Buttery Paper Towels

One day this summer, right after I was hired for this new job, I had to get fingerprinted.  And apparently in this town, they only fingerprint from 7:00-9:00 pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the jail.  I called.  Because it seemed odd to me that they wanted you to come to the jail at night rather than in the morning; I was sure it was a typo.  But no.  They really do have you come at night and it also conveniently happens to be at the very same time that everyone within a fifty mile radius who needs to get a daily breathalyzer and/or other daily check-in comes to the jail.  Let's just say the scene I walked into was that of a movie.  I took a cell phone picture real discreet like as I didn't so discreet like yell, "Who in the heck is in charge of this?  Why would people come to get their fingerprints at the same time as this?!"  

Then, I looked around at all of the stares and I thought to myself.  Self.  Shut it down.  Shut it down now.  No need to be feisty in current company.  

I made it out alive, with black fingertips.  

Previously that evening, I came home to find construction workers and a payloader on my lawn with all kinds of other business occurring simultaneously.  The corner of my lawn, but still.  The lawn!  My yard!  

I might have gone a little yell zone on them as well.  It went something like this.

I'm not crazy.  Yell yell yell.  I mean really, I'm a nice person.  Yell yell yell.  But this is ridiculous!  I swear I'm nice.  Promise.  Yell yell yell.  You will make sure all of those sprinkler heads work because hello?!  Payloader on my yard.  You are on my yard!  Okay so yeah, I mean I know you are just trying to do your job.  Like I said I'm not crazy.  Promise.  But this, all of this (insert flamboyant dramatic hand wave), is a problem.  

Then I went inside and then I went to get fingerprinted at the jail with all the common criminals and then I questioned the sanity of this town yet again. 

All of this is leading somewhere.  

The next day, I was baking cookies.  It was a July morning and I dobbed the paper towel in the butter and greased my cookie sheets and then I smiled to myself because I had this memory of my grandma and her paper towel dabbed in Crisco.  Greasing her pans for buns.  It's amazing, when we do things out of rote, a deep hidden memory of a strong impression.  Grandma's greasy paper towel.  My buttery paper towel.  I am so thankful I had a Grandma Gladys.  A person who gave me so many of those dents in my impressionable self.  

Gladiolas will forever be my favorite flower.  Grandma grew them by the droves in her garden and every late July and early August when they started blooming, she would make bouquet arrangements for church and then stand outside the door and pass the stems out individually after church.  A deep hidden memory of a strong impression.  Forever my favorite flower.  

After the cookies came out of the oven that early July morning, I put some on a plate and brought out to the construction workers who were working in the corner again.  I felt guilty.  Guilty about my rant over them doing their job - even if it was a bit of a careless mode of operation.   I apologized.  They accepted.  They apologized.  I accepted.  They smiled while eating gooey chocolate chip cookies.  I smiled as I walked away.  

I can't help but think my grandma would have smiled at that too.  Deep hidden memories of the model of what my own mode of operation should be.    

There Was This Day

There was this day back at the very beginning of June.  It was a day of pouring buckets rain, like it had been for several in a row.  It was a day of long coffee time with Brittany.  It was a day of Karen showing up and forcing me to go along with her on a little road trip to get her bridesmaid dress altered at the home of an elderly lady in a small town north of here.  And when I say force, I mean force. 

 

She showed up in my driveway after trying to talk me into it for forty minutes while still at Brittany's.  She called me and said, "I'm here."  My reply was, "I'm not there.  I stopped at the grocery store.  But fine, I'll go with." 

 

Off we went in the pouring buckets rain to Ruby's house. 

 

When we walked in, I knew there was a reason I was there.  And the reason was Ruby was my grandma Gladys showing up to let me know she's still around me all the time.  Ruby's house reminded me oh so much of my grandparents.  There was the abundance of potted house plants all around with the half glass of milk sitting on the table from lunch which her husband was just finishing.  Grandpa Norman was there too.  

 

Karen and I followed Ruby up the orange carpeted stairway into her sewing room.  There was a Christmas Cactus on the windowsill and I said, "I love your Christmas Cactus."  Ruby was surprised I knew what it was and it set off the conversation of gardening, flowers, and sewing.  Ruby sewed all her own clothes as did her mother, a professionally trained seamstress. 

