This One's for You Noreen!

 "Why are you no longer writing on your blog?"

My friend's voice had a hint of whine in it, as though I had done her wrong.

 We were working on fixing a large hole in the middle of a quilt she had made several years ago for her grandson. The quilt was faded and worn, obviously well loved and much used by her grandson, and possibly even by his dog. Maybe the dog liked how it tasted - all fabric-y and smelling of his master? I didn't ask. The repair job was not a thing of beauty but it rendered the quilt once more usable.

"But I am writing on my blog," I replied, ruefully adding, "once in the blue moon."

And why? Because it seems pointless. Who needs to read yet another tale of mask wearing, social distancing, vaccine or no vaccine, zooming - that pathetic substitute for face-to-face, eyeball-to-eyeball connection with other human beings. And because, not going out and mingling with other people for so long, inspiration is at a low ebb. Maybe I don't want to be boring. Better to be silent.

But still, the carnival in my head carries on regardless.

"But I love reading your blog," she protested.

And I'm as susceptible to flattery as the next person. Butter me up and I'll follow you anywhere. 

So, in the style of beating a dead horse, here are some of the thoughts and things that are saving my sanity while the world as we knew it crumbles around us.

Quilting is like therapy. Granted, I cannot quilt from a prone position on a couch, but the results are as beneficial as if I could. It calms the mind, quiets the internal chatter, promotes a feeling of virtue (I'm getting stuff done, moving one more project to the finish line -yeah!)

I even took a project to the Northwest when I went to visit youngest son in March. And even though the airline would eject you without a mask, every seat was taken on the flight there, so social distancing? Impossible. And yet we all survived. The project was a quilt for my sister's newest grandson, born just before Christmas. The pattern is simple squares from whatever children's fabrics I had on hand, brought together with sashing and borders of a green I've had around for years. So, win win. A quilt for a new baby and a reduction in my fabric stash. Now all I want to know is when is sis coming to pick it up!

I have been stitching in the ditch to quilt it. Should finish that today, then onwards to the binding, then done!

The OC walked by as I was pinning the layers. He despairs of my scattershot methods - how many projects do I have at any given time, in various states of done-ness?

Who's this one for, he asked. I told him. So how is R's quilt coming along? Smirk. Not to worry. I'll be getting to it as soon as this one's on its way. He seemed unconvinced, as is R also. She's been promised a quilt for years. I think she thought I'd be mailing it from the far side. But no. I actually have most of the fabric - Kaffe Fassett, no less, the luminous colors of which draw juice from my teeth. Had I made her a quilt sooner she'd not have gotten one so perfectly suited to her Bohemian, riotously colorful personality. Fear not, you will see it when it's done.

There are other things of course. I have spent time already this year herding cats, babysitting ducklings, reading voraciously and continuing my efforts to master sourdough - along with the rest of the world, but, for today, this, I think, is enough.

So, no more whining Noreen!

The Uninvited Guest

 There's a lizard living in the closet of my sewing room. 

I'm not happy about it, much as I like lizards - in their place (outside). I don't think he's too happy about it either. He probably found a door open recently due to our beautiful Spring weather and decided to explore the human habitat, not thinking, silly fellow, that the door would soon close and he'd be trapped. 

I'm not a screamer but I did give a yelp and leapt backwards with surprising agility the first time I saw him. Thankfully, I  saw at once that my visitor was not a snake. I can tolerate snakes in the garden, just not slithering around indoors, disappearing into inaccessible corners with no knowing when they might re-emerge and give me a heart attack. I opened the door from my sewing room to the great outdoors to entreat him to depart, keeping a wary eye lest any of his compadres decided to join him, but he was having none of it. 

The standard lizard diet of insects, larvae, worms and the occasional small, hapless frog is not on offer in these premises. I would'nt like him to die in my sewing room. It's a creative place where new quilts are born and grow, albeit slowly, to quilt adulthood. I would'nt want it to be a portal to the lizard underworld. It was a mistake for him to let his curiosity lead him astray. We all know what curiosity did to the cat. We have found the occasional shrivelled, crispy tree frog or lizard inside before. It's not a big deal. No odor, no mess, but no life either, and it's so warm and sunny outside. 

He really ought to avail himself of that open door. But he's not convinced. He prefers the closet where I can only hope he's not dining on fabric and patterns. For one thing, I would seriously doubt their nutritional content.  I now approach my sewing machine warily as his preferred time to be out and about, visible on the light colored carpet, is when I'm not there. Soon as I approach, he scurries back to his hideout. 

Meanwhile, I've absconded to the Northwest for a visit, leaving the OC and our uninvited guest to duke it out in the hallway outside the sewing room, should Mr. Lizard tire of fabric and patterns and go in search of more appealing fare. Otherwise there'll likely be a shrivelled, crispy lizard cadaver waiting for me under the sewing table when I return.

Treasure in the Garden

 Sunday was another beautiful day - this time of year is when Florida and paradise are synonomous. I was wandering lazily around and eventually found myself in the shade garden. That's fancy for a section of our garden that used to be wild and jungley but we trimmed and clipped and tamed it a bit, and carved a winding path through it, and now it's my favourite corner. So there I am, in the shade garden, picking up twigs and fallen branches. I see something that looks like a dried leaf that drifted down from the canopy and got caught on some palmetto palms. But, as I go to pluck it off, I see that it is no leaf but a beautiful moth, and no midget either! 

"Don't move!" I told him. "Stay right there while I run inside for my phone..."

He was very good. He waited. Posed obligingly for a couple of shots, then fluttered away, but just to the leaf litter underfoot where he spread his wings to show the full extent of his handsomeness, and his scary 'face' too, perhaps to discourage any unworthy intentions I might have been harboring. I had none. 

