A Rainy Day

                                                                                                               vareni4ek from photobucket

Hot cup of tea in hand, quiet house, soft rain and big picture window. My gaze is fixed on raindrops plinking in the collecting puddles. The gray blanket of sky wraps around my little house. The trees are still. The squirrels and birds are hid away and I am left with the  tip tap of the rain and my thoughts; a metronome to lull me into memories of other rainy days….

I took the tube to Trafalgar Square, venturing on my own through the streets of London. The destination didn’t matter. I wanted to get lost without my “Baedeker” or professor and explore. As a child, I would imagine London and get so excited about the thought of going one day, that it would feel as if my chest would burst from bubbles of giddiness. And here I was, riding London’s subway, trying to look genuinely English all the while listening to conversations and noticing mannerisms. A cold, wet January day but still perfect to duck in and out of shops, bookstores and museums.  I ended up at the National Gallery and quietly strolled the corridors, receiving each artwork and the quiet solitude as a gift; contemplating the why and how of brushstrokes,  the colors, the stories behind both the  subject and artist.  The lovely rainy afternoon was finished with a hot pot of tea and a cucumber sandwich in the museum’s cafe. I found a corner table and relished every bite and sip. The rain trailed down the windows, I looked over my purchases and people watched, grateful for that afternoon…

Though England is where my heart lies this afternoon, I am still happy to be here at my kitchen table with raspberry tulips in a vase and my toddler napping peacefully.  A few cherished moments of solitude. A bird alight on the flower pot.  A train whistling in the distance.

Happy Easter!

Hoping that you have experienced the fullness of Easter!

“Bock-Bock”

Cloudy With a Chance of Caterpillars

                                                                                                           Matchtarget from photobucket

Recently, my family trekked to Florida for a much needed time of fun and relaxation. We were looking forward to spending time with family out in the country and Florida in the springtime is wonderful. Except when there are caterpillars.  I’m not talking about the cute little inchworm variety, but the fuzzy stinging kind. Fuzzy, stinging, falling from trees, creeping up your leg, catching in your hair, grotesque caterpillars. They are covered in tufts and lashes as described by the caterpillar website. What were these creatures terrorizing our family? It was a plague of white tussock moth caterpillars. Never in the years we’ve spent in Florida had we ever experienced anything like this.  As I scoured the internet, there were many people asking the same question from all over, and the stranger thing was that communities less than an hour away were experiencing the same phenomenon but with a different type of caterpillar!?! What would be next? Locusts?

These little buggers were stealth; no noise, no trail, no headquarters, just rogue travelers.  The only evidence was their cocoons attaching to everything from the house to cars to trees to fences, and there was no predicting who would be their next victim except that the sheer number increased the odds that you would have at least one assault per day. My dad would pick them up and flick them away without any consequence.  They piggybacked on me until they were discovered in the shower.  My daughter stepped on one barefoot and it left her with a large red welt. But it was my husband who really enjoyed these little guys, especially after one fell in his shirt and decided to roll over his sunburned back. The local ER was a nice place to visit at three in the morning when he felt like there were fire needles stabbing his back. An IV of Benadryl and Pepcid followed by an Epi pen and a round of prednisone set him right. Good times.

We’re home now, but I still keep a vigilant watch. One could have hitch-hiked on the car or in a suitcase.  So far no sign of cocoons or multi-lashed aliens or bright red welts.  However, I suspect one early symptom of having met up with the creatures must be temporary amnesia.  After we made it home, I was planning Easter activities and thought about growing butterflies from a kit.  Yes, that would mean having more caterpillars and that they would be in the house.  My 11 year old son summed it up, with his eyebrows cocked high, “What? Mom! I never wanna see another caterpillar again!”  What was I thinking?

A Blooming Fix

I have raspberry tulips! And Sweet William and the tender beginnings of hostas, hydrangeas and daylilies!   The tiniest buds are peeking from the naked crepe myrtle and the sleepy blooms of the azaleas are starting to open their eyes. Chives are reaching high and golden oregano is stretching. Spring’s beauty and earth’s renewal has begun. Aaaah…breathe it in, soak up the sunshine and drink in the intoxicating freshness. I must have more.

Is there a Gardener’s Anonymous? My symptoms begin with the strange sensations of tugging and pulling whenever I pass a nursery; then after entering, a sort of itchy euphoria.  Perhaps there’s a cream for this.  At the minimum a buddy system should be available. “Put the pot down.  This will pass. Just walk to the nearest exit. You are safe.”  What would be such a group’s name? Pot Heads? Leaf Shakers? Dirty Fingers? Blooming Banshees? Something to ponder.

They make it so irresistible, those distributors of plant life.   Lovely paths to stroll and carefully arranged displays to peruse showcasing a feast of flowers and trees, bug and spot free, just waiting to be plucked. “Ooooh what do they have here? Is that Provence lavender?  What is this? That would look perfect in the front yard.”  It can absolutely get out of hand. On any visit you are likely to find me pulling a wagon full of plants with one hand, holding pots in the other, some sort of planting supplement tucked under my arm and balancing something I just had to grab on the way to the register under my chin, all the while scanning both directions and trying to maneuver past displays and other people.  I could just come back. Right? And have another experience ogling and sniffing and planning and yes spending, but that’s what I mean. It would be the same scene all over again! It’s addictive!  “A lavendar bloom is not to your liking, ma’am? Try this coral instead.” A verdant paradise that I must conquer and make my own. The funny thing is I’m only a mediocre gardener at best! There’s no showplace or reputation to maintain. It’s the nurturing and the learning and the beauty I enjoy. A daily surprise when I peek out my window.

