Category: Uncategorized

Summer Eating

Some days, I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about what to make for dinner. I may start first thing in the morning or while I am making a salad or sandwich to take to work. I assess what’s in the refrigerator and imagine turning my on-hand ingredients into a meal everyone will love. By 3 pm, I’m planning in earnest, deciding if I need to stop on the way home to pick something up. From Trader Joe’s it might be cheese (a great selection and reasonably priced) or from Whole Foods – a whole-wheat lavash or, around the corner from us, Stew Leonard’s for a good piece of meat or chicken.

From June through October, the menu is determined by what what I pick up on Wednesday in my CSA share.  If there’s corn in the box, I’ll boil water so we can eat it right away since the sooner corn is eaten after picking, the more delicious it is. A bounty of torpedo onions over the past couple of weeks became French Onion soup on one of last week’s rainy, cool days by caramelizing thinly sliced onions for close to an hour with a dash of some dry booze and some beef stock. I threw a chunk of baguette into each bowl (SoNo Bakery – gorgeous small-batch bread) grated and melted jarlsberg on top. Yum.

Last week, our meals were particularly tomato and egg-centric.  Our CSA box has been heavy with luscious tomatoes and we took care of our neighbors’ 7 chickens.  Every afternoon, we walked down to their yard and pulled open the coop door to release the clucking mass of feathers so they could peck the grass while we raked their pen, gave them more food and were rewarded with an average of 5 exquisite little eggs a day. (much more fun than taking care of a cat!)

An omelette filled with sauteed shallots and swiss chard one night, scrambled eggs with black beans, jalapeno and corn folded into a lavash, both got smothered with fresh salsa. With my handy little chopping gadget, it takes only moments to turn a tomato, a jalapeno from my own garden, cilantro, half an onion and a squeeze of lime juice, into a tangy sauce.

Today:  green beans, very bitter arugala, handful of potatoes, peppers, tomatoes, basil and those beautiful little eggs… fritata? My favorite food sites are always full of inspiration: http://www.101cookbooks.com/, http://markbittman.com/, http://www.thewednesdaychef.com/the_wednesday_chef/ and http://www.breakawaycook.com/blog/

Beyond Noise

From where I sit at the table by the window, lit by a slant of morning sun, the hum of the highway sounds louder than usual. Most of the time, the traffic is white noise, a whooshing punctuated by the louder roars of trucks, motorcycles. There are few places in Norwalk to escape the sound of automobiles. On the other side of town, the Meritt Parkway is another artery of noise. And in-between these two major roadways is the Post Road – a constant shifting gears as cars and buses crawl along between stop lights.

The best chance to escape is on the Long Island Sound, early in the morning or in the evening, and better on a weekday.  But even out on the water, there is rarely silence. Motor boats speed by, sending heaving waves into our boat. But worst is the hysterical motor-grinding of jet-skis around and around.  And of course, there are always airplanes, although the drone is so distant and quickly gone, they are easy to ignore.

Usually, I try not focus on man-made noises, instead tuning-in to sounds like summer insects. The volume of the Cicadas seems to change as the temperature does and at night, there is a different chorus of blaring bugs.  I notice the birds: the soft-drumming of a Downy Woodpecker on the stump of elm, the chirps of the Cardinal family, the weird, squawking Parrots (yes, Parrots!) swooping through to eye our trees. I let the dog out to bark at them, hoping to discourage nest-building intentions. Out by the butterfly bush, bees vibrate by and dragon-flys so close, I hear the extraordinary flutter of their wings.

Of course, I prefer these sounds of nature to the cacophony of man so try to cultivate a selective awareness.  There’s the key: of course my state-of- being affects my perceptions, and this week, I have been tightly wired and not particularly ‘conscious’. Triggered perhaps, by anticipating my daughter’s return from England and the always stressful trip to the airport to retrieve her.  She is home now, safe and sleeping upstairs, but the discombobulated feeling remains. Even the usually unobtrusive soundtrack of my daily life unsettles me.  After days of being irritated by everything around me, I admit to being the source of my own discomfort. I suspect it is because I have not been writing nor doing yoga – my anchors to peace.

Less than an hour ago, my focus was on what seemed the maddening noise of the highway. As my attention shifted, it was the birds I heard, the neighbor calling to her children, my fingers tapping on this keyboard, and finally, as I reel myself in closer to my elusive center, I find silence.

