhile, off-camera, I erupted with a gut-busting laugh—the kind we used to have sitting with friends and telling stories, where a couple of us would be left wobbling like jelly and unable to speak.  I had forgotten how good the turbulence felt from an uncontrollable laugh that shakes the whole body.

No amount of hyper-focus on an autostereogram-like pillow, reminiscent of those dotted wall posters from the 1990s, will let me unsee the sight or unfeel that deep chortle.

Scallop Dinner Salad

Most nights of the week, we have a salad with dinner.  Last night I had a salad for dinner.  I know my metabolism has shriveled, and I know that my body doesn’t need evening fuel to go to bed.  Ideally, most of the fuel should be taken in earlier in the day.  If anything, too much fuel in the evening disrupts sleep.  A bowl heaped with Bill’s homemade Bolognese sauce adorning long strings of spaghetti is a luxurious dinner, yet that ball of carbs in my gut makes me thrash during the night.  A dinner salad moves the needle in the other direction, lightening up that evening meal.

Little Leaf Farms has spoiled us throughout the year with locally grown, fresh baby lettuce leaves.  According to Paul Sellew, CEO of Little Leaf, 95% of the lettuce in our stores is grown and shipped from California and Arizona—a 3,200-mile trek.  Grown hydroponically in 10-acres of green houses, Little Leaf lettuce is picked and immediately shipped in recycled and recyclable plastic cartons that protect the leaves.  The crispy leaves lay gently in the carton and are a sharp contrast to their bagged cousins that have been squished into boxes for their cross-country journey.  Sellew, a long-time proponent of sustainable agriculture, broke ground on this new way of farming in 2015.

Steadfast on my weekly schedule over the last year has been Pilates on Monday and Wednesday mornings and visiting my fishmonger’s truck on Saturday mornings.  That’s the fancy term for Roberto’s Seafood.  Or rather, Bob.  In good weather months, Bob is at our local farmer’s market.  Thankfully, his tenaciousness to sell fish year-round shines like a beacon when from a distance I spot his fish truck parked in the same spot near a park every Saturday morning.  The line—that was eight people deep and spaced six feet apart on a Saturday morning with a wind-chill of -25—speaks to the quality of his fish.  Seeing these bundled up beings made me think these were my people.  I don’t know if I knew any of them; all of our identities were masked through layers, hoods, and masks.   My base weekly purchase of fish protein is one pound of scallops and a heavy pound of salmon.  I usually add one or two more pounds of mussels, haddock, swordfish, clams, oysters, shrimp, calamari, or tuna. 

The scallops and salmon are as easy to prepare as Maid-rites.  After a rinse, the salmon gets a sprinkling of Northwoods Seasoning from Penzey’s Spices and bakes uncovered at 375 for 25 minutes.  As for scallops, I give them a quick rinse, dry them on paper towels, sprinkle with a little salt and many generous twists of fresh black pepper.  In a big flat-bottomed pan over medium-high heat, I put enough extra virgin olive oil in to make a veiled slick on the bottom of the pan.  When the oil is hot, I place the scallops peppered side down, twist more pepper onto the tops, cover loosely, and leave them for three minutes.  I don’t have a lid for my big skillet, so I cover it with a round pizza pan to stop the fat from covering the stovetop, but I leave a big gap on one side for the steam to escape.  At three minutes, I fork-turn them over, again loosely cover, and cook for three more minutes.  That’s it—no guessing on more or less time in the pan.  I immediately loosen and roll them into a bowl to remove them completely from heat.  Rubbery scallops are a result of overcooking, and I think it’s better to eat them lukewarm and tender than to let them sit in a hot pan while the rest of the meal comes together.  Adding this protein to a salad makes a hard pivot from side salad to dinner salad. 

For dinner last night, the stars aligned: an avocado and a pear were ripe at the same time!  While the scallops seared, I chopped this pair for the salad.  For a boost in protein, I also chopped up a boiled egg and threw it into the mix.  Still foraging for protein, I dug in the freezer until I found a bag marked in Mom’s handwriting, “Walnuts 2019.”  Black walnuts. I heated my small dry roasting skillet on the stove and unzipped the bag and sighed at the smell of the frozen, hand-picked treasure.  Liam was cooking with us and asked if it smelled good.  I held the bag out for him to sniff.

Liam looked at me doubtfully.  “Smells like socks.” 

Yes, I could understand how their earthy smell could be misconstrued. 

“Just wait until they’re roasted,” I suggested. 

Liam doubted.  

I scoop a couple of handfuls of frozen bits into the pan over high heat then flip them continuously with a flick of my wrist.  The heat releases the papery inner skins, the seed coats, and they billow up out of the pan like ash floating from a bonfire.  When they start to brown, I dump them onto a clean dish towel and rub them to remove any remaining skin.  The black walnuts smell like clean earth now.  They smell like Iowa.  They deftly pull tears like an onion.

In a large metal bowl, Liam has dumped a box and a half of lettuce and dressed it with our strong, homemade vinaigrette.  At this point, we spoon leaves out into a small bowl, for Liam is a simple side-salad kind of guy.  The salad is the warm-up to his beef tostados that Bill is making next to me.  To the remainder of the leaves, I add the pear, avocado, hard-boiled egg, crumbled blue cheese, and walnuts.  I toss it all together and distribute it into bowls for Bill and me.  I drop warm scallops on top and finish it off with a few twists of pepper. 

I borrow an ending from the essay “Swiss Chard with Cod” that is in my book, Cornfields to Codfish:

“…a smattering of people from the Midwest and Northeast all had a hand in making this dinner.”