I’m learning self-control. A budget tempers the thrill too.  So I plan and sketch. Then I stand in front of the beds and picture my future plantings. I walk away and walk back. A lot. My neighbors, I’m sure, have wondered, “What is she doing over there? She seems agitated. She’s pacing. Should we call for help?”  No worries.  I think I have a couple bucks in my pocket. Those two toned geraniums looked nice.

Country Roads

“Country roads take me home to the place I belong…”

Every once in awhile I get homesick, and most definitely in the spring. Homesick at 40,  it’s true, but I guess missing home is universal. My senses signal a deluge of memories; the sights, sounds and smells that comfort and beckon me to return.

My memory map starts on the long Florida turnpike cutting through pastures dotted with proud palms and majestic oaks, passed inky black rivers hedged with palmettos, down state highways with boiled peanut and citrus signs at empty filling stations, peely-painted cracker houses setting under Spanish moss, the faint smell of salty air and that famous Florida sunshine as if someone turned on a too bright bulb.  Now only a mile or two away, I’m on the lookout for the familiar. The Pepsi-Cola painted oil tanks and the old Brahman bull. Almost there. Cedar Lane: that rough paved country road carrying me back to my grandparents and great grandparents homes, back to giant cedars and hundred year old live oaks, to the old barn and five foot rattlers, to the sing song of crickets and frogs. My home.  Where my mother grew up riding horses and running the woods. Where my father called peacocks and cut a cedar Christmas tree. Where my brother and I swung on vines and imagined adventures. Where we picked wild blackberries and steered clear of giant hairy spiders, followed creeks and found possum bones. Home.

I’ve reached the top of the hill and I see the entrance to the gravel circular drive lined with azaleas my great grandfather planted.  The little house transformed by additions and paint sits nestled under the branches of  the old oaks draped with moss and serenaded by hoot owls.  I step out of the car breathing in the sweet musty smell of earth and time, I hear the faint voice of my Aunt Mimi singing “Sloop John B” on the guitar, I taste the honeysuckle blossoms picked at my grandmother’s back door.  And there’s my folks on the porch grinning to greet me. Home.

Yuck

What does a broken computer plus the flu and strep season equal? A six week hiatus from my blog, but I’m back with working computer and immune system.  Lots of lessons learned:

1. Never leave laptop near glass of water and two year old.

2. Get flu shots. All children were armed with their shots and though they still caught the flu, sailed right through it.  Their dad and I became the walking dead.

3. Way more dependent on technology than I thought.  I still love my pen and paper, but no replacing the computer for quick saves, spell checks, editing…not to mention Google and the myriad sights and blogs I missed.

Tangerine Leaves is stretching her limbs, just in time for spring.  See you soon.

Saucy Daydreams

Picture a kitchen percolating with activity. The speedy chop of vegetables. Single handed egg cracking. Pots simmering succinctly. Saute pans caramelizing carefully. A lovely table set graciously, with fresh cut flowers, pressed  linens and perfectly placed china. The coolest jazz is swaying in the background. Candles flickering the softest light and… voila! Perfection served up without the littlest hiccup or sweat bead all the while looking calm, collected and completely fabulous. That is not me in any shape or form, but rather my saucy re’vesse!

I see many of you raising your spatulas! You’ve joined me in such daydreams, but where does this desire to be a gourmet goddess come from? My mother is not Martha Stewart. I didn’t have an unrealistic set of standards instilled in my sense of self, yet I did have a mother who took care to make sitting at the table together a priority and she can put together a lovely meal without aid of a cookbook or extensive ingredient list.  I suppose the goddess fantasy comes from a recipe of reasons, but one main ingredient must be the enjoyment of sharing food together.  Both nutritional and emotional sustenance is gained when food is passed around a table. Many traditions and most definitely celebrations are centered around food. It is this sort of legacy of hospitality and comfort I hope to give to my children.  And let’s be real, I like to eat.

I have a notebook of recipes and  a shelf of cookbooks filled with dishes I want to try. I have recipes written by loved ones now gone and favorite recipes that are like gold; Grandma’s banana cake,  Aunt Frances’ cream pies,  Aunt Vivian’s chocolate chip cookies. Then there are those legendary family recipes that aren’t written down, like hot water cornbread.  I’ve watched, I’ve listened, I haven’t gotten the knack yet. A collection of tasty treasures that I value as much for the flavor as for the memories they carry with them every time they’re served at the table.

One recipe I’m glad to be rid of is “Chicken with Garlic.” It wasn’t the recipe as much as my lack of  cooking experience when I was first married. I remember sprinkling dried garlic flakes like it was cheese. Let’s just say the chicken was potent and had both the chew of leather and the crunch of sand.  No overheard complaints from hubby, but my mother-in-law wisely surprised me with a subscription to “Taste of Home.”  I still make some of those recipes nearly twenty years later.

There are some recipes I have no desire mastering. These are dishes best left to the professionals.  Sushi comes to mind, in fact most Asian cuisine.  There is some secret ingredient in take-out fried rice that I haven’t figured out and probably glad I haven’t.  Indian cookery is a favorite and while I have had some success with a couple recipes, part of the pleasure is knowing that when I go to my favorite Indian restaurant the perfect spices are selected, prepared and portioned to make this delectable dish before me.  To this, I raise my glass to the cook and graciously say, “Thank you!”

So while I continue to strive for excellence in the culinary arts, I will pull from my stash of recipes, pore over my cookbooks and reap inspiration from the greats. Menus will be planned with my loved ones in mind. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners gathering us around the table with good food and laughter. And I’m sure there will be the occasional daydream of Julia saying, “Well done” or Ina inviting me over for tea.

Share a saucy daydream or a favorite cooking memory!