Despite my past protestations about “sommerzeit,” time is marching on. Joe Castiglione kept me company during my evening travels, the snow is melting, and my mother’s flowers continue to grow.
If your travels bring you near Portland, Maine, consider a visit to the Portland Flower Show.
Things will be getting busy here in New England, post-haste. Make time to rest today, even if it’s just for twenty minutes.
Some of my blog readers know I am “new” to Facebook. I resisted it for a long time and then I jumped in. Because I am a Facebook ingénue, there are features of social media which befuddle me, particularly the “sharing” of pre-packaged information. Occasionally, this information is actual “news.” One farmer friend “shares” news articles about the David and Goliath-like battle he and other farmers are waging against Monsanto. Other friends “share” pithy epithets and pictures from pages like “Being single is much wiser than being in a fake relationship,” “Godly Woman Daily,” and “Shut Up I’m Still Talking.”
One day, a friend from elementary school “shared” her grief over the front porch suicide of County & Western singer Mindy McCready. The singer’s death was disturbing; one month prior, her boyfriend had shot and killed himself. This troubled 37-year-old woman, who shot and killed her dog before she shot herself, is survived by two young sons. Scanning over her Wikipedia biography, it appears her life was filled with sadness and tragedy.
I didn’t know Miss McCready personally.
After reading this information, I wondered about the depth of sadness which would drive a person to take their own life. I thought about Miss McCready’s celebrity status. Did she have other celebrity friends? Although her loss of life subtracts from all of humanity, there wasn’t a damn thing I could have done about her sadness and her life’s problems because I didn’t know her personally. Then I took a moment to think about my own family and friends and wondered if any of them might be sad and suffering. I logged out of Facebook, shut my netbook, and called a friend I hadn’t heard from in a few weeks. We got caught up and then we made plans to take a walk together.
I continue to be bothered by some of the things people “share” on Facebook. It’s not because I don’t care about sadness, pain, and suffering; on the contrary, I care about these things very much. But I am a finite person, put on this earth for a certain number of days and years with a limited amount of time for helping others. It’s possible that the only people I might ever influence in this life are the ones who live right next door to me. There is enough grief and sadness to go around in my own little corner of the world and that’s the corner I need to tend.
The other day, a good friend had to have some additional medical tests done. Something of concern was seen in a routine scan and more testing was required. She was nervous and as the hours passed between the routine scan and the next test, she shared her fears with me. I asked her if she wanted me to go to the hospital with her, but she said no. I told her I was available to help her in any way I could and I texted her in the morning before she left for the hospital. I agreed to stay in communication with her while she was waiting. I put aside a few of the papers I was shuffling around my desk and focused on being available for my friend. I was nervous for her. Some time passed with no texts and then she sent me one that said “All is good! The results are fine!”
I was relieved.
Social media is weird and wonderful and I enjoy an occasional voyeuristic glance into the lives of celebrities. Then I remember what is real in life–the real people I see today and the real people I might actually see some day in the future. These are the people I want to know about and I want them to “share” their real lives with me.
“Share” the “real” today.
Once in a while, my mother falters in her commitment to healthy food.
Even though she said she didn’t care for this particular flavor of Pringles and probably won’t buy them again, I’m not going to tell her about the 2010 recall.
Nothing to see here; move along.
Tuesday evening, I spent some time sorting saved marigold seeds. I had a jar full of dried “dead heads” and it was time to pull out the seeds. A few New England garden writers have suggested “it’s seed starting time” and I’ve been thinking about it myself. Fiddling with marigold seeds, which can’t be planted until frost danger has passed, is just procrastination. One writer I follow, Robin Follette, started pepper and tomato seeds this weekend and I couldn’t help but wish I had a “high tunnel” like the one she has on her farm. I’ve been wishing for a high tunnel or hoop house for a while now.
Robin is matter-of-fact about all outdoors things; she makes them sound easy. It probably is easy. I just like to over think things in the garden, so it’s helpful when Robin stops by every once in a while to straighten me out.
Thinking about starting seeds and how great it would be to have a high tunnel or a hoop house was exhausting. After I was certain the Celtics had won their basketball game, I trudged off to bed.
I know I’ve written about my sleep troubles before and kind people have written to me with wonderful suggestions. Other people have had some not so wonderful suggestions, and a few have even said “shut the BLEEP up.” When I’m sleeping in one of the childhood bedrooms at Motel Four, I think I sleep well until my father says to me at the breakfast table:
“Someone was chasing you last night. You were trying to shout in your sleep.”
Last night, I dreamed I was at a Pampered Chef conference except that it wasn’t a Pampered Chef conference. It was at a moderately priced hotel which just happened to be near a football stadium. There were lots of comings and goings in the dream and when the real world alarm went off I didn’t want to get up. I fished around my pillows and books for the alarm clock and what did I find? One of my shellac fingernails had fallen off.
Please don’t get the wrong idea; manicures aren’t my standard operating procedure, although the shellac holds up well for gardening, housecleaning, and other domestic pursuits. This particular manicure has held up for almost 3 weeks.
