I don’t care what you think, I can state with absolute certainty that I DO NOT go out places and return without my clothes on. I don’t even go places and take my clothes off and then put them back on when I leave. So why, then, am I missing the following?
Light blue blouse
Dark blue blouse
Sweat pants and top
Brown shorts
Thick winter cotton work socks
Matching undie sets: sea foam green, lavender and Mrs. Claus. (Ok, the latter I remember hiding. I just don’t remember where so I guess they’re not totally missing).
Grey jersey skirt
Beige wool wrap around skirt.
I do sort through my things every spring and fall when I change things over, which usually results in giving unworn things away. I still think I would remember what I tossed and what I kept.
Yes, I’m working on adding photos to the blog. But they won’t be appearing in posts like this. Understandably, oui?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Curses!
As previously mentioned, gardening for me is not entirely about getting the produce in the end. Don’t get me wrong, if I’m putting money and time into this I want the end result. And with working on my cooking skills the more fresh produce I can bring into the kitchen from my own garden the happier I am. But for the most part it’s more than just that. It’s a retreat, a place to get my feet back on solid ground and my spirit back to where it needs to be. My rat race escape one might say.
No one in the community plot – that I know of – grows things to make a living. There are many, however, who use what they grow as an important part of their grocery budgeting. People who have created storage space to keep things like onions carrots and potatoes over wintered. We eat almost everything as it comes up although last year – my first with a garden plot – we had the last of the potatoes in late February, and they were fine. I was quite impressed, as it happens.
The only thing The Boy requested for the garden this year was cherry tomatoes. And then a brief mention that other tomatoes wouldn’t be a bad idea either. So I bought slicing tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, some yellow tomatoes and, with dreams of a freezer full of home made tomato sauce quite few plum tomatoes as well.
They got in late, due to all the rain we had at the beginning of the year. I was actually one of the lucky ones; many people didn’t get to plant at all due to flooding. Many more planted only to have everything die from root rot. The rain just went on and on! So I counted my blessings as I watched my garden grow.
Things continued cool and damp, so while I did have lots of tomatoes growing, even this late in August nothing was even starting to turn red. What they were starting to turn was a strange puckered brown. The potato plants started having brown spots on them as well. Very mysterious, I though. And then I got the email. The email that went to the whole garden community telling us that we had potato blight, affecting both potatoes and tomatoes. We needed to pull all the affected plants and toss them. Not even in the compost, but straight to the dumpster. We would be able to eat what potatoes we had, but any left in the ground would, as they did in the great potato famine, turn to black mush underground. All that work for nothing. How do farmers do it? Farming seems to be based entirely on hope, frustration, faith and patience.
No one in the community plot – that I know of – grows things to make a living. There are many, however, who use what they grow as an important part of their grocery budgeting. People who have created storage space to keep things like onions carrots and potatoes over wintered. We eat almost everything as it comes up although last year – my first with a garden plot – we had the last of the potatoes in late February, and they were fine. I was quite impressed, as it happens.
The only thing The Boy requested for the garden this year was cherry tomatoes. And then a brief mention that other tomatoes wouldn’t be a bad idea either. So I bought slicing tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, some yellow tomatoes and, with dreams of a freezer full of home made tomato sauce quite few plum tomatoes as well.
They got in late, due to all the rain we had at the beginning of the year. I was actually one of the lucky ones; many people didn’t get to plant at all due to flooding. Many more planted only to have everything die from root rot. The rain just went on and on! So I counted my blessings as I watched my garden grow.
Things continued cool and damp, so while I did have lots of tomatoes growing, even this late in August nothing was even starting to turn red. What they were starting to turn was a strange puckered brown. The potato plants started having brown spots on them as well. Very mysterious, I though. And then I got the email. The email that went to the whole garden community telling us that we had potato blight, affecting both potatoes and tomatoes. We needed to pull all the affected plants and toss them. Not even in the compost, but straight to the dumpster. We would be able to eat what potatoes we had, but any left in the ground would, as they did in the great potato famine, turn to black mush underground. All that work for nothing. How do farmers do it? Farming seems to be based entirely on hope, frustration, faith and patience.
A Hit and a Miss
So, My first Tuesday discussing adventures in cooking. I have two for you, one of which is truly an adventure if you think of cleaning ice cream of a ceiling as adventurous.