 

There were pins on the orange carpet and old photographs on the walls and we visited while that Ruby crouched down to pin Karen's dress up with the elbows resting on one leg stance just as Grandma would. 

 

There was a reason. 

 

Then we went with Ruby to the local greenhouse.  The greenhouse which has an entire section named after Ruby.  And she introduced us to her granddaughters who work there still and she showed us her favorites and I asked question after question because it was like my chance to ask those questions which I always wish I could ask Grandma Gladys.  She fired back with answers and plucked dead heads and leaves off the plants as we walked along while the rain pelted the plastic roof. 

 

On the way home, I thanked Karen for dragging me along on that trip and told her I felt like my grandma had been with me all day.  We both teared up a bit because she had felt something too.  It was simply special.  Our little afternoon with Ruby. 

 

 

I just finished watering those flowers in the July afternoon sun.  They are blooming and flourishing and of course include geraniums as those were Grandma's flower.  Now I don't just think about my grandma when I'm watering and caring for the blooms, I think of Ruby too.  I think of that entire generation of women.  And I hope that they will always be on my mind, in the forefront even. 

 

They belong there. 

 



Roasting

I'll never throw squash seeds away ever again. 

 

Roasting them with olive oil, sea salt, and black pepper in the late night hours is a much better option. 

 

And I officially now believe in roasting anything.  Chick peas, squash seeds, brocolli, carrots, cabbage, apple slices...next up I might throw lemons on a pan.  One never knows what might happen around here. 



I'm Just Saying

The other day in some of my reading, I came across the ever popular saying LIVE LARGE.  

Instantly this popped into my head.  

Yes, oh wise book.  Live large.  But don't be large.  

Don't you feel better about the state of my head now after I shared that bit of randomness.

Moving on.  Because I have a point.  At least as much of a point I can ever whittle. 

I'm not sure living large has to be an unattainable because I don't believe it needs to include fancy careers or expensive jewelry or wild excursions to exotic locations.  For me, living large is in the small; it's in the moments of stripped simplicity.      
             
After work one day last week, I found myself at the farm to join in on the salsa and pizza sauce making already started by Momma Debi and Sil.  Which really translates to all I did was pour the salsa in the jars, put the lids on, and place them in the hot water.  Sometimes it pays to have a day job.  The slicing and dicing had been done. 

Dad-o made steak supper for us all and the four munchkins were in fine form.  The kind of form which I find entertaining as their aunt.  Punky was inches away from an actual head dive out of the high chair with a quick save from Firecracker.  Easy Rider was fairly certain he had to have ranch and BBQ on his plate and Little Man was more concerned with standing in his chair and making cheese faces than eating.

After they had sufficient bites, I said, "Who wants to come with to the garden?"  I knew they'd come.  We did some cucumber, zucchini, and yellow squash picking with each of them holding a bag; I was zestfully throwing the veggies around causing some laughter.

Then all of a sudden, someone spotted the orange of a ripened mini pumpkin and all things ridiculous broke loose.  The three of them tore across the garden, bags whipping on their arms with dirt literally flying up from the soles of their boots all the while screaming at the top of their little lungs, "PUMPKINS!"

It was contagious.

I started yelling and high kicking right along with them.

Their squeals of joy were it.     

We picked quite a few pumpkins with some clarification needed about only the orange and kept laughing and carrying on.  Little Man was especially priceless because he's learning to use his words more and more.  He was stringing together, "I pick pumpkin!" with his enormous grin only growing broader with each pick.  I wanted to smush his face.  I might have actually smushed once or twice.

When we walked back to the house, our arms were loaded with the orange loot.  I looked up to see Momma Debi, Sil, and Punky on the deck laughing right along with us, complete with baby arm circles.  You know the kind.  When you think the baby might actually take off in flight because her arms are going 'round and 'round that fast.

And my mom?  Well, my mom was video taping the scene.

Living large.  It doesn't have to be so large.  It can come in the form of a rather small orange pumpkin on a weeknight evening in a patch of dirt.  

Winding Down Garden



From This Labor Day On

From this day forward, I am declaring a tradition.  The tradition is called on Labor Day, we shall all meet at the farm in the morning and can homemade graden salsa.  The official title is From This Labor Day On. 