Sources:

https://www.littleleaffarms.com/our-story/

https://www.facebook.com/robertosseafood

https://www.penzeys.com/online-catalog/northwoods-seasoning/c-24/p-423/pd-s

https://www.lindamalcolm.com/musings/2019/9/13/black-walnuts

https://www.lindamalcolm.com/musings/2021/1/19/emulsification

Maid-Rites

Two packages of ground beef were haunting my fridge for a few days.  They were sealed in Cryovac plastic, so the meat looked fine.  In their Malcolm fridge travels, they had gotten shoved to the back of the fridge where they froze solid for three days.  Better them than the lettuce. I brought the hard, flat cubes out to the front to thaw so I could make taco meat for dinner the next day.

A sense of relief washed over me when I opened the packages and dumped the contents in a pan.  The meat was fine.  As it started to brown, I mashed it into small bits with my potato masher.  My actions were shadowed by a memory of Mom doing the same thing years ago when she owned the Snack Hut, a pre-cursor to the modern day food truck.  Mom took the snack hut to farm and estate auctions; she sold hotdogs, chips, candy, sodas, coffee, hot chocolate and loose meat sandwiches—Maid-Rites—to the crowd as they wandered by the hut.  To prepare for the sale, Mom would cook five or ten pounds of ground beef in a large pot using the potato masher to break up the meat.

I was cooking the taco meat around lunch time, and I was planning on heating it up for dinner.  When it was fully browned, I dumped it into a colander with a bowl underneath to drain and catch the fat.  That’s when two spoonfuls of beef jumped ship declaring they were actually Maid-Rites; they had no intent of becoming tacos.

If there is anything simpler than tacos to make, it’s Maid-Rites. The mounds of beef sat obediently on the hamburger buns.  They held the shape of the slotted spoon I’d used to scoop beef, press it against the side of the colander, and, with a pancake flipping motion, transfer it to the buns.  When Mom bought the Snack Hut from a neighbor who herself had operated it for years, the Maid-Rite spoon came with the Hut.  It was a long-handled commercial utensil with slotted fingers, and it made a perfectly sized mound of Maid-Rite meat.

Evidence points to a butcher in Muscatine, Iowa, who first cooked this “loose meat sandwich” back in 1926.  Fred Angell combined “a special cut and grind of meat and selected blend of spices” together.  When a deliveryman tried Fred’s concoction and declared, “This sandwich is made right,” the Iowa-based franchise—with a slightly different spelling—was born.  Today there are 32 franchises in the Midwest, the majority of them are scattered around Iowa. 

The condiment options Mom served on Maid-Rites were simple: catsup, mustard, pickles, onions, and cheese.   Catsup and cheese are my go-to’s.  And chips on the side provide a spoon to scoop up the meat that falls out of the bun as you eat it.  And no matter how much you cradle your fingers around a white hamburger bun filled with loose meat, their will be last-best-bits remaining on the plate. 

Over the decades, home cooks have breathed their own secrets into their versions of Maid-Rites.  Since the ground beef yesterday was on its way to becoming taco meat, my Maid-Rites were plain—no salt or pepper.  A friend of mine in Des Moines, Iowa, just posted her version of Home Made Maid Rites—Loose Meat Sandwich: An Iowa Tradition. Her Maid-Rite is seasoned five-fold over my basic version: salt, pepper, sugar, mustard, and onion.  Some folks add Worcestershire sauce or soy sauce.  These ingredients add a unique spin on the original. 

There is one ingredient that can’t be added to the meat as it cooks: catsup.  Catsup crosses a line.  At that point, what was a Maid-Rite becomes a Sloppy Joe.  And that loose meat sandwich has questionable origins.  Some believe Ernest Hemingway brought the recipe to Florida from Havana, Cuba.  Others believe that in the 20’s or 30’s a diner cook in Sioux City, Iowa, first added tomato sauce to loose meat.  That cook’s name?  Joe. Of course.

Sources:

http://maid-rite.com/history.php

https://illhavewhatsheishaving.wordpress.com/2021/02/21/she-is-cookin-up-new-recipes-in-quarantine/

https://www.culinaryhill.com/loose-meat-sandwich-maid-rite-copycat/

https://www.wideopeneats.com/sloppy-joe/

Check-in with Liam

My 15-year-old son Liam is three inches or so taller than me.  His wit exceeds mine by a noticeable amount.  His wordplay stops me in my tracks. 

Liam started high school this year: a freshman at a new school last fall.  Of all years.  In a personal weepy moment one late summer afternoon, I was lying with Liam head to tail in the hammock. We were having a chat.  I was lamenting over this year being so strange for him, in a new place, not knowing anyone.  To my tears, he replied, “It’s one year!  I’ll be fine.  I’ll have three more years of high school after this.”  His prediction about freshman year was pretty accurate. Whether in-person or remote, Liam speaks up in class, asks questions, and shares his wit in rooms full of what started out as strangers.

I had a leaky couple of days this week after a virtual coffee with the head of school.  The head talked about how crappy it is that the seniors, including our older son Will, are missing those traditional senior events.  The “lasts”—concerts, proms, class trips, etc.—happened without us realizing they were the last.  Liam caught me teary-eyed in the dining room.  “Oh, Mom… don’t cry. You know I’m alright—right, Mom?”  Then he gave me one of those over the shoulder hugs I used to give my shrinking grandma. 

Last week, when I filled the last page of my notebook-come-journal, I went to the supply cupboard to find a new one.  Well, new to me.  There are no true new ones, only those that the boys didn’t finish in a given school year.  Those ones I tore the used pages out of and kept the blank, used notebooks.  I happened onto a doozy of a drawing on the very first page that I hadn’t ripped out.  I recognized the writing and knew it was Liam’s sketch.  The humor in it gives me a little boost every time I open the journal, and I give thanks that we never had catsup packets around the house when Liam was in elementary school.