First, the hit. We made the Chicken with Vinegar and Onions from Fine Cooking. Huge hit, all around. Not too much work either, bar the slicing of the onions. No dicing, just slicing. And yes, I went out and bought Champagne vinegar, so everything was exactly as asked for. Our only complaint was that I may have over-salted the chicken prior to browning. The skin wasn’t crisp, but The Boy – who insists the only chicken worth eating has to have crispy skin – loved it, mainly because of the wine/vinegar/tarragon/butter sauce. Amazing what a basic sauce can do to a dish!
It may have been as good as it was because we had onions from the garden for the onion component (the chicken was served with carrots and fingerling potatoes, the former from someone else’s garden – and purple to boot! – the latter from our own little slice of veggie heaven) but I suspect that they only gave the dish a slight nudge. The onions got eaten – they’re served as a side – but it was the sauce the chicken poached in that was poured over for serving that made the dish.
So, a miss. And naturally, because that’s the way we ride, it was quite the spectacular miss. I had read a recipe for Toasted Marshmallow Milkshake from The Good Stuff cookbook. I’m not really into milkshakes, despite The Girl being the best milkshake maker I’ve ever encountered. But…I do like the flavour of toasted marshmallow. Or at least I used to: cutting so much sugar from my diet has made things on the super-sweet end of the scale far less appealing than they used to be. Anyway – it sounded good so I printed out the recipe and put the book itself on hold at the library.
The Girl really is great at milkshake making and not adverse to trying something new so we did this one together. We halved the recipe(whole recipe meant to make four milkshakes), which meant toasting 8 ounces of marshmallows. Notice they name, they’re not called marshleads, are they? I was at twenty something marshmallows and still not at eight ounces, so I quit. It was just too many. Anyway – toasted them all, and set aside two for a garnish as requested. You are then supposed put the marshmallows, milk, ice cream and a spoonful of sour cream into a Hamilton Beach milkshake maker. They seemed pretty insistent on that, so we that’s what we did. Why have the gadgets if you don’t use them? So in it all went, and on went the machine.
The thing is, the laws of physics and thermo dynamics are not suspended in my kitchen. So a huge amount of hot melt-y marshmallow combined with milk and ice cream tends to gel up into one big glob of sticky sweetness. And when said glob starts spinning furiously around a comparatively small container filled with milk and ice cream the outcome is a shower of cream and milk. Over the counter, over the flour, the dogs, myself and The Girl and, yes, a bit on the ceiling. We cleaned it up (because magic cleaning pixies don’t exist in my kitchen either) and put the glob’omallow into a blender with fresh milk, ice cream and sour cream. It was less messy, of course but it was also just…meh. The toasted marshmallow just added a strange cinder tone to what was otherwise an overly sweet vanilla milkshake. If this appeals to you by all means give it a try. Just keep a lid on it, ok?
First, the hit. We made the Chicken with Vinegar and Onions from Fine Cooking. Huge hit, all around. Not too much work either, bar the slicing of the onions. No dicing, just slicing. And yes, I went out and bought Champagne vinegar, so everything was exactly as asked for. Our only complaint was that I may have over-salted the chicken prior to browning. The skin wasn’t crisp, but The Boy – who insists the only chicken worth eating has to have crispy skin – loved it, mainly because of the wine/vinegar/tarragon/butter sauce. Amazing what a basic sauce can do to a dish!
It may have been as good as it was because we had onions from the garden for the onion component (the chicken was served with carrots and fingerling potatoes, the former from someone else’s garden – and purple to boot! – the latter from our own little slice of veggie heaven) but I suspect that they only gave the dish a slight nudge. The onions got eaten – they’re served as a side – but it was the sauce the chicken poached in that was poured over for serving that made the dish.
So, a miss. And naturally, because that’s the way we ride, it was quite the spectacular miss. I had read a recipe for Toasted Marshmallow Milkshake from The Good Stuff cookbook. I’m not really into milkshakes, despite The Girl being the best milkshake maker I’ve ever encountered. But…I do like the flavour of toasted marshmallow. Or at least I used to: cutting so much sugar from my diet has made things on the super-sweet end of the scale far less appealing than they used to be. Anyway – it sounded good so I printed out the recipe and put the book itself on hold at the library.