Tetley

Last night, we lost our dog.  It was almost dark when Tetley slipped out the door past me as we returned from a sunset-kayak.  I imagined him running out to greet Rob who was in the driveway pulling the boat off the car. A few minutes later, I was in the kitchen making dinner and hearing Rob come in the front door, called to him to please get Tetley back inside.  Usually, it only takes the sound of cutlery to bring Tetley dashing into the kitchen eager for a handout, so I was surprised he had yet to make an appearance.

Rob whistled and called into the shadowy yard and across to the neighbors’ house. His Maltese girlfriend lives there and her owners often grill dinner outside, the smokey meat smells irresistible to him.  No neighbors and no Tetley.  Wild animals venture out at this hour – particularly skunks. It’s been awhile since he’s tangled with one but I wanted it to be longer still.  I abandoned our dinner of tomatoes and arugala and joined Rob outside in calling and whistling, walking along the densely wooded section.  Earlier in the afternoon, Tetley dashed over through the neighbor’s yard towards those woods before I halted him with a stern command to come back.  He’s a good dog and he did – but perhaps, he’d remembered his earlier aborted adventure and snuck away to continue it.

I walked slowly along the overgrown stretch, calling and whistling, aiming my flashlight into the leaves. Another neighbor, out on his porch for a smoke, warned me about the family of raccoons that venture out from the wood every night. He joined me in calling “Tetley!” at the top of our lungs.  I heard his bark, just twice – it sounded like it was coming from somewhere in there. At least he was alive.

In over a decade of living here, I never ventured into this stretch of overgrown wood backing onto about 6 houses on the neighboring street but I was going in tonight. I hurried home and changed into jeans, sweatshirt, rubber boots and garden gloves (poison ivy) and climbed up over the rocks into those woods I have peered into or ignored so many thousands of times over the years. Rob lit the way for me as I ducked under branches, shuffled through the crackling leaves and branches, all the while, calling to Tetley and begging him to bark again.  We imagined him stuck in a hole. ‘Ratter’ that he is, he often pursues creatures between rocks and into their dens. Was he stuck?  I heard a bark again.  Strong at least but I couldn’t figure out from where.  Why wasn’t he coming to us?

Rob drove around the block, whistling and calling.  I returned home and stood by the end of our property staring into the dark, willing him to bark again, staring hard into the shadows as if he might appear, tail wagging, ears alert.  How we love this dog!  And to make matters worse, M’s away in England until Tuesday.  What if we never find him? Enough with dear ones disappearing out of her life. I cannot imagine having to deliver such news to her again.

I was angry when my late husband came home with this tiny Cairn Terrier hidden in his big coat.  It was an evening close to Christmas and I sat reading in bed and my daughter lay sprawled at the foot of it, watching television.  He came into the room grinning as he flashed open his big woolen coat to reveal to me, a scruffy puppy.  Furious, I motioned to him to follow me downstairs, whispering to him as we left the room, “I said I didn’t want a dog!”  We had fostered a huge Golden Lab who terrorized our cat and although love-able, at one point, dragged M across the yard as she held onto the leash. We’d also attempted to adopt a Golden Retriever who had too many health problems for my patience or pocket book.  We were already struggling financially and emotionally with N’s addiction and I knew that a dog would just be one more thing for me to care of.

“All right. I’ll take him back,” he said, pressing the little guy to his chest. I thought: M will find out how I rejected the puppy and I’ll forever be the witch.  He was cute. And at least he was small.  In spite of myself, I touched him and that was it – I knew he was ours.  I followed N back upstairs as he announced to M he had a surprise for her and delivered little Tetley into her arms and she burst into tears of happiness.

Tetley is almost eight years old now and I cannot imagine my life with out him. None of us can.  He is Rob’s mascot, taking him with him whenever he can, even to work, tucked under his arm and ready to greet everyone with a lick and a wag.

Almost ten o’clock and my stomach in knots. Rob made a run to the store to buy bacon, sure the smell would entice Tetley to give up his pursuit of rodents or climb out of any hole, no matter how deep.  Out on our back deck, I wept, calling, whistling, straining to hear through the cacophony of insects for another bark. Rob opened the windows and turned on the fan in hopes of driving the smell of cooking meat outside.  I took his leash – another thing that inspires joy in him – and decided to walk around the block clicking it and calling.   He’d been gone for hours.