I was elated to have found him. 

It reminded me that we don't need to travel to the ends of creation to find beauty and wonder. It's right there, under our noses, in a leaf, a flower, a bug, a pine cone, a spider web. 

Every day. 

In spite of Covid 19.

 

This Perfect Moment

 A beautiful morning. I'm sitting on the front patio. A small plane drones lazily above; a lawn mower, a few gardens over, keeps the drone going as the plane fades; the pineapple sage next to my chair is bright with small red flowers; the mint spills over the edge of its pot; a car hums by and then a motorbike, way too fast, then gone; muffled voices drift from across the street; Bill, next door, rests from whacking weeds to stand in the sun with the OC, both of them, arms akimbo, undoubtedly planning how to fix a world gone nuts or, failing that, at least the best way to prune the trees. The sun beams down, the lizards sit, motionless, soaking it up. Makes me smile 'cause my back feels it too. 

Must plant those geraniums and candytuft, maybe in the pot vacated by the poinsettia that froze in our cold spell? And I really must yank out that annoying and prolific spidery plant that always tries to take over the world! Maybe plant something pretty, less obnoxious, in that pot? I wonder what's up with the orchid that has a dozen new flower buds but nary a leaf? A sudden flutter behind me and I turn to say hello to a beautiful bird, stretching his wings in the bushes, barely an arm's length away.

There's bread to bake, a book to finish, borders to sew on a baby quilt, more blocks to make for another quilt, squares to cut for a long promised quilt for CA Girl and, of course, ever present housework. I don't know what challenges tomorrow will bring but yesterday's have'nt killed us yet. We're still kickin' and glad of it. 

Right now, in this moment at least - perfection.

Buried Treasure and Other Random Ramblings

 Digging through the freezer a while back in search of something else, I came upon a bulky, foil-wrapped package. Hmm, I thought, what's this? Aha! Zucchini bread! What a lucky squirrel I am. After all, how many squirrels ever find, or even remember, where they buried their treasures? It sat on the counter, defrosting, overnight. We had it with coffee next morning, luscious, moist, dense with nuts, plump with raisins. That's what I call comfort. And who's not looking for a little comfort in these recent crazy days? My note to self said I'd made it the day before I'd flown out west in early October. Slowly it came back to me. Wanting to leave nothing that could rot in the fridge in my absence (the OC would eat rocks before it would occur to him to cook a vegetable) I'd found a couple zucchini in the vegetable drawer. I could have tossed them on the compost pile (the squirrels would have been delighted!) But, they were still good so, being a frugal soul, I made zucchini bread. And stashed it in the freezer. And flew west the next day. And forgot all about it, in the manner of squirrels everywhere. I know who plants the seeds of all those little oak saplings that keep popping up around here.

It's not only a hunger for comfort food we're feeling this year, but a hunger for things the corona virus has snatched from us. Being human, we never seem to appreciate what we've got 'til it's gone. (Sounds familiar -  sixties song? So many mindless lyrics permanently etched on my brain.) Youth, for instance. I look at pictures from decades ago and think - I was gorgeous! I didn't think so at the time, and was told that, though not beautiful, I had 'a nice' face. Yeah. Thanks for that. Damn with faint praise. And by gorgeous I don't mean Vanessa Redgrave or Ingrid Bergman gorgeous. But - the shiny hair, the smooth skin, the muscle tone, no baggy eyes, no nasty lines, no crowsfeet, no furrowed brow, boundless energy - so yes, gorgeous! At the time I thought the hips too big, the eyes too small, the eyebrows too scant, the freckles too plentiful. A little peek into the future and I'd have been slobbering in gratitude! With age comes, if not beauty, at least a small measure of wisdom. Nowadays I'll take 'nice' over 'beautiful.' Physical beauty has a shelf life, nice doesn't.

 How shallow I was, rejecting any poor sot who didn't meet my height, IQ or handsomeness requirements. As it happened, I got lucky, found someone who, though just about qualifying on the height requirement, met all the others with knobs on and, best of all, could always make me laugh. Intelligence, I believe, is a prerequisite for humor. It makes it easier to spot the absurdities of life, one of which we're living in at present. 

I know it's a serious problem. But every time we turn around the experts are telling us something different, usually contradicting the last piece of 'expert' advice. I wear a mask out in public though I think I need a defogging device to keep my glasses from clouding up and making me bump into somebody, thereby breaking the social distancing rule and incurring the wrath of fellow grocery shoppers. Alternately, here's an idea for some enterprising inventor - windshield wipers for glasses. Off you go. Let me know when they're available.

Since we first crawled out from our caves, humans have been dying. Nobody's exempt. Not even the rich and powerful. Every last one of us has an expiration date. Along with taxes, it's one of life's guarantees. We'll all die of something. With people losing their jobs, and businesses closing left and right, the possibility of starvation being what does one in is becoming very real. Not to mention the isolation, loneliness, mental illness and depression some are suffering as a result of (pardon my language) this wildly politicised pandemic sh_tshow.)

We talk regularly with friends and family, those who want to talk, and do our best to keep spirits from nosediving into the doldrums. We're blessed with a garden large enough to get lost in, if we so desire; surrounded by beautiful pine trees, home to all kinds of birds (most recently, to our delight, great horned owls) and the ever present gift of sunshine. It reminds me of a favourite quote "You are nearest to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth."

And when it rains, as it frequently does, we read, sew, practice yoga and, like the rest of the world, bake sourdough bread. And when we wake up next morning we do it all again, And again, and again. It could be so much worse, and is, for many people, so I am certainly not complaining. I think we (the human race) were in dire need of a siesta, a chance to slow down, room to breathe and reflect on what really matters.  And so the universe provided. It remains to be seen what we learn from it.