The Girl really is great at milkshake making and not adverse to trying something new so we did this one together. We halved the recipe(whole recipe meant to make four milkshakes), which meant toasting 8 ounces of marshmallows. Notice they name, they’re not called marshleads, are they? I was at twenty something marshmallows and still not at eight ounces, so I quit. It was just too many. Anyway – toasted them all, and set aside two for a garnish as requested. You are then supposed put the marshmallows, milk, ice cream and a spoonful of sour cream into a Hamilton Beach milkshake maker. They seemed pretty insistent on that, so we that’s what we did. Why have the gadgets if you don’t use them? So in it all went, and on went the machine.
The thing is, the laws of physics and thermo dynamics are not suspended in my kitchen. So a huge amount of hot melt-y marshmallow combined with milk and ice cream tends to gel up into one big glob of sticky sweetness. And when said glob starts spinning furiously around a comparatively small container filled with milk and ice cream the outcome is a shower of cream and milk. Over the counter, over the flour, the dogs, myself and The Girl and, yes, a bit on the ceiling. We cleaned it up (because magic cleaning pixies don’t exist in my kitchen either) and put the glob’omallow into a blender with fresh milk, ice cream and sour cream. It was less messy, of course but it was also just…meh. The toasted marshmallow just added a strange cinder tone to what was otherwise an overly sweet vanilla milkshake. If this appeals to you by all means give it a try. Just keep a lid on it, ok?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Breathing New Life into the Blog
Dear loyal followers. All three of you. Although yes, unnamed follower, perhaps I should check the stats and see if there are more of you lurking out there. And if there are, comment, dag nab it!
As you’ve no doubt noticed, I haven’t been blogging a whole lot lately. Partly because I was mourning the death of my previous blog, and partly because I have been looking at my life a bit differently. For instance, I hardly ever blog about cooking, or recipes. And yet most – if not quite all – of my spare time is spent doing something related to cooking.
I’ve been a baker, or sorts, since I was at least eight. Likely earlier, but that is when I have the clearest memories of inventing recipes, looking at cookbooks, and paying attention to meals I ate elsewhere. The very first curry I ever had was down the street at the Clayton’s house. Not only had I never had curry in any shape or form, I’d never even heard of it. Thank you, Mrs. Clayton, for sending me on a lifelong* journey of deliciousness.
Yes, I should be able to use her first name. Can’t. Discovered the same issue at my high school reunion. Calling a former teacher by their first name? Nope, didn’t happen.
Anyway, back to baking. I’ve become quite good at the baking, good enough to get a job for a while as a pastry chef. I have enough confidence to say “yes, as a matter of fact I do make awesome fudge” and not feel like it’s an empty boast. But I am – or was – an average cook. We ate some fairly interesting things, but as one does with small children we had certain stand-bys that we made over and over again. World Wide Wednesdays** fixed that a bit, but it was still quite simple cooking. So I decided to change that.
To that end, I’ve been trying lots of new things. Watching America’s Test Kitchen (the only show I watch with pen and notebook in hand) led me to a couple of really good AMT cookbook collections, and trying to not buy candy*** led me to my new favourite cooking magazine, Fine Cooking. Seriously, this magazine is so excellent that I bought two of the three annual collected volumes and am about to order the third. I even pre-ordered a special that will be here in September sometime. In some other email I’ll review the magazine with more detailed reasons as to why it’s awesome.
What all of this means for the blog is that starting once a week – Tuesdays, I think – I will review a recipe I’ve tried. Whether it will be something from one of my favourite online Blogs, or from a magazine or something I’ve made up who’s to say? But for better for worse, for yummy or icky, for richer or cheaper I’ll write about it.
Onward and Upward!
Man, lots of notes!
*Yes, it goes on. In fact, reading about curry and Black Cardamom sent me and ultimately a far superior cook – and sleuth – on a successful hunt for the not oft used spice. This would be the same cook – hello Judy! – who introduced me to the concept of sliced bananas as a topping choice for curries. When I worked in the Philippines we quite often had something called Rijsttafel (yes, it’s Dutch but very popular in Indonesian cooking). My table now has a bowl of sliced bananas on it whenever we have curry.
**When the kids were quite small, I got VERY tired of making and eating the same dozen or so dishes. So here’s what I came up with: on a Thursday, one of the three of us would choose a country. On the weekend, I’d make copies of a limited number of dishes from that country (because I’m not an idiot, I knew my limitations!) which I would then give to whoever’s turn it was. They in turn would choose a dish to have the following Wednesday for supper. They also had to come up with some facts or stories about the country of choice. We did this for a number of years and there are some dishes – like The Boys shrimp dish from the time he chose Spain – that are part of the family recipe book now.