 

Momma Debi will chop the onions and garlic while Sil peels and slices the tomatoes during which I dice the green and hot peppers.  With Sister Pister doing her college homework at the counter and the four kids running underfoot. 

Dad-o and Brother will pop in and out from testing the flax to see if it is ready to combine and the two little boys will insist upon going along for the back and forths.  Dad-o will have to almost run me over with the combine before I realize mid-running stride he is behind me because the music and the sun and the gravel road are doing it right.  The kids will play outside and find treasures to show Nana.  We will all visit and catch up with each other.

I'm declaring a new tradition because that's exactly what happened this morning and I think it should happen again.  That's the way it is with traditions; they start from something that makes you go, "This right here?  This is the life I want."  And then you recreate the good stuff over and over again. 

 

Yes, Labor Day is now forever going to be precisely what it was today.  Productivity, family, and life loving.          

 

The smell of the salsa cooking brought on my final feelings of fall.  It's here.  The air is crisper, the grass is crunchy underfoot, and the leaves are thinking about it.  They are.  So naturally when I walked in my door in the late afternoon with a box of jars in my hands, I ignored my unpacked suitcase from earlier weekend travels and I ignored the clean dishwasher which needed emptying and I ignored the laundry and I ignored the stack of work business brought home on Friday and I ignored that I could see footprints on my floors.  Ignored all of that to take a few moments to tie some pretty string around one jar of salsa. 

 

Ignored all of that to dump old fashioned oatmeal which had been sitting in a canister on my counter for too long in a vase to magically become a candle holder. 

 

 

Ignored all of that to place the not quite ripe squash to top off the start of my fall table.  It's totally September now so I don't even feel any shame.  My happy fall dance is officially rolling. 

   

Maybe I love this time of year so much because it brings about these feelings of gratitude inside me.  Of being more than thankful my family is all close and that we can gather at the farm to do something like can homemade garden salsa.  Sure it's amazing to have jars of fresh salsa to crack into anytime I want, but what's better is knowing all of the action which happened behind the scenes of that tomato slicing and green pepper dicing. 
  

Now that's in the late hours of the night, I know I put my nose the grindstone after the table episode and everything has been crossed off the to-do list.  Another reminder of sometimes it's alright to do the pretty-ing up stuff first before the work is done. 

Add to my From This Labor Day On tradition:

Decorate the table for fall.  Only the table. 





Pickle Cheater Cheater

I've been doing some cheating.

Before you become alarmed, let me delve deeper into an explanation.  Delving deeper.  It's what I do.  Talk.  And then talk some more.  Moving on.   

I have been cheating about making and canning pickles with the abundance of cucumbers from the garden. 

Here's what I do. 

Slice the cucumbers. 

Put them in a pretty bowl.  One from my grandma.  It's kind of important that step.  In that using your grandma's bowl simply does something for your soul.  Even though I think she would wag her finger at me for not doing the real deal canned pickles.  And I would wave my finger back and say, "Grandma!  I'm trying over here."     

Then I dump vinegar over them.  Mostly white vinegar but with a long splash of the apple cider variety for kicks. 

Then I stir them all around and let them sit in that business for about forty-five minutes.  After their bath...I rinse them off, dump them in a different bowl (one which has a lid; that's important too), sprinkle them with sea salt, put the lid on, and shake shake shake.  See!  The lid was important.  I can't have you shaking cucumbers all over hell.  Then I taste one to see if it's the correct combination of salt and vinegar.  I can't explain that to you other than, you'll just know.  You will.  Sometimes I go through the salting and shaking again.  Sometimes I don't. 

And then they are this cheater version of a pickle.  Only crispier.  Which I kind of like the best about them.  It's kind of like eating a potato chip.  Go with me on that.  It's a stretch.  Similar to me drinking pumpkin spice coffee this morning in anticipation of fall. 

They keep in the fridge for awhile.  I fed them to my friends on the Monday evening wine night and that was five days after I made them.  All of the girls are still alive and kicking and seemed to enjoy them so I feel safe in saying they last "awhile."

Cheater pickles.  A win!   

High Horse Stories

"Amy!  Tell me a story from when you were little!" 