The dream, the nail, and pending morning blog anxiety drove me back under the covers and back to the Pampered Chef conference. In the second scene of the dream, one of my high school classmates was trying to console a tattooed woman who was crying out the lines from an 80’s song. It made me cry in my dream and if any of my sleeping was caught on a drone camera, I’m quite sure I will be told:
“Someone was chasing you last night”
Last Saturday, I was invited to my brother’s house for an afternoon “working session.” We toiled away in his upstairs home office while his wife, Miss Mary, visited with her sister, Dianne. As we went over story and essay ideas for his next book, I could hear the sounds of kitchen tools mixed in with laughter and conversation. At six o’clock, we were summoned to dinner.
Sharing a meal with friends and family is a special treat.
Here at The Coop, my evening meal is often eaten standing up at the counter and it might consist of some cheese and crackers washed down with raw goat milk. The Encyclopedic Cook Book makes it seem easy to be a gal on the go with a meal routine.
(From Culinary Arts Institute’s The Encyclopedic Cook Book, copyright 1950.)
For a while, it seemed like the almost-sacred act of family mealtime might make a comeback. In her 1980 basement, Doris Christopher had an idea to help preserve family mealtime and she created The Pampered Chef. So enticing was the idea, I became a Pampered Chef consultant in the early 1990’s. After a day of working at my first Big Corporation, I’d lug my two crates of tools and baking stones into someone’s house and demonstrate simple recipes. I developed my “pitch” or “testimonial” about why I wanted to be a successful consultant. The Pampered Chef “business opportunity” was going to help me become the person I wanted most to be, which was a stay at home wife and mother. Even though I didn’t have any children, if I just sold enough pizza stones, this life might be possible.
After my first few months of minor success, my up-line director and I traveled to Chicago for a Pampered Chef national conference. It was a well-orchestrated event and although I didn’t get to meet Doris Christopher personally, her stage presence was just as humble and wise as she seemed in the various consultant publications I received. When I got home from Chicago, I set up my own basement office in the suburban Cape Cod-style house my husband and I owned. I toiled away at my “direct sales opportunity” for another year until my day job demanded more of my energy.
Things didn’t turn out exactly as I had hoped.
The Pampered Chef, Ltd. is still in business. Berkshire Hathaway acquired the company in 2002 and I’m glad things turned out well for Doris Christopher. I still have most of the kitchen tools and baking stones from that entrepreneurial venture and I do most of my cooking on the weekends when I try to stock-pile meals for the coming week. It’s not perfect and it’s not like having a meal with family and friends.
I’m sure someone is working on a smart phone application for it, though, and when they do I’ll be the first person to download it. Until then, I’m grateful to the people who keep mealtime sacred and occasionally invite me to their table.
Here in New England, it has snowed for the last four weekends. We had a blizzard, a snowstorm, and a Sunday storm. On Saturday night, we got a coating of thick, heavy flakes. The winter weather has caused much groaning and gnashing of teeth from people who should know better. As Bill Belichick might say “it is what it is.”
As I was packing up The Jeep early Saturday morning, on my way home to Lisbon Falls, I smelled the sulfur-like smell of a skunk. I haven’t smelled “skunk” since fall and I wondered if there was a particular skunk behavior which was a harbinger of spring.
The skunk is a nocturnal animal and while the use of their odorous spray is a weapon against predators, it’s also a way that a skunk marks territory and attracts a mate. Doing some internet research and basic gestational math, I determined that male skunks could be out looking for mates about now and I thought it was as good a sign of spring as any. Embracing the odor and the miniscule piles of remaining Seacoast snow, I headed north with visions of rhubarb popping through the dirt in the garden I share with Uncle Bob.
It was overcast and grey all the way home and a flake or two would occasionally hit the windshield. When I drove by Uncle Bob’s, I was skunk out of luck; the garden looked the same as it looked a few months ago.
I took a walk around town, looking for skunk signs.
There were no signs of any tulips tips in the Redemption Garden.
It was a big rock candy snow mountain at my Surprise Garden.
There were no signs of anything skunky to be found.
It’s easy to be anxious in March in New England. January and February are actually one long month which could be called “Fanuary” or “Jenebruary.” Flipping the calendar to March isn’t a magic talisman, though. It’s still early for most things and I estimate that it will be another 21 days before I can get outside and start cleaning up winter’s debris. Folks are tapping maples and there are a few inside things yet to do before planting peas.
I’m going to have to be more upbeat and positive with the groaners and the teeth gnashers. I know the Pollyanna routine will smell like a skunk to them, but I’m going to do it anyway because I did find one little hopeful sign of spring as I was leaving my parent’s house on Sunday.
Be a harbinger of spring today; be a skunk.
I had forgotten this corner.
Following Saturday night dinner table conversation, the name still eludes me.
Someone will remember.
My friend Jaxon took a business trip this week. He flew to Dallas during a Midwestern blizzard and he said it was the second worst flight he’d ever taken. Jaxon is a sturdy traveler and he’s stoic about being shoved in a tin cigar hurtling through the atmosphere. He said “they had to keep free-falling and dropping the plane like a bungee cord. People were freaking out.”