We had some truly fun times, both with the cooking (they liked being the evening’s “sous chef”) and in time they’ve both become quite skilled in the kitchen. And they’re pretty fearless eaters, too! They’ll eat things that I won’t, like squid. When The Girl chose Hawaii, I spent $1.49 on a coconut. They were more excited with that than if I'd spent $75.00 on a video game. Never underestimate the thrill a small child can get out of something new and interesting.
*** So, January 7th I started exercising regularly and eating properly. Not in some bid to become some unreal size but because I found myself not able to walk four flights of stairs without my heart pounding like I was going on 107 and wheezing like a badly out of tune squeezebos. So when I was asked to stop on the way home (I was on vacation) to pick up some candy for someone I was sorely tempted to get some for myself. It was Easter and I have a terrible fondness for terrible candy Easter eggs. I decided a cooking magazine or a new mystery novel would be enough of a treat, no harm done to my waistline.
In the end I got the February/March 2010 of Fine Cooking and it was love at first sight. I’ve never before enjoyed – and used with great success – a magazine that made me order the years I’ve missed in a bound edition. A little magic with Amazon and I’m almost caught up.
For those of you that made it through this very long entry thank you. I’ll do my best to make Tuesday’s interesting!
As you’ve no doubt noticed, I haven’t been blogging a whole lot lately. Partly because I was mourning the death of my previous blog, and partly because I have been looking at my life a bit differently. For instance, I hardly ever blog about cooking, or recipes. And yet most – if not quite all – of my spare time is spent doing something related to cooking.
I’ve been a baker, or sorts, since I was at least eight. Likely earlier, but that is when I have the clearest memories of inventing recipes, looking at cookbooks, and paying attention to meals I ate elsewhere. The very first curry I ever had was down the street at the Clayton’s house. Not only had I never had curry in any shape or form, I’d never even heard of it. Thank you, Mrs. Clayton, for sending me on a lifelong* journey of deliciousness.
Yes, I should be able to use her first name. Can’t. Discovered the same issue at my high school reunion. Calling a former teacher by their first name? Nope, didn’t happen.
Anyway, back to baking. I’ve become quite good at the baking, good enough to get a job for a while as a pastry chef. I have enough confidence to say “yes, as a matter of fact I do make awesome fudge” and not feel like it’s an empty boast. But I am – or was – an average cook. We ate some fairly interesting things, but as one does with small children we had certain stand-bys that we made over and over again. World Wide Wednesdays** fixed that a bit, but it was still quite simple cooking. So I decided to change that.
To that end, I’ve been trying lots of new things. Watching America’s Test Kitchen (the only show I watch with pen and notebook in hand) led me to a couple of really good AMT cookbook collections, and trying to not buy candy*** led me to my new favourite cooking magazine, Fine Cooking. Seriously, this magazine is so excellent that I bought two of the three annual collected volumes and am about to order the third. I even pre-ordered a special that will be here in September sometime. In some other email I’ll review the magazine with more detailed reasons as to why it’s awesome.
What all of this means for the blog is that starting once a week – Tuesdays, I think – I will review a recipe I’ve tried. Whether it will be something from one of my favourite online Blogs, or from a magazine or something I’ve made up who’s to say? But for better for worse, for yummy or icky, for richer or cheaper I’ll write about it.
Onward and Upward!
Man, lots of notes!
*Yes, it goes on. In fact, reading about curry and Black Cardamom sent me and ultimately a far superior cook – and sleuth – on a successful hunt for the not oft used spice. This would be the same cook – hello Judy! – who introduced me to the concept of sliced bananas as a topping choice for curries. When I worked in the Philippines we quite often had something called Rijsttafel (yes, it’s Dutch but very popular in Indonesian cooking). My table now has a bowl of sliced bananas on it whenever we have curry.
**When the kids were quite small, I got VERY tired of making and eating the same dozen or so dishes. So here’s what I came up with: on a Thursday, one of the three of us would choose a country. On the weekend, I’d make copies of a limited number of dishes from that country (because I’m not an idiot, I knew my limitations!) which I would then give to whoever’s turn it was. They in turn would choose a dish to have the following Wednesday for supper. They also had to come up with some facts or stories about the country of choice. We did this for a number of years and there are some dishes – like The Boys shrimp dish from the time he chose Spain – that are part of the family recipe book now.