This is what I heard as Owen bounded down the hallway towards his room in his blue and brown striped thermal jammies. 

The next thing I knew I was tucked in right beside him in his bed, telling him the tale of the first ride on my brand new horse Molly on a spring day when I was eleven.  The tale of the cinch on the saddle that wasn't tightened properly enough for galloping full speed down a gravel road.  The tale which ended with me heaped in a pile on the side of that road with my horse Molly looking down at me with the saddle under her belly and the look of by golly, what are you doing down there in her eyes. 

Of course when I tell a story I like to add in some dramatics.  Especially when it's a bed time story and I've been requested.  But they don't transfer well so imagine those here.     

After my story I said, "Now you tell me one." 

And what I heard was about his important job of telling his grandpa when the hopper on the combine is full.  "Amy, there is a buzzer that goes off it gets too full.  But that's not really good enough so he likes to have me sit beside him and watch it." 

Oh Owen.  You are one of the lucky ones too.  Do you know that?  I will start whispering it your ear from now on. 

Then I hugged his striped jammie shoulders with a "Goodnight buddy." 

He threw his arms in the air and in utter exasperation said, "I suppose you are going to drink wine with my mom now aren't you?!" 

"Yes.  Yes I am.  Sleep tight little one.  Sleep tight." 

What I didn't know was at that point I should have said, "And we are going to pod peas from the garden while we drink it.  Do you want to know what that's called Owen?  That's called productive wine drinking.  Are you taking notes on this stuff?" 

Because that's just what Danae and I did in the late hours of last night.  Drank wine and podded peas at her butcher block island.  With some solving of the world's problems thrown in.  Because when you are going through some rougher patches in life, you want your friends.  You need your friends.  

You thank your stars you are one of the lucky ones who can show up at the doorstep to be welcomed in and accepted.  High horse and all.  With a side of crisis mode.  If you are one of the really lucky ones, your friend's husband doesn't judge when he comes home after a long day of harvesting to his wife saying, "You guys finished the peas?  Well so did we!" in a mildy tipsy voice.   

Not only does he not judge the ridiculousness, Blake joins right in by watching my comedy routine in his living room.  The routine about my rib cage and other body parts we won't mention here.  He's good like that, even adding in his two cents.  The laughter was flying around the air so I poured myself another glass.  "Oh you're having another glass?  Good.  You should.  You really should."  As if I needed his encouragement at that point. 

That last glass, or fine maybe it was really the one before, is the reason I found myself waking up on their couch this morning to two bed headed kids snuggled on each side of me.

 
Then finding myself walking to the kitchen with a baby on my hip to get the coffee.  Get the coffee quick.  I'm just glad it was of the blonde variety.  Sometimes you need to match.  You just do.

I can only imagine the stories Owen, Emma, and Autumn will tell of when they were little.  The stories of the nights Amy showed up at their house and the mornings they woke up to sing and dance with her and their mom in the kitchen while pancakes were flipped and coffee was sipped.  I can only hope we are adding to the cycle.  The cycle of the lucky ones.       

In Which a Heart was in my Cabbage

The rain sprinkled on my back as I was digging up carrots, onions, and beets.  It was welcome.  Cool and wet after so much hot and dry.  Across the garden, my mom was picking cucumbers, zucchini, and yellow squash.  We were both quietly doing our work.  Happy to have the time for the dirt. 

The garden is producing.  And I am loving it.  On Thursday afternoon, I officially passed the grain cart driving reins to Sister Pister and came home.  Home to take care of some of that garden goodness. 

There is definitely some work involved in cleaning up the vegetables, but it's more than worth it.    

And I figure all of that dirt is a pleasing thing.  It means fresh and whole.  It also makes me a little suspicious about the stuff we buy.  It's way too clean.  Too chemically enhanced, shined, and perfect.  I'll take the dirt in my sink any day. 

Let's just have a moment for the teacher in me.  Carrots could be used as a wonderful life lesson about how we are all different on the outside but are the same on the inside.  Because love a duck...they are sure goofy looking. 

My personal favorite thing to do with all of those vegetables is to wash and chop and arrange so they are pretty.  Then I layer them with some real butter on aluminum foil, sprinkle with Nature's Seasoning, and wrap it all up to make a sealed bag.  Then pop on the grill for about twenty minutes or so and eat.  Eat them up. 