Jaxon got home safely late Thursday afternoon, but his flight experience reminded me of my own dislike of feeling trapped. It reminded me of Laika.
I never learned about Laika in high school history class; was the Cold War over by then? Or was it because my history teacher didn’t want to explain that Laika had died so men and women could travel in outer space? It wasn’t until I watched the movie My Life as a Dog in that late 80’s that I learned about Laika and her demise. It was a sad movie and the main character, Ingemar, had sad conversations inside his head. I only remembered Ingemar questioning “I wonder how Laika felt?”
On Fridays I feel like Laika, trapped inside Sputnik 2 and part of some strange space race. Sometimes, I’m out of ideas and I’m mentally tired. I don’t have time to develop my material on Fridays and I don’t like delivering a bad product. I don’t have time to develop my material on Tuesdays, either, but Fridays seem more impossible.
I am navel-gazing. I’m over thinking things, too. In the future, when I want to take a day off from blogging, I’m going to post this picture.
When the heart shows up on the page, it means “something suddenly came up” or “I’m tired” or “I’ve taken on too many projects in addition to working for The Man.” It doesn’t mean I don’t care about consistency and structure and good writing habits.
I appreciate the readers who stop by and read what I write; I enjoy the energy, wit, and intelligence of the commenters, too. Thank you for reading my blog.
See you on Sunday!
Bernard Saint thinks I should make some arts and crafts out of old newspapers.
Bernard, I’m more worried about recycling these boxes.
Any ideas on how to reduce, reuse, and recycle this garbage?
During one of my strolls through the Seacoast Eat Local Winter Farmers Market, I overheard a woman say to her husband “Can you believe they want five dollars for a dozen eggs? I can get the same eggs at Wal*Mart for ninety-nine cents. There’s nothing here for us.”
I’ve thought about this comment a lot since I overheard it. At first, I was incensed. I got up on my green moral high horse and thought to myself “those eggs at Wal*Mart are not the same eggs! They’re old eggs! They are practically rotten. The chickens involved were bio-engineered to live in cages; they had their beaks cut off and they crapped all over the chickens around them for lack of space.”
Some people don’t care about eating old, crapped-on eggs. They care about ninety-nine cent eggs. I’m not going to change their minds with anecdotal evidence about happy chickens frolicking peacefully in verdant pastures.
I started to feel guilty about buying expensive eggs. I decided that each time I bought eggs or got them from my CSA, I’d get some extra eggs and give them to my neighbor who makes soup for me. It was the old “eggs as penance” routine. I have not earned my way into egg-heaven yet, but I continue with this practice.
More recently, I’ve tried to find articles which document the true cost of food at local farmers markets. Many of these articles used the green moral high horse argument when there was no objective data to support the cost argument. This reasoned article by Barry Estabrook provides links to a study done in 2011 which included actual data instead of feelings and anecdotal evidence. The comments are interesting, too. It was the best of the lot of articles I could find.
I did my own on-line research and concluded that the one food item I compared, organic carrots, was the same price at both the local Hannaford grocery store and the Winter Market if I bought them from Brookford Farm in a twenty pound bag.
They key word is “organic.” Commercially grown non-organic carrots can be purchased at fifty cents per pound versus the “organic” carrot which is almost two dollars per pound.
I like carrots. When I don’t have carrots in my refrigerator, I worry. From having tried to grow them myself, I know how much work is involved in planting, thinning, and weeding. Producing organic carrots on a commercial scale is difficult as well as costly. Weeds are a fierce competitor and when the carrot top starts growing above the ground, hand weeding is still sometimes required. Weeds and carrot tops look alike and the first ten weeks after the carrot germinates is critical to growth.
Growing organic carrots is more complicated than growing non-organic carrots because the organic farmer has to use untreated seed. Commercial non-organic carrot growers can use chemically treated seed, which reduces weeds, pests and diseases. The likelihood of pests and diseases in organically grown carrots rises exponentially.
I want to grow my own organic carrots, but I have to be realistic. I work a day job, I write a blog, I volunteer in my current community, and I volunteer in my hometown. I am not a farmer. Uncle Bob is not emotional about carrots and while he might tolerate one season of experimentation with a row of carrots, I’ve already decided our experimental row will be peas this year. I get one experiment per year with Uncle Bob and this will not be the year he babysits a row of carrots for me.
As much as I’d like everyone to support local farmers, I don’t think it’s going to happen if I base my argument solely on price. A price shopper is never going to buy five dollar eggs when they can get ninety-nine cent eggs. A price shopper may not care about carrots at all.
It’s possible that the only orange foods some people ever willingly eat are Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and I have no argument that will compel them to buy five dollar eggs and forty dollar carrots.
This is a puzzling problem while ninety-nine cent eggs are still available at Wal*Mart. Just like modern commercial agriculture, I’m going to rely on science fiction to gracefully extricate myself from today’s post.
Julie-Ann Baumer 