I have no more zucchini, but I do have cranberries, walnuts and raisins. I think, while the world is waiting for what comes next, I'll go make me some cranberry bread.

No Mud.....

 In  Ireland in the fifties and sixties, when the Catholic church had a firm grip on our throats, prayer was stitched into our lives like breathing. The church had something to say about every detail of our lives; what we could and could not do; what we should and should not do; the things that would guarantee heaven and the things that would guarantee hell. And if you were in doubt you could always get down on your knees and pray. And if you sinned, well you could go to confession and all would be forgiven, as long as you promised to mend your ways. 

It's different here. No religious body has the kind of control over everyday lives in the U.S. that the Catholic church had there, and then. But life is fraught with difficulties and problems no matter where you are in the world and, though I'm no longer in Ireland, when life goes haywire, as it regularly does, I find myself back on my knees, begging for help, for courage, for acceptance, for peace. 

Take the last few weeks.

Two of our children live out west, one in California, one in Oregon, states which, in case you haven't heard, have been on fire for some time. Oregon seems to be over the worst of it, but California's still burning. I had previously thought I felt sympathy and compassion whenever I heard of disasters in far flung places, but when the disaster touched people I know and love, people I gave birth to, I realized how shallow my compassion for those other unfortunates really was. I felt the panic of a mother bear separated from her cubs, unable to save them. I've been praying a lot, storming heaven. Your Man up there is probably tired of listening to me at this stage. CA girl had to evacuate once already, along with horses, cat and boss's dog. Now that she's back, they can still see the fire in the distance, a few ridges over, and, depending on the heat and the wind, the danger is still real. Oregon boy does not live where the fires were worst so he did not have to evacuate. But work was put on hold, the air quality being for a while, the unhealthiest in the world, right along with California's. Eventually, though many would say not soon enough, the rains came to Oregon, but California is still waiting. And when it isn't raining Oregonians can see the sun once more, as it normally looks, rather than a dull red smudge in the sky glowing darkly through a haze of choking smoke. 

And, now that they are safe, I'm still storming heaven, in gratitude to God, Allah, the Buddha, the Ultimate Reality, Mother Nature - aren't they all the same at the end of the day? Especially Mother Nature as she's the one calling the shots, determining how hot it will be, or not be, and in what direction the winds will blow today. I can't help thinking this entity (I'm pretty sure it's not an old gentleman with a white beard, sitting on a cloud) must be saddened by all the hate and lack of civility humans are displaying in the cities wracked by riots and anarchy, not to mention the colossal mess we're making of this fragile, beautiful planet. 

Maybe we're supposed to learn from 2020 - to love more; to judge less; to give each other the benefit of the doubt; to be kinder to each other, and ourselves; to breathe

 Maybe even to pray. 

"No mud, no lotus," says Thich Nhat Hanh. 

We've had a lot of mud this year. I'm hoping for a bumper crop of lotuses.

A Little Bit of Fun is Good for the Soul

 

Note: Warning - this is about addiction. Continue at your own risk

When not on the porch hanging out with the lizards I can usually be found at the other end of the house, sewing. The thought has crossed my mind that this whole pandemic is a plot to make me focus and finish the myriad half-done projects that lie therein.

 Because I am the center of the universe. 

A joke, I hasten to add, albeit a feeble one. I am well aware of the gravity of the corona virus situation and the tragedy it has meant for many people. That said, no matter what horror stories you may have heard about Florida, they are very likely exaggerated. That seems to be how the media operates these days. Let's tell them the sky is falling and they should cower and tremble and be very afraid. 

The news is depressing, the pandemic is depressing, the riots and protests are depressing, not being able to visit with your friends is depressing, not being able to have proper funerals is depressing, people eyeing their fellows with suspicion is depressing. I don't want to be depressed and so I go back to the comfortable chaos of my sewing room, confident that , no matter how long the current situation lasts, I have fabric and thread and ideas to keep me happy and busy indefinitely.

 

In just the past month have finished (love that word!) several small quilting projects that were lingering, ignored, for more than a decade. Done, dusted, happy dance time!

My sewing machine grudgingly shares space with my computer and last week I was clicking idly from one interesting thing to another when something stopped me in my tracks, my heart skipped a beat. You've undoubtedly heard of the evils of the internet? I had stumbled onto a blog - http://www.knottedcotton.com/2012/08/slow-blog.html and there was a tutorial for a very cute little bag. A Komebukuro bag that is used in Japan to carry rice to the temple. I very much doubt that I will ever, in what remains of my life, have a need for a bag to do that. But before I had finished reading Catherine's description (she's the blogger on K.C.) I was casting my eyes about the room and having a think about which fabrics I would use. Never mind that I still have plenty of UFOs to work on instead of something new. 

I needed a small break, I told myself. I deserved it, I told myself. Look at all the UFOs I'd finished since the beginning of the year!  My fingers in my ears stifled the sound of the responsible angel that sits on my right shoulder, so I could hear, loud and clear, the devil on my left.

And so I made it. Sat there, stitching and grinning while the OC held his tongue and rolled his eyes. 

I'm thinking I'll take it to Ohio Daughter whom we'll be visiting in the next few days. Surely she needs a pretty little bag to take rice to the temple? No? Well maybe she could use it for her knitting? The only problem I can foresee would be if she feels a need for a kimono to go with it. 

Then I'd be in trouble.