Tetley is not a wanderer, never venturing much beyond the border of the hedge that surrounds the yard.  I peered into the darkness of the woody yard of every house. Could he have gotten into and trapped in someone’s house or shed?  Why wouldn’t he bark? Rounding the corner onto the busy street, my heart in my throat, I searched the road. Another neighbor walking his black mutt came towards me and when I asked him if he’d seen Tetley he said, “Dante will find him.” and he turned to walk with me in the direction that I’d heard Tetley’s barks, now, too many hours ago.

We walked past our hedge and our neighbor’s manicured lawn towards the woods and heard Tetley’s bark strong and constant now.  Ecstatic, I ran up the steps into my neighbors’ yard towards the corner bordering the woods where their compost bin sits, I peered in and on top of a bed of corn husks, was Tetley!

This morning, our life feels sweet, the already beautiful day, even more so.  Last night’s reminder of how quickly and completely our lives can change when love gets lost, makes us grateful for our perfect present.

The Discipline of Neat

We finally trimmed the privet hedge surrounding our property – a task that has literally hovered over me  for most of the summer. Now, returning home in the car or from walking the dog, the place no longer looks  abandoned.  The  hedge had grown so high it took two of us to finish the job – I held the ladder steady while R swept the grinding teeth of the trimmer steadily across the top of the 8 foot growth. There is still a patch left because we need a higher ladder to reach the scraggly sprays, but this one bit of chaos is tolerable for now. Drooping oak branches also need trimming and the privet detritus needs to be raked out of the day lilies and hostas, but at a glance, the hedge looks neat and elegant. The psychological impact this has on me, is amazing.

I am reminded again that clearing bramble, maintenance of home and body, (my hair is often like the overgrown hedge) is as important for the spirit, as it is for aesthetics.

Inspired, I moved on to my car pulling stray bags, outdated coupons and receipts out of the back and from under the seats.  In the house I cleared surfaces – and now try to keep them so: immediately washing and putting away dishes, throwing out the mail I don’t need, keeping the newspapers, the magazines and books in a neat pile. I even tackled my closet, ruthlessly tossing clothes and shoes for Goodwill or garbage.

Of course, I have done this before – purged and cleaned and vowed to reform from messy to neat, high on the benefit of clarity that comes from clear space. The longest period that I managed to sustain this was when I lived in Kyoto. There, my tatami-mat bedroom was always pristine. Every morning I folded up my futon and quilts and shut them away in the closets.  I never left piles of clothes or papers about.  Of course, I lived alone then – it is enough of a challenge to reform myself, impossible to impose this on others.  But I will do my best to embrace this as my discipline – starting small: I will keep the tables clear, ready for plates of good food to eat together as the messy family we are.

August

The changing light of these early mornings reminds me that my favorite season is on the wane although there is a full month before school starts (thanks to my daughter, school still marks time for me) and many more days of sweltering heat and humidity yet ahead of us. But I mourn the passing of long daylight hours although I recognize that melancholy lends a sense of sweetness to every moment.  I savor the light, the heat – time. I take deeper breaths and almost taste the summer-scents of earth and grass and when the wind is right, the rich sea smell of the nearby Long Island Sound.  I reassure myself that there are a good two months or more of paddling to be had and still a promise of harvest from the garden.

My tomatoes are disappointing – some creature – (I suspect the squirrels) has found every fruit before me, gnawing some, devouring others.  The guilty rodent prefers the heirloom variety and we have yet to taste one. On the other hand, although I know it his favorite, the groundhog has ignored the patch of edamame and I see teeny little pods clustered in amongst the purple flowers. I have no complaint about the lettuce: just when I think we have had our final salad, I find more leaves hiding beneath the cucumber vines. I must remember to always, just keep looking.

Where to Turn Back

“Nice rain, eh?” I said, referring to this mornings welcome soaking.

“Yeah – I hope it comes back soon.” The woman cleaning out her car agreed.

“Me too.” We smiled at each other as I continued my walk.

This was the only person I saw on a long walk down the road. I walked and walked with no destination and no idea where the road leads. But for the one neighbor, there seemed to be no life at any of the houses nestled into woods on either side of the road. Occasionally, a car drove past and I moved to the side of the road.