If you don't know about this seasoning, you need to.  Momma Debi has been using it forever and then I started using it and now my friends use it and pretty soon you can too.  I put it on almost everything, but it's a winner winner when paired with garden vegetables. 

This cabbage is also from the garden.  I swear it was better looking than store bought.  It just was.  Apparently I'm all about telling you what to do on this fine Saturday morning because here's what you must do with cabbage.  Brush olive oil on a baking pan.  Cut your cabbage into about inch and a half slices.  Lay them down on the pan.  Brush the top of each slice with olive oil.  Sprinkle with sea salt and black pepper.  Roast them in the oven at 400 for about forty-five minutes.  They get brown and very yummy.  Watch them though because they can burn quickly.  If they start to become too brown on the edges before the middles have roasted, turn the oven down to finish.  I usually put sauteed mushrooms and baby tomatoes on the top of each slice right before serving.  People will think you are fancy.  But it's easy.  My way of rolling. 

And please.  Please notice there is a heart in the middle of this cabbage.  It's the little things.  It really is. 

And please.  Please know that there is nothing as fresh tasting as beets from the garden.  Nothing.  Please also know they can stain your wood floor in two seconds flat when you drop a hot one.  Which is why I quickly yelled "Oh my gosh!  Clean it up!  Clean it up fast!!"  The difference between one second and two seconds.  It matters. 

See?  Totally fancy looking huh?  Never mind the presentation is a bit off.  I was hungry.  No time to re-plate before bringing it out the patio.   

In the Dirt

I walked into the kitchen at the farm holding a bundle of radishes with sweat dripping from my white smeared sunscreen face, "I love this Mom.  Like really really love it." 

Gardening.  It's in my blood to garden.  To spend time sitting in the dirt with myself as company.  To have the permament smidge of black dirt under my fingernails.  To feel the breeze blowing on my skin while the sun warms my bones.  To intrinsically know what makes each plant tick; what they need and when they need it.  I'm not quite there yet.  But one day I might be. 

I am where I love spending my hours out in the garden.  Even in the one hundred percent humidity with ninety-nine for the heat index.  Sweat pooled on  my smeared white sunscreened face and bugs stuck where they landed on my nose and my hair felt the frizz and my forehead wrinkles were apparent. 

But I was happy.     

Happy as a lark sitting in the dirt freeing the lettuce and carrots from the radishes and the weeds.  With every tug it's as if a fraction of that thing, soul-inner self-whatever you refer to it as, is freed.  And I can't help but wonder if my grandma felt that same way.  Felt like it was a time when all was right with the world.  No matter the stresses she was going through of being a newlywed trying to come out of the Depression era with something, raising babies while working as a teacher and farming with Grandpa, watching her teenage daughters try to find themselves, and then letting go of her daughters as they spread their wings to do their own living, wondering if she'd done it all the right way, making the transition to each stage in her own life.     

This gardening thing is work.  Hot and dirty.  But it's work I find myself loving.  There are many times now that I've done some growing up I wish my grandma was here.  Here to sit with me while I tug at the radishes.  Here to tell me why the peas are turning yellow.  Here to share with me the happiness that comes from standing at the end of the row knowing that you just freed those plants to do their thing.  Here to see the love for the dirt she had is in my blood after all.       

When I was a kid, I remember waking up in the summer mornings and knowing to trot out to the garden because that's where I would find my mom.  Spending her quiet time before the rush of the rest of us brewing and needing and wanting started among the dirt and plants.  My young self thought she was crazy; thought sleep was the best way to spend a morning.  But now I get it.  Totally get it.   

Traditions are beyond important to me; I believe they are the way in which we find and keep our identity.  I enjoy when Momma Debi says things like, "Are those pea plants wet?  You should never pick weeds or produce when it's wet because it causes mold." 

After I ran into the house with radishes and nerdily professed my love of gardening, I walked back out to find Dad-o with a hoe in his hand, weeding the corn while he kept an eye on the grain being loaded into the semi.  "Dad, it's so fun to have a garden.  It seems like forever since it hasn't been too wet." 

He stood up straight, "It's so fun to grow crops again Amy.  It's been too long since we've been able to grow.  It's feels good to work and see it matter again." 

There you have it.  Traditions.  I'm learning and soaking it all in with the hope that one day I will pass the torch. 

I have a ways to go before I'm ready to completely fly solo in the growing realm.  The very morning these radishes were picked, I sprayed an entire jug of Round-up I stole from the farm in the shop on my landscaping rocks, driveway, and sidewalks.  Then I called Momma Debi and said, "Was I supposed to add water to that Round-up?  I feel like maybe I should have."  Her answer was, "Well it's one pint per five gallons of water for an acre of land." 

Which means I made a mistake.  One which could cause some seriously dead grass instead of just dead weeds.  Time will tell. 

But I know this.  We laughed about it being yet another one of those Amy things which seem to happen.  There's another torch I hope I will pass on.  Knowing the value in laughing at yourself and your follies instead of fretting or stewing or yelling or blaming or stomping your feet.  Take responsibility, admit you made a mistake, laugh, laugh again, and move on.  While taking notes all along the way.   

Simple Veggie Life

The process of turning all of these fresh vegetables into frozen stir-fry packs with my one of my best friends on a Sunday afternoon made my heart happy. 

Because there is something about singing, laughing, talking, chop chopping...that makes everything right again. 

Danae does the washing and the blanching.  I do the peeling and the chopping.  

For those minutes in her kitchen, it's a simple existence.  Like taking a step back in time. 

And we solve the world's problems.  One vegetable at a time.  Life is good. 

I Went on a Picnic...

It's like that game, "I'm going on a picnic and I'm bringing with..." that we have all played in the car at one point in our road trip lives.  Except I can say with almost certainty that kids don't play those games anymore.  Now they have fancy schmancy things to entertain them; they don't have to remember the order of the letters of the alphabet and what items each person chose to take on their picnic.  It's a cake walk for these young travelers.  A cake walk.

Pretty sure I always had the hardest time remembering which letter came next in the alphabet more so than what my friend sitting next to me said for their item.  In fact, I still catch myself needing to sing the entire alphabet when trying to get the order correct.  Confession number 197.  

      

Anyway, it's like that game.  Only it goes something like this.  

I went to the farm and brought back home with me four loaves of homemade Momma Debi bread made specially for me, tomatoes from the garden, and fresh pico de gallo salsa whipped up by Dad-o.

Trips to the farm should be more frequent.        

With a Side of Garden

Whoa!

First garden produce.  

This is my first year caring about the garden.  My family has always been on the garden band wagon and now I've jumped on with both feet.  The reason I first started to care was for the natural food aspect.  Dirt + seed + water + sun = food.  And that is how it should be.  But, what I have found through caring about the garden is this...sitting in the dirt with my legs tucked underneath me and the sun shining on my head with ipod music inspiring my ears is dang good for my soul.  The quiet time weeding has become my think time.  My slow my roll down and process, really process, what is going on in my life time.   

The garden this year is far from fantastic as a large portion was flooded out shortly after the planting, but it is giving us some produce.  First up was kohlrabi, swiss chard {the stuff that looks kind of like rhubarb}, radishes, and green onions.  The radishes are all cleaned up and sitting in a ziploc bag of water in my fridge waiting to be used.  However, the kohlrabi, swiss chard, and onions didn't even survive three hours before they were gobbled up.  I made a quick simple stir fry out of kohlrabi, onions, and mushrooms while the swisschard was steamed.  Then both were used as sides for fish tacos. 

Let me jump in here and say that fish tacos were made in my kitchen.  Real fish tacos.  With the cabbage slaw cilantro lime whole shebang.  Somebody manned the fish and I manned the rest and it was a success.  

I wasn't able to take any pictures during the fish taco making because I'm still at the point in my cooking journey where I need to concentrate and pay attention to what is going on when I'm making something new.  But, I will make them again and now that I know what I'm doing, a stop here and there for a photo won't throw my game off.  And then I'll share the recipe with you.   

Having a garden, taking care of that garden, cooking, and eating real food are all proving to pretty much make my heart sing.  

I'm off now to try and wrestle with the tiller for the rest of the afternoon.  I'm not sure that part of gardening will be heart singing inducing.  Hopefully the tiller doesn't end up taking me down, giving me the typewriter, and winning.