Talks to Lizards, Must be Crazy

Earlier this year the OC pulled out some shrubs and extended our front porch. We'd wanted to do this

for some time and now that it's done - it's my favorite place to sit, drink coffee in the morning, read and talk to lizards.

You might be fooled into believing it's peaceful and quiet out there. That it's just you, basking in the early morning sunshine, a bit of a song from the birds and the occasional muffled drone of a passing car.  And, most of the time, it is. Two small pots, one of ivy, the other of pothos, that I tossed out into the sunshine when they refused to thrive indoors, proceeded to take over the world and now, a couple of years later, have formed a lush carpet of green under the shrubs and sometimes even have to be dragged down out of the crepe myrtles. Unruly to say the least, but kind of a bonus too - more green.

There's a thriving population of lizards living in and under that green carpet. (Possibly some black racers too but them I don't engage in conversation.) The bushes, trees and ground cover are their own little universe, bursting with life and lizard activity, sometimes even violence. The lizards are calm, quiet, curious and spend a lot of time basking in the sun, unbothered by nearby humans. They will move when I come out there, but not far, positioning themselves on whatever surface is convenient - the arm of a chair, 

the edge of a flower pot,

the plant shelf, a leg of the table, or the ground. They'll fix me with their beady eyes, cock their heads, seeming to wonder what manner of creature I am and if my intentions are honorable. Assured that I mean them no harm, they continue to bask. If I lean over and say hello they look quizzical. Maybe I should learn some lizard lingo because not one, as yet, has said hello back. Sometimes they almost seem to be flirting with me. All those push-ups, all that head bobbing, and especially that display of bright orange under their throats! I'm polite. I always admire the display and tell them what handsome fellows they are. How could I fail to be impressed?

And so it's quiet. You think. Peaceful, serene. You think. But then you hear a tiny rustle in the leaves beside your chair. You glance around, expecting a bird in search of a worm - there's a nest nearby.

      

No bird. All you see are leafy bushes, and below, that carpet of green. You turn back to your book,

but then you hear it again.  So much for peace and serenity. Now we have violence (have they been watching human news on TV?) Two strapping males, on the trunk of the crepe myrtle, murder on their minds.   

 Meanwhile, the sun continues to shine, the birds continue to sing and the occasional car drones on by and, to the untrained eye, it seems like just another idyllic morning.

The underdog turns tail and runs but the aggrieved one gives chase - "Get back here, varmint!"

And they face off again, teeth bared (if indeed they have teeth. I've been unable to get that close), muscles tensed.

The shrubs are divided by the path to the front door. Is it possible the lizard king from the right had the temerity to trespass on king left's territory? Or maybe he dared, be still my heart, to dally with one of king left's ladies? Time to teach that punk a lesson! I keep very still, don't want to scare them off. I want to see who wins and take pictures of the battle.

The paparazzi are as annoying and intrusive in lizard land as in Hollywood. I will have my pictures.

There's a noticeable absence of other lizards, mamas and little ones, skittering around on the pavement. Probably all waiting and watching from under the leaves, holding their collective breath, as I am doing, hoping the dispute will soon be resolved and peace restored.

I think the dominant male protects all the females and juveniles in his territory. Protection, as determined by a male lizard, might have a somewhat different meaning than you or I would give it. I try not to judge the moral standards of lizards by my own, but there have been times when I thought a word in a male lizard's ear was necessary, as in "Hey Buddy, she's a little young for you, don't ya think?" He'll appear to listen, give it some thought, but then proceed with what he was intent upon anyway. "Mind your own beeswax lady, go sip your coffee!"

Meanwhile, back at the battle site, the interloper is getting his comeuppance, 

and now he's looking like a goner for sure, his head clenched in Super lizard's jaws, his pale undersides dangling, helpless and exposed.

But Super lizard makes a tactical error. He loosens his jaws to adjust his grip and in that split second our under-dog(-lizard) drops to the ground and vanishes into the ivy.

So much excitement! I've seen lizards' tails shortened from surviving similar battles. I just don't think they'd survive as well without their heads.  

And just like that we were back to peace and serenity. Mama came back out,

 a baby cavorted from leaf to leaf, 

 peacetime adult activities resumed, (gotta make more babies)

and the birds sang on regardless. I finished my coffee, bid my lizard buddies farewell and went inside to make the bed, do the laundry and get on with my day.

Year of Wonders

Ah, the blank, intimidating page, especially having been MIA for several months. I started the year with great blogging plans though God, obviously, found that amusing. And so, in late January, I was winging westward, through busy, bustling airports, on planes without one empty seat. Then, several weeks later, returning on a plane with barely thirty passengers, through airports like echo chambers to a situation I had never imagined.

I've occasionally thought it would be nice for the world to stop spinning so hectically, to step aside from all the noise and busy-ness, to have time to just sit, for the only thing on my to-do list to be to 'breathe.'

I got my wish. And all I can say about that is: be careful what you wish for.

And now we're on the set of a sci-fi movie, (or in recent days a horror movie) or maybe in the pages of an historical novel like the one I recently finished - Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks, a novel about the plague. Not this one but that other one way back in the 1600s. Chosen randomly from my to-be-read pile, the parallels were chilling. Social distancing? Quarantine? Horrifying numbers of deaths? Who to blame? All there in the village of Eyam in 1666.


Now we've been on lockdown, wearing masks, social distancing for what seems like forever. With distractions at a minimum, we busy ourselves with simple things - gardening - because Mother Nature is a great comforter; cooking - because we still have to eat; baking -just because, even Winnie the Pooh likes a little smackerel of something with his tea; sleeping - because the 'sleeve of care' needs constant mending; praying, because all of this is bigger than us and we're not in charge; yoga because you're only as happy and healthy as your spine, and breathing because once you stop it's all over.

As far as finishing long standing quilt projects, I'm experiencing my own Year of Wonders. No doc or dental appointments, no meetings with friends, no book discussions at the library, no walks in the park, no shopping - apart from essentials, no trips....I miss all of that. But there is a silver lining. All those quilting projects? They're getting finished now!

Since this time last year I have finished an amazing - for me - number of quilting projects - more than I can remember finishing in any other year. And it's only partially due to the lockdown - the reality of mortality has finally sunk in.


 With no where to go, time to breathe, "Sit!" and "Stay!" even an old dog can learn new tricks.

Of Crows and Plows and New Beginnings

Where are the crows this morning? Usually you can set your clock by them. Loud and boisterous, caw, caw, caw, they arrive around 8 a.m., fly around among the trees - what are they looking for? What are they shouting at? And then they're gone. But this morning? An absence of crows. Very strange.

From where I write I can see a nest high up in the leafless branches of a laurel oak - for crows perhaps? Do crows make nests? Janina would know. But don't call her that. She doesn't like it. She and I have gotten close the last few days due to me spending a lot of time in her head while reading
 "Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead." Weird title. But I'm loving it.

In spite of all the dead bodies.

Janina knows who's killing them, but her theories are dismissed as the ravings of a madwoman.
They say there's nothing original in the world. It's all been done before, thought before, written before, but, that said, I think this book is as original as it is possible to be. Spending so much time in Janina's head gets you thinking along with her about life, and how we do it, and how we find meaning in it, or not. All, well most, of the words are familiar but so ingeniously strung together that I find myself laughing out loud one minute, aching with recognition the next as she skillfully puts into words things I feel in my gut but could never articulate.

One of my favorite lines is "....I realized that sorrow is an important word for defining the world."
Amen to that. I can relate. But don't let that make you think it's a sad book. It is sad, and thoughtful, but also outlandishly funny, crazy and at once real and fairy tale-like.

I like Janina. Which may mean I'm a madwoman too, or maybe she's not mad at all but saner than those who think she is? I won't spoil the book for you but I'll be looking for more by this author whose name is both unspellable and unpronounceable. Kudos to the translator whose name is pronounceable. Being totally illiterate in Polish, my only measure of how well she did is that I am devouring the book. You could say it makes me happy. Which reminds me.....


"You really should be writing," a friend wrote to me recently. "It would make the world happier."

That was, hands down, the nicest thing anyone has said to me since the year began. Bit of an exaggeration of course but still, enough to get me going again. I'm not so arrogant as to believe that me, writing, could actually make the world happier but I do know it would make me happier.

Why have I not been writing, I ask myself. It's always been my favorite thing to do, but, like sewing, where one has to actually make that first stitch, to write, one has to sit down and write that first word. No quilt was ever made by merely thinking about it. Nor, as the Irish saying goes, did a farmer ever plough a field by turning it over in his mind.

And so she begins, first words, on the blank page, in the brand new year. It's made me happy to write them. I hope they'll make you happy too.

Gluten Free Wha-at?

Though I could hardly boil an egg when I said I do all those decades ago, time and practice have made me a competent cook. I especially love to bake bread and try new desserts. Last year I discovered Mark Bittman's no knead bread recipe. Even the OC, a man not given to superlatives, declared it the best we'd ever made.

It's difficult to impress someone raised in NY city, surrounded by all kinds of ethnic, old world bakeries, so it's possible I became a bit arrogant. The baking gods were onto me though and decided, last week, to instill in me a little humility.

Some friends were coming for lunch, one of whom was having a birthday. The OC (tactical error) asked what she'd like us to make for dessert. She'd love apple strudel, she replied, especially if we could make it gluten free. Oh for pity's sake, I muttered to myself, my name is neither Julia nor Martha. Ask me for a cheesecake, a lemon meringue pie, a rustic berry torte, chocolate mousse, but gluten free anything?? In my limited experience, gluten free means something that tastes like cardboard.

No turning back now though. I needed my game face, a recipe and a trial run.

The OC dug deep on the internet and found Dagmar. Dagmar explained how she had toiled long and hard to fine-tune a gluten free strudel recipe for her finicky Austrian children who liked their strudel light and crispy. After many failed attempts, her children finally gave their sticky thumbs up to this recipe which she was now generously sharing with the world.

 In addition to apples, raisins and nuts we would need GF bread crumbs, Dagmar told us, psyllium seed husk powder, apple cider vinegar and teff flour. 

 WTH? I was beginning to lose my enthusiasm. Teff flour? Never heard of it.  Neither had the grocery store. Even the health food store looked at us askance. "Teff?" they intoned, "how do spell that?" Obviously not in their inventory. Psyllium seed husk powder, by some miracle, we already had.

Say what you like about Amazon, no matter what outlandish thing you're looking for, cross their palms with enough pieces of silver and they'll have it on your doorstep tomorrow. And so it came to pass. A 16 oz bag of teff flour and a box of GF breadcrumbs to boot.

Yoohoo! On with the show. Maybe we could make this work.

 Recipe at hand, I took my first tentative step towards what Dagmar assured us would be light, crispy and delicious apple strudel.

 I mixed 1 cup of teff flour (so little? red flags started gently waving in my head) with 1/2 tablespoon of psyllium powder and a pinch of salt. To this I added 3/4 cup water and 1 tablespoon each of oil and apple cider vinegar. I was instructed now to 'take' the mixture out of the bowl and place it on a surface sprinkled with teff flour. The red flags were flapping noisily now. Ahh, excuse me Dagmar, I don't think this is going to work. In the bowl before me was a greyish, sloppy, messy, mostly liquid and thoroughly unappetizing looking substance. I was sure that 'pour' was the only applicable verb.

I consulted the OC. He thoughtfully stroked his beard. We agreed that our 'substance' needed to be substantially thicker, so we added a little more teff flour. Still it remained stubbornly liquid so we added a little more, and still more, until finally, it began to hold together.

Telling myself to trust her but with my confidence in tatters, I soaked the raisins in rum, melted butter and roasted the breadcrumbs, following Dagmar's instructions to a T.  The OC optimistically peeled and sliced the required Granny Smiths and chopped the walnuts.

We placed the dough (if it could be called such) on a sheet of parchment paper liberally sprinkled with teff flour, placed another sheet on top and rolled it out. When it was paper thin and we'd already mended a few tears, we gingerly peeled back the top layer of paper, gently spread the breadcrumbs, apples mixed with sugar and cinnamon, rummy raisins and chopped walnuts over it and basted the edges with butter. As carefully as if we were handling the Dead Sea Scrolls, we rolled it up, brushed more butter on top, eased it onto the baking sheet, slid it into the oven, crossed our fingers and set the timer.

Forty five minutes later the timer dinged. We held our breath and opened the oven door.

But alas! First glance did not inspire optimism.

The color was shoe-leather brown, the texture that of a rock. Tapping it with a knife produced a dull thud.

It was not light.

It was not crispy.

 I would like to have invited Dagmar and her persnickety children for tea and dared them to risk their teeth on it while I beat their mum around the head and neck with my rolling pin. That being the stuff of venomous fantasy, we took an axe to it, not wanting to damage our good knives, and broke it open.  The filling inside was quite tasty, but the overall experiment was, as the OC succinctly put it, "Not ready for prime time."

Lunch went well. There was no gluten free apple strudel but everything else was good and, though it was not gluten free, nobody, not even the birthday girl, suffered from dessert deprivation.

How to Stay Warm in Florida

It's not that we've never experienced cold, it's just that, since moving to Florida we now shiver uncontrollably if the temps drop below 60 F. I should say that, since the OC is not bothered much by cold weather, 'we' means me and the mouse in my pocket.

I remember great flakes of snow wafting down in Montana, silencing birds, beasts and humans alike, joining sky and prairie under one enormous wooly blanket, every sound muffled but the quiet breath of the universe and the occasional snapping of a twig.

I remember how I met Twila, our elderly neighbor. I dinged her car while parking in the icy ruts and  shuffled, mortified, through the snow to her door to apologize, my pregnant belly leading the way. Twila had lived all her life on a Montana ranch and, widowed now, lived alone. We became fast friends and when the baby came, it was she who minded his big sister.

I remember bundling the children up in mittens, hats and snowsuits like miniature Michelin men and hiking into the woods to cut down our Christmas tree. How red their cheeks were and how much fun we had.

I remember how it snowed on Halloween in North Dakota and how the school bus stopped at each kid's house so they wouldn't get frostbite waiting outside in the Arctic air.

I remember how the OC darted out hatless, to shovel just one more small patch of driveway and almost froze his ears off.

I remember guzzling gluhwein at Weihnachtsmarkt in Stuttgart, generating heat from the inside against the numbing cold on the outside.

I remember lakes in Minnesota freezing over, fishing cabins popping up on the ice like mushrooms, and fishermen driving their trucks out to sit with a line dangling through a hole in the ice, and thinking what a wondrous thing it was to be so entertained.

I remember our springers dancing into the kitchen as the children spilled in from the school bus, backpacks unceremoniously dumped as dogs and children joyously reunited, Hershey and Blazer tap-dancing like Fred and Ginger as the snow and ice from their exuberant paws melted into puddles on the kitchen floor.

I remember oldest daughter making snow angels in Belgium when she came 'home' from college for Christmas.

And everywhere, shoveling snow and scraping ice off windshields as normal as sweeping the kitchen.

We've lived in cold country, even enjoyed it. But now we live here, and Florida thins the blood. We can spot visitors at forty paces....they'll be wearing tee shirts, shorts and sandals in our cold spells while we're muffled up in winter woolies. It makes us laugh and remember (me and that mouse.)

We all survived the North and lost no toes or noses to the cold. When the OC retired

 we sold our house, cheerfully donated snow shovels and ice scrapers, and came , with just one child still at home, to live in the sunshine, still sporting ten fingers and toes apiece.

But this year the North came to join us. A brief visit, surely, twenty four hours at most we thought,

then back to balmy, but we were wrong. The temperature kept dropping. We needed a survival plan.
Climbing to the highest closet shelves, we retrieved blankets, sweaters and warm winter coats. Things we had kept for rare return sorties to the frozen wastes, hardly used at all but kept as a hedge against climate chaos, which it appears, is upon us.

 I do not go to bed alone. Heat radiates from the OC, supplemented by hot water bottles, thick socks, heating pads, long johns and cuddly llamas on a long forgotten, recently resurrected woolen blanket the OC brought from Chile. But eventually morning comes, time to emerge from the cocoon to face another cold day and struggle into woolen leggings and more thick socks and whichever sweaters and scarves the moths have yet to eat, and head to the kitchen to bake bread and dip it in thick, warming soup and dream of fireplaces and blazing logs...……

~~~

And of course my tongue is deep in my cheek. It's actually a treat when we get a cold spell here in God's Waiting Room. It gives us a chance to dress in real clothes instead of skimping down to the bare minimum so's not to melt. It gives us a semblance of seasons and a rhythm we'll be dreaming of dancing to, come August.  

But after a few days we're over it. And this time, it's been more than a few days.

I could stamp my feet. I could jump up and down, but I'd probably injure myself. If I had a cat I'd follow him to the sunniest window and curl up beside him....

But wait! Here comes the OC announcing that it's seventy degrees outside and he's off to cut the grass! 

Oh well. In the immortal words of Emily Latella - "Never mind!"

Note: I know that the freezing temperatures in the northern and mid western states and parts of Europe are no laughing matter and the people there have my sincerest sympathy. I wish them warm fires, thick soups and an early Spring.

What? New Year Already?

Happy New Year everyone! 

Yes, I know, it's old hat by now. But, you've been stopping by here for a few years so must know that three days late is my default setting. If you're feeling grateful that there's something to read here today you can thank American College Football. It was a few days ago, maybe the first, and Ohio State was playing Washington. The OC was comfortably planted in his chair, with his book and his crossword, keeping a weather eye on the action.

 I've lived in this country going on fifty years and I still don't understand American football. Partly because I haven't made the effort. It's way down at the bottom of my list of things to learn more about before I die. I don't understand why people get so excited about a bunch of grown, or usually overgrown, and grotesquely padded men, running at a hundred miles an hour, up and down a field wearing tights, helmets, metal face protection and carrying a ball that doesn't look like a ball, while the other team does everything in their power to stop them, and both sides blithely ignore the danger of serious brain injury.

In spite of my puzzlement here are some of my favorite Ohio State football fans.

And the crowd roars! What just happened? A score? A touchdown? A penalty? Don't look to me. All I can think of by way of explanation is that it's a carryover from Roman times, brought here along with that first pizza delivery.

'Nuff said. There was shouting and roaring. The intense and earnest commentators wagged their heads and tongues, debating every move as though world peace hung in the balance. The OC, an otherwise highly intelligent man, sat in his armchair, reading, letting it all wash over him like so much lovely classical music. And he had command of the controls. Not that I'd know how to use them or even care to learn, if he ever surrendered them.

~~~

 So. Back to my lair where I'm surrounded by things I can make sense of - fabric, books, more fabric, paints, photographs and, drumroll please..... Blogger.

It would be easy, and self deceptive, to say that I blog for myself only, because I enjoy writing, especially the serendipitous bits that appear on the page when I'm on a roll, without me ever having planned them. The truth is that, without the feedback from your comments, I'd just scribble away in more and more notebooks, as I've been doing for most of my life, leaving a tangled, mixed up mess for my children to unravel. Or burn. After I'm gone.

Life's a journey. Making connections and sharing with fellow travelers intensifies the joys and makes bearable the sorrows. I believe we are all more alike than different, and stirring a memory, a smile or a deja vu moment in my friends, both here and in real life, makes me happy.
And who doesn't want to be happy?

 I had a look at my blogging record for last year and was unimpressed. At first glance I saw thirteen posts for 2018. Not so bad, I thought. Except that on closer inspection I discovered seven were drafts. Seriously unimpressive.

My experience with new years' resolutions has been that I ride the wave of enthusiasm for a few weeks, then crash. I'm not making a list for this year though I've read some inspiring ones and taken notes. I know what I have to do. I need to just do it. Which is not to say that lists aren't helpful. They are. 

"Know thyself."
And I do know this about myself:
sometimes my list becomes the project when I'd be better employed getting one thing on the list a little farther down the road.
Action not procrastination.

In that spirit, here, live from my lair, is my first blog post of 2019. And, if you've enjoyed reading it, don't forget that little thank you note to the American College Football Association.


 ***In case you're interested - Ohio State won, which made those fans up there  over the moon happy, while I was still scratching my head.

Christmas Day in the Morning

A friend who lurks here complained recently that Jack was still the Greeter, so I thought I'd better mollify her by getting a bit more (currently) seasonal. As I've mentioned before, I'm never happier than when I'm making something, sewing a quilt, writing a letter, baking some bread or, as this past week, cookies....or, a Christmas wreath. Every year the OC prunes back a row of grape vines planted by Youngest Son when he was still living with us. 

A few years ago, I gathered up the clippings and wound them into some wreaths, hung them on a hook in my sewing room - these things need time to age, mellow, at least that's my story. I had also, many moons ago, collected pine cones from among the trees out back, put them in a bag, on a hook in my sewing room and forgot about them.

 They hung, and hung, and soon I didn't even see them anymore. But last week, in a flurry of inspiration, I saw them all again and actually made a wreath. It doesn't have the bling and the sparkle of those from the store but neither does it have a sticker on the back saying 'Made in China.' As wreaths go, I guess you could call this one a grey, country mouse, but I'm pretty happy with it.

And it's here to wish you all a merry Christmas!

It's Christmas morning here in God's waiting room. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. We have no snow to shovel, no horse stalls to muck out, no low IQ chickens to tend to, no high maintenance cats demanding laps to snuggle in and ear scratches, though we wish those who do could be here with us. You know who you are. We love you and we hope to talk/skype with you later!

We're glad that a year that brought us some scary challenges is ending on a healthy and positive note. Glad too for friendships that have lasted through the years though there are many miles between us. 

I wish all who read here love, peace, and a little bit of the magic those shepherds must have felt on that first Christmas long ago.

Life's a Beach

 They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm always intending to blog more often. I start something then let it sit because there's nothing like a good night's sleep to help edit out stupidity when you revisit what you've written. Which is not to say that I catch all of it....Unfortunately it sometimes sits for a week, or two or three, or this time for four months!

And now it's the first of November.

Sat outside carving our Jack - O - Lantern yesterday, happy that summer's heat is gone, and our favorite part of the year is here. Jack sat by the front door glowing orangely, grinning his welcome to all the trick or treaters....

who never came. Not one solitary Ghost, Red Riding Hood, Mummy, Ogre, Harry Potter, Princess or Scarecrow. Sigh. I guess our long driveway is too daunting a trek for little legs. 

And now you're puzzled and wondering "What is she blathering on about and how has it anything to do with a beach?"

 The above was indeed just blathering. Here's the post I started back in September, that languished, unloved, in drafts while the OC, the purple suitcase and I gallivanted from sea to shining sea. But that's a tale for another post, which, I solemnly promise, will not take four months to materialize.  Fall weather notwithstanding, here's a post about my love of beaches.

~~~~~~~

 The class was over. I was ready for savasana.

Given a choice, I prefer silent savasana. Just let me lie there, melting into the mat, assuring myself that no, I'm not going to die today. With luck all these stretches, twists, balances and contortions will  help me live longer than sitting in my rocking chair, bemoaning the passage of time, listening to my chair and my joints creaking. I love yoga. But sometimes it's literally a stretch.
 Just breathe, I tell myself, and it works.

But today there's a guided meditation.

When everyone is settled - bolster anyone? blanket? eye pillow? Linda, our instructor, begins....

"Take a deep breath in.....sigh it out. When your mind wanders simply bring your attention back to the steady stream of your breath." 

Okay. Got it. Can we get back to quiet savasana now? But there was more.....

"Imagine yourself walking along your favorite seashore. The sand glistens in the sunshine, the waves lick at your toes...."

And that was all it took.
 My impatience evaporated and I was there, on the beach, any beach, breathing the salty air, feet sinking into the sand as the waves licked my toes.

***

When we went to the seaside as children, it was to the Atlantic. All agog, we'd strain our necks from the back seat of the Morris Minor, each of us eager to see the sea first.

We couldn't just gallop off down to the beach though. Mum and Dad had only two hands each, Mum reminded us. There were blankets to carry, towels, buckets and spades and the all-important picnic basket. Our patience was sorely tested while she rejected the first eight depressions in the dunes before, finally, declaring the ninth one perfect. We wriggled out of our clothes and into our swim togs  holding a towel around us lest we scandalize the seagulls.  

Then flew to the water,

like birds uncaged.

Me, a friend and the Little Blister at Ballybunion, circa 1958

The enormous waves, the rocky tide pools, the huge dome of the sky, the sweeping arcs of golden sand stretching off to infinity - freedom!

Pity the child never taken to the seaside.

Mother arranged blankets and towels in our dune nest while Dad set up our little stove to make tea. But we were off already, leaping over rocks like mountain goats, racing along the sand, splashing into the waves. We'd dare each other to go out further, then turn and race the waves back to shore, often toppled half way, then thrown up on the sand like so much seaweed, spluttering and shivering, eyes stinging, teeth chattering, squealing with terrified delight. 

Bracing, our mother called it. No matter how warm the sheltered dunes, the water was always icy.
But Dad's tea took care of that. We'd sit huddled in our blankets and the shelter of the dunes, nursing our goosebumps, eating our sandwiches and slurping that comforting, hot, sweet tea. And in no time at all we'd go racing to the water again.



When the sun started to sink we'd pile once more into the Morris Minor.
And start singing, every popular song we could think of. We belted out Itsy, Bitsy, Teeny, Weeny, Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, along with anything by Elvis Presley or Cliff Richard, and old favorites like My Grandfather's Clock, The Hole in the Bucket, Que Sera Sera, Row, Row, Row your Boat, How Much is that Doggie in the Window?

We never lasted all the way home. I'm sure our parents sighed with relief when the singing died down and the only sound from the back seat was gentle snoring from happy, salty, sand-encrusted children.

~~~

 This September we spent a few days at the beach with friends, by the Atlantic.
 We didn't leap over rocks or race to the water. No, we've become more sedate with the years, but we did swim every day, and walked on the beach and sat reading in the shade.

Every evening, marvelous food.  We usually go to the beaches on the Gulf which is warm as bathwater, shallow and calm. The best part of this trip was the Atlantic, not so shallow, not so calm.

Real waves.

Out beyond where the waves break, swimming, floating, rolling with dips and swells, touching bottom only at the fullest stretch of my toes, the rhythm of the universe pounding in my ears. So peaceful, so humbling. The things that keep me awake at night, which loom large in my little life, shrink before the vastness of the sea. Things will work out, I tell myself, gazing east to where a little piece of me will always be. A mere ocean away.


***

A muffled sound, as from the far side of a cloud, a voice, Linda's, floats into my daydream -

"See the shining color of the water, how the light sparkles on it,"

and the Little Blister's smiling face comes into focus in my dream.

The Little Blister and me a few years ago at Bishop's Quarter

Is she walking along the beach at Bishop's Quarter I wonder, even as I'm lying here on my mat thinking of her? And suddenly my eyes are leaking down into my ears and I give silent thanks for the eye pillow. Why am I weeping when I have so much to be grateful for? Trouble is, the world, for all its recent shrinkage, is still too big and people I love too far away. Birthdays with zeros get you thinking that way. Recent events in Tallhassee too. What I said back there about dying from exertion? A joke.
No one goes to yoga class expecting to die there.
No one lies down in savasana (corpse pose) expecting it to be permanent.
 If those who died in Tallahassee love beaches, I hope heaven is the most beautiful beach ever.

~~~

Linda often ends her classes with this quote -
May you be well,
May you be happy and peaceful,
May you be free from all suffering, 
May you be filled with loving kindness. 

And while you live, may you be lucky enough to spend part of each year on the beach.

 Namaste