One stretch felt eerie – a stone building appeared abandoned, although, through little windows I could see the backs of canvases, jars on a sill. An artist’s studio? Across the street, from a closed-up looking house, a dog barked and the woods were dense making it dark, shadowy and creepy so I walked faster towards a break in the trees where the road was lighter.

With no schedule to keep other than my own, I wondered where to turn back but propelled on by my curiosity to see around the curve ahead, kept walking. There was another and another – the road twisting seductively on.  I passed a home with garden gnomes, a thriving vegetable garden up near a house on a hill. A red squirrel and a black squirrel and always the river – never more than a few feet deep, over the perfectly rounded stones.  Then, I rounded a bend and the river disappeared. Down through the lush woods I could see a slight movement of water snaking around rocks but could no longer hear the rain-like rhythm that has been a constant for these past two days and turned back.

Recent Memoirs

I just read back-to-back memoirs:  Laura Fraser’s All Over the Map and Burmese Lessons by Karen Connelly. I loved Laura Fraser’s new book almost as much as An Italian Affair. I devoured that a few years back on a sweltering summer day, in one sitting between dozing off on the front porch. I felt like I’d had a steamy affair in the sunny south of Italy.  That was years ago – since then, Laura has chalked up only failures in love as she zips around the world writing articles. Her adventures include an odd spark of possibility or two, but none are the true love she longs for.

I like Laura.  Not that I have ever met her – but I feel like if I did it would be like catching up with a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time but whom I have shared history and easy rapport.  Her story is at times poignant, hilarious and because of her fine writing, compulsively readable. You can’t help cheering her on.  I trust Laura’s story will continue (hint: expat life in Mexico) because she seems so utterly love-able, there will certainly be more romance to vicariously enjoy. In this book, she travels a rocky road through her forties and we find her edging up to 50 – doing just fine, although with a sad finale to one tale – there is the sweet beginnings of new adventure ahead.

Prior to Laura’s book (see – we’re on first name basis) I read Karen Connelly’s  Burmese Lessons also about love and exotic places.  I’m a sucker for those two ingredients both in life and literature. While Karen is certainly a capable, poetic writer and determined adventurer, I don’t think I would embrace her like an old friend like I would Laura.  I was intrigued by her – but did not, after reading her story, particularly like her.  In fact, oftentimes in her story, she doesn’t seem to like herself much either. Even her author photo is a little intimidating.

Karen becomes captivated by the Burmese people’s struggle against their government and then goes on to fall in love with one of their rebel leaders. They have a doomed love affair. Her descriptions of him and their time together are wonderful. I felt compelled to keep reading – you do want to know what happens to them both in their struggles – but in the end, I didn’t care enough.  That’s the key, I guess.  The question I must ask myself as I rework my own story again, again, again: who cares?

A Salty Peace

This summer, one of our goals is to be floating on the Long Island Sound by every Friday afternoon or evening. Within minutes of pushing off-shore, just a few paddles into the waves and my blood pressure drops and muscles, release. Yesterday, we left at high tide under an impossibly blue sky.  We paddled against a slight wind but the waves were minimal and unlike a Saturday or Sunday, there was not much motorboat traffic. The water appeared inky-black, a reminder of the approaching evening.  We are acutely aware of weather and tides these days, checking the chart stuck with a magnet to our refrigerator or doing the math in our head from when we were last out, we calculate a difference of 45 minutes later each day so we know what to expect.

At first, our goal is just to get away from shore, and we slide our paddles in and out in a swift, coordinated rhythm. Sometimes we stop to bounce along in the waves, close our eyes and breathe deep, damp, salty breaths. Yesterday, scanning the horizon – the lighthouse: too far.  The osprey nest: maybe. We opted to go between two islands that at low tide, becomes one.  Once out between the small patches of forest, floating close to the slightly submerged rocks and swaying green grasses, we paused to listen to a chorus of birds in evening song.

There is a watery spot out there that has become a favorite place in the world for me.  A few years ago, I did not know it existed – a paradise, so close.  We round a rocky bend a few islands out and find ourselves with mostly water beyond – only one more island between us that keeps the waters still calm.  There is no sign of the busy shore here, only a brambly-green of beach roses and scrub, trees, rock, sand. A bird preserve.  Here the water is warmer and always more still than the waves just a bit beyond and but for passing motorboats, all we hear are the odd throaty grumble of white egrets swooping by or the plaintive scream of seagulls fighting over a just-caught clam.  A little further along we reach a sandbar where the force of the tides pushes hard into this cove.  Sometimes, it’s a struggle to paddle against this current but when the tide is low, we must get out of the boat and lift it across the slippery rocks.  By the time we have reached this spot, pushed out of our peaceful little bay into the wavy expanse of the Sound, I am completely at peace.