We had some truly fun times, both with the cooking (they liked being the evening’s “sous chef”) and in time they’ve both become quite skilled in the kitchen. And they’re pretty fearless eaters, too! They’ll eat things that I won’t, like squid. When The Girl chose Hawaii, I spent $1.49 on a coconut. They were more excited with that than if I'd spent $75.00 on a video game. Never underestimate the thrill a small child can get out of something new and interesting.
*** So, January 7th I started exercising regularly and eating properly. Not in some bid to become some unreal size but because I found myself not able to walk four flights of stairs without my heart pounding like I was going on 107 and wheezing like a badly out of tune squeezebos. So when I was asked to stop on the way home (I was on vacation) to pick up some candy for someone I was sorely tempted to get some for myself. It was Easter and I have a terrible fondness for terrible candy Easter eggs. I decided a cooking magazine or a new mystery novel would be enough of a treat, no harm done to my waistline.
In the end I got the February/March 2010 of Fine Cooking and it was love at first sight. I’ve never before enjoyed – and used with great success – a magazine that made me order the years I’ve missed in a bound edition. A little magic with Amazon and I’m almost caught up.
For those of you that made it through this very long entry thank you. I’ll do my best to make Tuesday’s interesting!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Crazy fruit memory
So there I was reading on of my favourite blogs, Starving off the Land, when I had a flashback to my own moment of canning craziness. One so crazy I thought I’d tell you all about it. And by “you all” I mean “you three” but still, three is enough for all, yes?
Anyway. Crazy story. This isn’t about the eight day peach preserving effort (which is eight days of repeated labour, not one day or work and seven of waiting) crazy though that is. This is about the things we do for love. Crazy fruit things.
Back in the years of being married we’d make a trip every fall to Creston, in BC. Cranbrook first to visit family, then to Creston to load up the van with fruit. Peaches, apricots, plums…whatever was looking good. I’d take two extra days vacation leave and from the minute we got back until midnight or so on the second night I’d can fruit. Made a bit of jam but since I resent paying for fruit to jam and/or jell, I mostly just canned fruit to see us through the winter. It usually lasted until sometime in early March. Now perhaps where you live that is the end of winter, but here there often isn’t even a hint of spring on March first. Inevitably we’d have to resort to buying canned fruit.
One year – the crazy year – I thought about what my then significant other chose to buy when we ran out of home canned fruit. And I discovered that it was always the same thing: fruit salad. Being, well, crazy, I decided that I would make my own fruit salad and can it.
I peeled and chopped the pears, the peaches, the pineapple. I pitted the cherries and God help me I pricked each and every grape with a needle so they would keep their shape. Never again. Not for love, but I suppose perhaps for money. Don’t get me wrong, it worked, it was delicious. But it took AGES to make, and about three large spoonfuls to eat, which he mainly did standing in front of the fridge deciding what to have for breakfast. So much effort for what disappeared in a couple of weeks. Not worth the effort. Not even if it made me a millionaire.
Perhaps if it made me a multi-millionaire. I think my cut off would be two million. Pay me two million dollars and I’ll can ONE BATCH of fruit salad for you. Just one. Because two million would come in useful and I think I could get through the work thinking about the money. I think. Maybe.
Anyway. Crazy story. This isn’t about the eight day peach preserving effort (which is eight days of repeated labour, not one day or work and seven of waiting) crazy though that is. This is about the things we do for love. Crazy fruit things.
Back in the years of being married we’d make a trip every fall to Creston, in BC. Cranbrook first to visit family, then to Creston to load up the van with fruit. Peaches, apricots, plums…whatever was looking good. I’d take two extra days vacation leave and from the minute we got back until midnight or so on the second night I’d can fruit. Made a bit of jam but since I resent paying for fruit to jam and/or jell, I mostly just canned fruit to see us through the winter. It usually lasted until sometime in early March. Now perhaps where you live that is the end of winter, but here there often isn’t even a hint of spring on March first. Inevitably we’d have to resort to buying canned fruit.
One year – the crazy year – I thought about what my then significant other chose to buy when we ran out of home canned fruit. And I discovered that it was always the same thing: fruit salad. Being, well, crazy, I decided that I would make my own fruit salad and can it.
I peeled and chopped the pears, the peaches, the pineapple. I pitted the cherries and God help me I pricked each and every grape with a needle so they would keep their shape. Never again. Not for love, but I suppose perhaps for money. Don’t get me wrong, it worked, it was delicious. But it took AGES to make, and about three large spoonfuls to eat, which he mainly did standing in front of the fridge deciding what to have for breakfast. So much effort for what disappeared in a couple of weeks. Not worth the effort. Not even if it made me a millionaire.
Perhaps if it made me a multi-millionaire. I think my cut off would be two million. Pay me two million dollars and I’ll can ONE BATCH of fruit salad for you. Just one. Because two million would come in useful and I think I could get through the work thinking about the money. I think. Maybe.
Monday, August 16, 2010
A freak 'o nature.
The garden, as I've mentioned, has a lot of yummy things growing in it. Potatoes take up a lot of space, because we planted a lot of them. What we didn't plant - and yet what we have one of - is a topotato. Or pomato.
This isn't a first in the gardening world, but it is a first for me. At first I thought I had actual tomatoes on a potato plant, and much of what I found on Google supported that. Turns out that the little fruits aren't really tomatoes. They are, however, really poisonous. So no eating the freaky green things!
This isn't a first in the gardening world, but it is a first for me. At first I thought I had actual tomatoes on a potato plant, and much of what I found on Google supported that. Turns out that the little fruits aren't really tomatoes. They are, however, really poisonous. So no eating the freaky green things!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
August dans le jardin
Lots of people garden. Lots of people love to garden and there are some for whom gardening is an obsession. Gardening means different things to different people. Some are all flowers, some are all veggies. Some grow fruit trees, which to my mind is more an orchard than a garden, but to each their own as they say.
I have a co-worker who has a plot in the same community garden that I do. To him and his wife their small plot is part of their grocery budget. They are dedicated gardeners, and count on their produce to reduce the size of their grocery bill. They do quite well, too, frequently getting the “most beautiful plot” award. The rain this year has put them out of the running for this year I’m afraid. But it leaves hope for everyone others to have a chance at winning. Their plot is in the flooded area so they started quite late and a lot of what they did grow rotted in standing water. I dare say the wet years – few and far between as they are – are part of what makes their plot normally quite fertile. Myself I think it’s his being Dutch that makes him such a good gardener. Stereotyping I know, but we all have our prejudices, yes?
Fresh vegetables on the table is the reason I give most people when asked why I like to garden. I don’t do any gardening at home beyond an herb garden, so the plot at the community gardens would be my main gardening fix. You may have guessed from the first sentence that fresh food on the table is not the whole truth about it, and you’d be right with that guess.
The thing is, I like what goes with the gardening. The ambience, I guess you could say. I just like being there. Even the weeding appeals to me. I go out there with a bag and sit down cross-legged and row by row pull out the weeds and put them in the bag. It takes a long time, but it’s peaceful. Not completely silent, but the sounds you do hear are soothing. Muted voices of other gardeners carried on the breeze, crickets and grasshoppers making their presence known, the occasional high pitched whistle of a thieving gopher, the rustle of leaves from the row of trees by the lane going in combine to make a summer symphony.
Watching things that you’ve planted in faith start to push their way out of the earth is another favourite past time. One day there is nothing, and suddenly what feels like the next day there are a handful of tightly furled dark green leaves poking above ground, the first of the early season potatoes making their way into sunlight.
I have gone out to the plot when there isn’t even anything to be done: weeding up to date, watering done and nothing to harvest. It’s a good place to stop and think and stopping and thinking are things we could all use a little more of. I’ve even gone there after hours to get away from cares and worries and watch the stars. The air smells different there at night; sweeter and somehow darker too. I lay down in the path that I’ve put in the middle of the plot and listen to the night sounds and watch the stars in the night sky. I’ve never solved any of life’s most pressing mysteries, but I’m pretty sure that if ever I do it
I have a co-worker who has a plot in the same community garden that I do. To him and his wife their small plot is part of their grocery budget. They are dedicated gardeners, and count on their produce to reduce the size of their grocery bill. They do quite well, too, frequently getting the “most beautiful plot” award. The rain this year has put them out of the running for this year I’m afraid. But it leaves hope for everyone others to have a chance at winning. Their plot is in the flooded area so they started quite late and a lot of what they did grow rotted in standing water. I dare say the wet years – few and far between as they are – are part of what makes their plot normally quite fertile. Myself I think it’s his being Dutch that makes him such a good gardener. Stereotyping I know, but we all have our prejudices, yes?
Fresh vegetables on the table is the reason I give most people when asked why I like to garden. I don’t do any gardening at home beyond an herb garden, so the plot at the community gardens would be my main gardening fix. You may have guessed from the first sentence that fresh food on the table is not the whole truth about it, and you’d be right with that guess.
The thing is, I like what goes with the gardening. The ambience, I guess you could say. I just like being there. Even the weeding appeals to me. I go out there with a bag and sit down cross-legged and row by row pull out the weeds and put them in the bag. It takes a long time, but it’s peaceful. Not completely silent, but the sounds you do hear are soothing. Muted voices of other gardeners carried on the breeze, crickets and grasshoppers making their presence known, the occasional high pitched whistle of a thieving gopher, the rustle of leaves from the row of trees by the lane going in combine to make a summer symphony.
Watching things that you’ve planted in faith start to push their way out of the earth is another favourite past time. One day there is nothing, and suddenly what feels like the next day there are a handful of tightly furled dark green leaves poking above ground, the first of the early season potatoes making their way into sunlight.
I have gone out to the plot when there isn’t even anything to be done: weeding up to date, watering done and nothing to harvest. It’s a good place to stop and think and stopping and thinking are things we could all use a little more of. I’ve even gone there after hours to get away from cares and worries and watch the stars. The air smells different there at night; sweeter and somehow darker too. I lay down in the path that I’ve put in the middle of the plot and listen to the night sounds and watch the stars in the night sky. I’ve never solved any of life’s most pressing mysteries, but I’m pretty sure that if ever I do it
By me, for Me
Whenever I stop to try to work out what I want to do with my life (something I'd like to decide before I'm oh, say, 90) I usually end up thinking about writing. Not this kind of writing, I mean novel writing. This isn't to say I don't like the job I'm in, it's just that a) the pay is such that retirement will happen when I'm too old to enjoy it and b) I have to stay - geographically speaking - where I am to do it. Which is something I don't want to do.
As soon as I think about writing, though, all sorts of complications arise. What genre? Mystery, because I love them and read them? But that means either having a protagnist who is a cop or detective or something (which means procedure that I don't know anything about) or having the always-struck-me-as-odd case where a member of the public keeps stumbling across murders.
So then I jump to fantasy novels. Again, it's a genre I read a lot and spend a lot of time thinking about and as an added bonus I have a chapter - and prologue already written. Sadly, it's not the best writing, or even very good writing. They're both from a time when I thought that if I just started something, anything, somehow I would just become a writer. Ha. Stupid, I know, but there you have it. Lots of wishful thinking involved, yes?
Romance usually comes up as a possibility too. I mean, how else can one guarantee the perfect romance? Decide what you wish would happen to your love life and then novelize it. But as soon as I start thinking about that magic and dragons start appearing again and suddenly I'm back in the fantasy genre.
So here's my idea, for anyone who made it this far into the post: what if I just wrote a book for me? Stop thinking about what someone else might read, something that might get published one day. Just write, and when it's done, then think about whether it could be made into something that someone else might read.
Yes, going to school to learn the skill of writing would be a good idea. And if I had any money I'd do just that. But I don't. So I can't.
As soon as I think about writing, though, all sorts of complications arise. What genre? Mystery, because I love them and read them? But that means either having a protagnist who is a cop or detective or something (which means procedure that I don't know anything about) or having the always-struck-me-as-odd case where a member of the public keeps stumbling across murders.
So then I jump to fantasy novels. Again, it's a genre I read a lot and spend a lot of time thinking about and as an added bonus I have a chapter - and prologue already written. Sadly, it's not the best writing, or even very good writing. They're both from a time when I thought that if I just started something, anything, somehow I would just become a writer. Ha. Stupid, I know, but there you have it. Lots of wishful thinking involved, yes?
Romance usually comes up as a possibility too. I mean, how else can one guarantee the perfect romance? Decide what you wish would happen to your love life and then novelize it. But as soon as I start thinking about that magic and dragons start appearing again and suddenly I'm back in the fantasy genre.
So here's my idea, for anyone who made it this far into the post: what if I just wrote a book for me? Stop thinking about what someone else might read, something that might get published one day. Just write, and when it's done, then think about whether it could be made into something that someone else might read.
Yes, going to school to learn the skill of writing would be a good idea. And if I had any money I'd do just that. But I don't. So I can't.
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