On the Way Somewhere…

Missing from this lovely spot of ours is silence. The drone of traffic from I-95 just blocks away, is constant. The decibel level rises or falls according to the time of day, the time of year and the shifting winds. This is the sound of thousands of people moving through life on an American highway.

Yesterday, a steamy but sunny Saturday morning, the steady hum of cars, trucks and motorcycles exploded into the horrific sound of an accident. No fender bender – the explosion woke us and the wail of sirens continued for hours. Running an errand at 2:00 – at least 6 hours after the accident, I saw the strangely-bent trailer of a truck being hauled away. Injuries must have been dreadful and perhaps, someone died.  This thought lingered with us all day as we worked around the house and then blissfully went floating on the Long Island Sound in our kayak.  Who were the people whose lives took an unexpected, terrible detour this morning?  It could have been anybody.  Alert to life’s fragility, we move through the day into night, grieving for these strangers passing so close to our home but glad to still be here with limbs intact. Relieved it was not us.

PS: According to the local paper, the accident was triggered by a naked man yelling he was Jesus. (No one died.)

More Books

One of the greatest perks about working in a bookstore are the books.  Free books (Advanced Reader’s Copies –  ARCs – from the publisher), borrowed books (hard cover with a dust jacket), and discounted books (a generous employee discount). I get lots of books.  Currently I am finishing up a borrowed book: Orange is the New Black by Piper Kerman – a memoir of the author’s stint in Danbury prison.  Any glimpse behind the frightening walls of a woman’s prison piques my interest but this author’s experience is particularly fascinating because she is like me.  An educated, (we’re talking Smith college) white, proverbial good girl who did some stupid things in her early twenties. She’s smart, funny, insightful.  We all think we’d never be behind bars but it could happen to anyone. (Martha?)  I’m fascinated with our capacity to adjust and create a new normal, to survive what we imagine to be impossible, to make lemonade out of lemons. You get the drift. While the author writes an honest portrait of her own challenges she also gives us a glimpse at the lives of many of her fellow inmates. These are prisoners from the shameful ‘war on drugs’, prisoners of domestic violence, prisoners of addiction. While ‘what they did’ may be the voyeuristic question that lingers, it’s the getting through the days, the weeks, the months, the years that drives these women and this story. There has to be a better way than the insanity of our prison system. Beautifully done.

So what next?  The piles of books around the house are getting crazy. My arc pile has Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War by Karl Marlantes, The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall, Solar by Ian McEwan, The Swimming Pool by Holly Lecraw.  I picked these up because I either love the author (McEwan) the subject fascinates me (war experience, polygamy???) or because something in a review piqued my interest.  That’s why I bought Happy Now by Katherine Shonk – a novel about a woman whose husband committed suicide (research) but haven’t gotten beyond the first few pages.

Another recent purchase is  I’m Not Mad, I Just Hate You!: A New Understanding of Mother-Daughter Conflict – Surviving and Thriving During Your Daughter’s Teenage Years by Roni Cohen-Sandler – a local, smart shrink who specializes in the subject.  She was in the store for a talk when M was still a toddler and I remember that I liked what she said so many years ago so picked this up when I felt overwhelmed by a rare difficult spell with M. Things are peachy again so I’ve yet to open it.  I’m sure I’ll be reading it one of these days.

I also purchased Patricia Lanza’s Lasagna Gardening: A New Layering System for Bountiful Gardens: No Digging, No Tilling, No Weeding, No Kidding! which reads like a television infomercial. But it does work and is a great way to recycle newspapers and all that compost-able kitchen waste. This book I keep around like a cookbook – to dive into when I need it for adjustments and advice on individual crops.

So with only a few pages to go on the book I’m reading now, what next?  I might have to borrow the last Stieg Larson The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest – although I try to borrow less popular books so that if I love them, I can plug them. In any case, I’m spoiled for choice.  Now to find the time…

Follow

Get every new post on this blog delivered to your Inbox.

Join other followers: