I was wondering who might find and read this letter; I’m so glad you did. I do so love to write letters, there’s something old fashioned and cozy about receiving an envelope, stamped and addressed to me, that always fills me with excitement! Who could have written to me, (of course that question is quickly answered once I read the return address) and what do they have to say? Most of my letters come from friends in faraway places whom I rarely see and their letters bring me such joy and fun as I relish every handwritten word on the page. After they have told me all the news in their lives, I quickly pull out my paper, envelopes, and stamps and spend a good hour or so writing a reply. I include all of the latest news: the new projects we’ve been doing, my younger sister’s latest invention, and I can’t forget to mention the egg count and behavior of our chickens.
After the letter is finished (I give it one last read over for spelling mistakes), I fold it, seal it in the envelope, and address it to my friend, (did I forget the stamp?) and send it off. Like a small child, I grow excited whenever my Dad brings home the day’s mail, in hopes that there will be another letter addressed to me.
As we come to November, letters turn into holiday greetings as we receive Thanksgiving and Christmas cards and yearly Christmas letters. Is it already November again? Thanksgiving is less than a week away!? I’m practically still full from last year’s holiday feasts. How I love to celebrate with food; I have a particular weakness for pies, sweet potatoes, and stuffing, my three favorites. The whole house always smells so delicious on Thanksgiving when my Mom spends most of the day in the kitchen cooking a fabulous meal, and our stomachs, undoubtedly, will start growling prematurely. We are always anxious to sit down, in the same candlelit dining room we’ve eaten in for so many holidays, and give thanks that we’ve managed to control our hunger until dinner. It’s always well worth it.
This evening, we’ve seen our first snowfall of the season. Strange, snow does not usually fall this early. However, strange things have been known to happen around here. I guess that’s just part of my life. My Mom has always said, if someone was to film our life and put it on TV, people would think it was staged. I guess not everyone spends their days chasing annoying roosters and competing in domino tournaments. I sure do (although, I’m afraid of the rooster so I carry a broom with me at all times while shooing him out of the garden).
Gasp! “Tomatoes!” pipes up Elizabeth, turning to Rachel, “Tomorrow we harvest the rest, okay?”
Rachel nods enthusiastically; Lydia looks on without a shred of interest, preferring to write a poem or play a tune – both involve clean hands. ; )
And so the gardeners head out after all hearth chores have been completed. I set to pruning yet another stand of roses, while the girls swarm about the heavy laden tomato plants.
“So many that didn’t ripen,” sighs Elizabeth.
“We’ll find a use for them,” I sing out in the warmth of an autumn afternoon bathed in jewel-toned hues of gold and pink and fierce hot reds and oranges blazing a beautiful farewell.
Later as we sort and wash colander upon colander of green, orange, yellow, and red tomatoes. I toss out ideas.
“We could have fried green tomatoes,” I say, looking over the smallish globes with a skeptical eye. “On second thought, maybe not,” I add as I calculate how many hours I will be standing over a HOT stove frying up finger-tip sized green tomato slices.
I dry my hands and make my way to the cookbook section of our library and plop down within easy access to every “country” cookbook I own. (Please don’t ask . . . it’s MANY!) Questing for fried green tomato recipes would have found me immediately victorious. Every home-making cook and a fair portion of “chefs” offer a favorite way to bread and fry the immature tomatoes abundant at season’s end, but very few move beyond the frying thereof. I pull out my trusty copy of American Country Cook by Pat Katz (purchased as a bride scouring a sale table at a discount chain). This ranks as my favorite “basics” cookbook. She covers an abundance of veggies, fruits, meats, and all the ways to prep and save them. Pat has been a true blue kitchen mentor for me.
I settle down and read away, “Hmmmmm, a whole section entitled ‘Tomatoes, Green.’ Excellent! Let’s see . . . Green Tomato Curry, Green Tomato Hot Sauce, Green Tomato Cookies – hey, that looks interesting!”
“What!” gasps Rachel. “Are you serious?”
I nod and read on, “The recipe calls for Green Tomato Mincemeat. What is that?” I say as I begin flipping back a page or two in search of the earlier recipe. By now the girls are blanching a bit at the thought of green tomatoes, raisins, etc. put into a cookie and passed off as dessert.
“Well,” I sum up, “I don’t like raisins (don’t have any either), don’t care for those fruit peels either, so I’m going to have to modify this whole recipe.” And back to the kitchen I dance with cookbook in hand to stand before an audience of mild skeptics who were really hoping for some dessert tonight.
After sorting the tomatoes into categories: ready to ripen on the counter, suitable for frying, and "other"
I heft the big bowl of “other” and load it into the food processor for chopping. Two batches in my 16-cup bowl, lightly pulsed until evenly chopped but mush-free,
and then I set about chopping a batch of apples (peeled and cored) to the same texture. Combining the 2:1 mixture of chopped “stuff” I add a cup of blackstrap molasses, ¼ cup lemon juice, and ¾ cup apple cider vinegar. Now for the spices . . .
I look at the quantities and KNOW instinctively that this will not have the deep spicy tang I seek, so I add the requisite 1 Tb cinnamon, ¼ tsp allspice, ¼ tsp cloves and then add some more (I nearly doubled the quantities). I stir and taste this rather unattractive glop, and opt to add a generous dollop of strong bourbon vanilla. I taste. It still tastes . . . ummmmm . . . ODD with a touch of bitterness.
“Only time will tell,” I shrug as I turn on the heat. I bring it to a boil, and then return it to a simmer for about an hour. In the final minutes of cooking I turn up the heat to reduce the mixture to a nice thickness.
By now the house smells absolutely Holiday-Fantastic and everyone “MMMMMs” and “AAaaaahs!” their way to the kitchen. Gary even walks in from next door (his office resides in the guest house) saying, “It sure smells good in here!” And it does!
Now, I have a vat of “Tomato Mincemeat” simmered to perfection, but I am out of time for cookie baking as I really need to top the chicken stew with herbed dumplings so that we can eat around six. What to do with this mincemeat?
“Let’s do some canning!” pipes up Elizabeth.
“Okay,” I respond, less than certain that my mere four-burners can adequately accommodate a pot of chicken stew, a pot of chicken-bone broth simmering, a pot of mincemeat, AND the GIGANTIC canning pot. But, we give it a try and it fits . . . barely. So she sets to boiling the water whilst I ladle out one heaping cup of mincemeat for a pudding, ladling the rest into sterilized pint-sized canning jars. I fill five jars and she processes them while I set about adapting my persimmon pudding recipe for the mincemeat.
I reach for my trusty copper recipe box (a wedding gift) and dig out the “family” recipe for persimmon pudding. (I admit this came from my sister-in-law’s grandma – sadly, my mom always baked a Mrs. Smith’s Apple Pie from a box, hence she neither needed nor had a recipe box.) 2/3 cup sugar, 2/3 cup milk (I use up the last of the cream in the bottle and add whole milk for the balance), 1 cup green tomato mincemeat, 1 tsp (or so) vanilla, and one egg all whisked together. In goes ¼ cup shortening and since the mince is still warm it melts into tiny pellets; usually I have to whisk a bit to disperse the shortening. Now to add the dry ingredients: 1 cup flour (I use freshly-ground whole-wheat pastry), 1 tsp baking powder, 1 tsp baking soda, ½ tsp salt, 1 tsp cinnamon (or so – we are cinnamon lovers around here). Mix all together and pour into greased pudding bowl (or any baking dish – you decide what shape you desire, but keep in mind a shallow dish will bake faster than a deeper pudding bowl) and bake uncovered at 350 F for about 50-60 minutes. Underbaking yields a gooey pudding, longer bake times result in a moist steamy cake – you decide.
While the pudding bakes away I whip up a batch of herbed dumplings (just a biscuit recipe with a handful of herbes d’Provence tossed in for fabulous flavor). I top the bubbling stew with dough globes and replace the heavy lid on that gently steaming pot.
Whew! Now I turn back to watch Elizabeth hover over the waterbath canner for the requisite 10 minutes and then hoist out her first batch of canned goodies. She worries and thumps tops and frets a wee bit more before setting them to rest for 12 hours. I tell her to stop worrying for we will gladly eat up any non-sealed jars. (As I write this I count 100% success! Way to go Elizabeth!)
Finally we sit down to a lovely dinner of chicken stew with herb-a-licious dumplings
followed by the most amazingly flavorful Green Tomato Mincemeat Pudding!!!
I have adapted that persimmon pudding recipe to make gingerbread pudding, sweet potato pudding, pumpkin pudding, and more, but I have to say the spicy kick of that green tomato mincemeat wins the prize. The family begs me to WRITE DOWN the recipe immediately so there’s no chance of forgetting it. (Elizabeth gets up from the table amid mouthfuls and runs for pen and paper.) I decline, preferring to savor my portion of pudding in the moment, vowing to record the recipe here on my blog in hopes of inspiring y’all to move beyond fried green tomatoes into the realm of Green Tomato Mincemeat and more.
What do you do with a bounty of green tomatoes at season’s end? I’ve got another lot waiting and I’m thinking green tomato relish. What would you do?
* * *
The comments you have been leaving are so precious! Thank you! I intended to reply individually via email but Yahoo refused to take my text. Hrmph! But then I figured you’d all like to share in the newsy bits.
As for the pot of soup simmering away at the top of my last post, that would be a Stuff 'n Nonsense soup that came from leftovers in my fridge – some rice, a few carrots, some collards, a zucchini, half a package of bacon, some leftover butternut squash pasta sauce (you can find it on the shelf made by Dave’s Gourmet If you don’t want to process the squash yourself – I bought a 3-pak at Costco on a lark and now it is a staple in my pantry), an apple, a can of diced tomatoes, half an onion, some thyme, and that’s about all I remember. It was DELICIOUS! Pair this with a good whole grain muffin like carrot/zucchini and a few slices of sharp cheddar cheese and you have quite a delicious feast on a cold evening.
Dear Miss Hostage (Jeri), thanks for introducing me to Jamie Oliver’s Revolution. Clearly, I’m a kindred! Yes, let’s cook and share, and teach, and inspire! I have reserved the book at the library. I’ve only seen one Jamie Oliver program years ago. I thought he was adorable as he cooked a feast for his expectant sister in his slim-sized kitchen. I look forward to reading more. I was a big fan of the Slow Food movement when it emerged on the scene several years ago, but sadly it got too bogged down in politics for my tastes. I wish Jamie success in his revolution and I have my wooden spoon and whisk at the ready!
It continues around here. I have some of the oddest bits of “growth” littering my counters and tabletops. Rachel “nature walks” daily with her eyes glued to the undersides of leaves and the earth-level bark of trees. We have watched dvds and perused books. They all agree: Nobody wants to be the one to say, “This is safe to eat.” They all balk and say, “Many of these varieties are edible and delicious,” but they fail to pinpoint the safe ones, begging off with the disclaimer that videos, photos, and even YouTube fail to accurately depict the specimen and therefore it is dicey to decipher the green-spored cap of culinary delight from the green-spored cap of emergency-room invite. When I find an expert I’ll be inviting him for a walk and a dinner . . . until then we’ll seek, study, and photograph the mitochondrial wonders, but I shall NOT be serving anything that didn’t pass through the watchful eyes of David, my green grocer. : D
“What’s ‘homestyle’ mean?” Rachel asks as we sit at a posh little bistro table under a chilly SoCal sky on our first morning in Disneyland.
“Fried. Probably deep-fried.” I reply.
A perplexed look crosses her face. “Fried? Deep? What’s that?”
“The potatoes are fried in a vat of oil, like french fries.” I answer.
“Since when does anyone get that at home?” she mutters. “Sounds like a donut, which we also never get at home.”
I must pause and confess that I have raised my children without donuts or french fries. Period. When once a friend offered Elizabeth (then 5) a donut she politely declined and then stated flatly, “Donuts make your heart explode.” ‘Tis true. I am so heartless as to barricade my home from such things for reasons of health and maybe something more.
As a child I grew up on cold cereal, donuts, burgers, fries, and all the rest. “Home” style in my home meant Betty Crocker or Mamma Celeste or (on really flush days) Stoeffer’s. My mom worked. My grandmother worked. And they didn’t cook. I didn’t know anybody that cooked, save a temporary boyfriend of mom’s who threw a steak on a BBQ to impress us. A sleepover at “Nonie’s” (my grandma was too modern to go by "grandma") included a dinner of Swanson’s frozen macaroni and cheese – and I loved it! A sleepover at a best friend’s house included frozen or takeout pizza. I never SAW anyone cook except for my great grandmas (each affectionately referred to as “Mammy”) in South Dakota. They grew gardens and baked bread and all the rest. BUT, they were pioneer women and poor. They lived in old houses, wore old-fashioned clothes (with aprons), and had old-fashioned lives. They didn’t have all the “choices” my mother and grandmother did, or so my mom and grandma said. My mammys lived as they always had – as they HAD to, not as they CHOSE to. I accepted this as fact and went back to munching on my strawberry frosted/sprinkled pop tart.
As I grew up I developed all kinds of stomach troubles. The doctor’s attributed it to family upheaval, new schools, stress, upset. “It’ll pass,” they assured, “Just make her drink this before each meal.” (Yes, it was ghastly and I chose to avoid eating and became skinnier and skinnier with stomach pains.) By the mid-teens I had an ulcer and my mother had a nervous breakdown. The chalky stuff didn’t seem to help one bit.
Later I took a trip to visit my “Mammy” back in South Dakota. I stayed a mere week or so, but it felt like Heaven. I sat in her kitchen nibbling ginger cookies and sipping tea (both to be avoided per doctor’s instructions). All the while Mammy bustled around in her home-style kitchen, which I noticed lacked “style” and “flair.” It looked nothing like the kitchens gracing the latest magazines on our coffee table at home. Nor did it resemble our all-electric-with-microwave-and-dishwasher kitchen in our latest apartment. I never even saw anything like it on TV, except maybe Ma’s Little House kitchen – which was not really a kitchen at all, was it?
“Why haven’t you updated your kitchen, Mammy? It’s really old?” I queried.
[Laughing, her wheezy, eye-squinting laugh] “I have an updated kitchen. See this faucet? And over there is the bathroom. Child, when we moved in here I had no indoor plumbing. I’m just fine with how this is. It suits me well”
She went back to the sudsy water in a tub placed in the sink and I continued mentally redecorating the hodge-podge kitchen.
That week I spent with Mammy found me at table five times a day (Breakfast-Dinner-Teatime-Supper-Midnight Snack . . . at midnight!). I ate all manner of soups, stews, breads, cheeses, cakes, etc. made right there in that old-fashioned kitchen, and I never drank a bit of that icky white stuff. Surprise! My stomach eagerly accepted every morsel without a single prick of pain. I even gained a bit of weight which made my Mammy smile with that crinkly-eyed grin. In her home-style kitchen Mammy churned out wondrous smells and fabulous tastes like rhubarb dumplings -- which I balked at trying (rhubarb? Ewwwww!) -- but which sent me over the moon when I relented and tasted. Too bad she never wrote down the recipe, for my youthful memory failed to log it all in despite the fact that I watched her every move as she stirred and tasted and added and stirred some more. Home-style cooking in that Home-style kitchen suited me well.
Time passed. I left. The pains returned. The doctor’s called it stress. I drank the white goo. I lost weight.
More time passed. I went to Norway for a summer and lived a life without pain as we dined on fresh foods around a family table. I gained 25 pounds along with a new perspective. The pains were not to return . . . I was determined.
I returned to the US with a new diet plan and despite snickers and chiding from peers and parents, I avoided the typical diet. Donuts and fries lost out to weedy salads (really hard to find more than iceberg back then) and stinky cheeses for a while, but I couldn’t afford to eat well on a school-girl’s salary. So I succumbed and . . . well, you can predict . . . the weight left and the pains returned. My current style of eating was killing me. I knew had to change.
Looking back, going “natural” couldn’t have been more UNnatural. I read. I studied. I experimented. I failed miserably. (Just ask Gary about the potatoes-and-kale flop, or better yet, the brussels-sprout-potato potage -- from a monastery cookbook -- that looked like dishwater and tasted worse.) I sought out the tiniest markets that offered the most natural ingredients. I had to find my way back to home-style cooking, and the road led away from the golden arches and the SUPER markets down an overgrown and seemingly forgotten path.
When my boys were born in a dire state I found even greater impetus to go all natural. I forged ahead and foraged for deeper knowledge of food and health. I found it. I made it my own. And so my children have grown up with an old-fashioned “home”-style because of my choice.
The last time I saw my Mammy I sat in her kitchen and nibbled ginger cookies over a cup of tea (Lipton’s, always Lipton’s flo-thru tea bags) as she bustled around in her home-style kitchen. I smiled and remarked that I loved this kitchen so much, I wouldn’t change a thing! She winked and smiled with the crinkle. Home-style had been here with her all the time by her choosing. (My mom was wrong.)
Home-style means different things to different people and the food industry has exploited it to include french fries and donuts that no home could (or would) produce. But as I watch my daughters leaf through my cookbooks and hastily-scrawled recipes, or watch over my shoulder as I season my chili with Worcestershire sauce (my secret ingredient from a small producer who uses no high fructose corn syrup), or triumphantly grace the table with a new creation all their own, I rejoice in our Home-style. Surely my mammy looks down from Heaven with a knowing smile that crinkles with joy as she sees us choosing a home-style just as she did.
Crisp. It is definitely "crisp" around here these days. Chilly nights demand a blazing fire, yet afternoons of golden sunshine entice me to believe in the "option" of a sweater. Last week we left for Disneyland in a torrent of rain, returning days later to clear and crunchy whispers announcing, "Fall has come . . . let's celebrate."
And celebrate we have.
Before my sweet sister departed we whipped up an early Thanksgiving meal and reveled in overly-filled plates of herb-y stuffing, creamy mashed potatoes, "sweet" potatoes, and all the rest. Naturally we followed the plenteous meal with pumpkin pie topped with silky whipped cream. What a way to spend a Saturday!
Games, games, and more games filled the day into evening. We even made a game (tried anyway . . .) of tidying up the kitchen. While the glutted dishwasher hummed we played Mexican Train Dominoes and Phase Ten cards and "Ultimate" Sorry (our ruthless reworking of the traditional rules), all the while laughing ourselves silly. Laughter burns calories, right? We needed to work off that lavish feast somehow and it was too cold for a walk.
For years I dreamed of walking the property in search of edible fungi to add to our Thanksgiving feast. And every year my family groaned and voted "No" when I waved the business card of some fungi-expert-for-hire. "Where's your sense of adventure?" I pouted.
* * *
Now, leaves litter my deck in tattle-tale fashion. "All dining indoors!" they seem to herald. *sigh* The glorious gem-colored leaves number fewer after each succeeding blustery day, hinting that soon the barren limbs will eclipse the riot of color, offering space for memories and dreams in the emptiness. Winter time: hibernation, slumbering thoughts, and nurturing ideas -- that time fast approaches, so run and play and jump in these rich afternoons while they last.
And so the dance of autumn picks up the pace around here, with all those ideas and traditions of the pending holidays rushing to greet me. Absent among the traditions is the mushroom walk. I gave that idea up years ago. But . . .
Yesterday Elizabeth gleefully announced the return of the fungi as she proffered a big, brown mushroom for all to admire. Her reading of Michael Pollen's The Omnivore's Dilemma has inspired her to hunt for edibles in the woodlands around our cottage. (Sound familiar?) Recently she unearthed a nodule-like growth while digging and wondered if she had found an elusive truffle. Since it was beneath a pine tree rather than the requisite oak and smelled decidedly un-truffly, she cast it aside and kept digging . . . but the idea of foraging for food continued simmering in her fertile mind.
* * *
[Setting: Crisp fall afternoon. Day's end complete with chores like putting the chickens to bed and taking that final sweeping view of the beauty of these homelands. Pink-cheeked, my agri-fairy daughter bounds in.]
"Doesn't it look good? Do you think it is edible?" She queries most excitedly as she shows off a large brown mushroomy growth newly plucked from the plush carpets surrounding our cottage. "Dad said he wouldn't want to eat it, but that it is probably of the edible sort."
I curl back my lips and shake my head. "Nope! That looks decidedly like a toadstool to me. Get it out of here!"
"What does a toadstool look like?" she persists.
"That!" I shoot back abruptly. "Out with that! Ick!"
"Oh . . ." she grumbles as she leaves me to sterilize my kitchen.
* * *
Later, she returns with "fungi" still in hand.
"Isn't there a place I can verify whether this is edible? Didn't you have the name of a guy who specializes in fungus walks followed by a feast of hunted treasures?"
"I did have that guy's name, but last I read in the paper his nature hike with clients landed some in the hospital with poisoning." I reply. "I tossed his card and gave up on that idea."
"Hmmmmmm . . . " she retreats.
* * *
Entering with said brown morsel (I did not say "Morel," mind you, as I am well aware of their appearance and deliciously edible nature -- this was no morel, I assure you), she persists:
"Do you have any reference books about mushrooms and foraging?"
I direct her to the appropriate shelf and she peruses, only to come away with the firm caveat to VERIFY before eating. Ho hum . . . back to square one. In the meantime she is potentially dusting my house with poisonous mitochondrial spores. I grimace.
* * *
I remember a dvd Gary purchased on one of our trips to the coast.
"Dad bought a dvd years ago all about mushrooms and fungi. See if it is out in the cabinet."
Elizabeth dashes away.
* * *
She and Rachel absorb every detail from the screen while I hear Lydia rattling around upstairs -- completely uninterested in The Case of the Mysterious Mushroom.
* * *
Later I open the trash compactor and find the lone mushroom cast away. I gawk and shudder.
Elizabeth walks in casually, "Yeah, you were right. The video said that was probably one of the most poisonous mushrooms around. Guess that's why the chickens haven't eaten them. It starts out as a cute white button mushroom . . ."
"Like those cute fairy rings all over the place?" I interrupt.
"Yep, just like those, but then it grows tall and spreads out into this brown cap with a veil hanging down on the underside," she says as she retrieves the brown blop from the bin. "I wasn't sure this was poisonous 'til I saw this veil thing. See it?" She points to a rotten bit of sludge draped on the underside of the rapidly rotting thing.
I nod and turn away. "Get that out of my kitchen!" I gasp.
End of story.
* * *
Not the end of the story, after all.
Later she is once again parading around with that deadly bit of slime (it had begun to look quite frightful by this time) intending to take some sort of "silhouette" of its spores AND IT WAS LAYING RIGHT ON MY NEWLY CLEANED COUNTER!!!
"Don't worry," she says dryly, "The video guy said you can't get hurt by touching the mushroom."
"Yeah," chimes in Rachel, "Just relax mom."
I stand there staring at a deadly mushroom on my counter -- a counter whereupon I recently prepped veggies and meat for a delicious dinnertime stew (with chocolate in the sauce: yummy!); a counter whereupon burritos are often crafted and eaten by the dozens on Matthew's "hungry" days; a counter whereupon bread is kneaded. I abruptly order this woodland sprite and her unsavory growth from my kitchen!
Amidst the rolling of eyes and the groaning I return to the counters and wash them again, all the while reminding myself that homeschooling comes in all shapes and sizes . . . and potencies.
Now, where were those cute button mushrooms I bought the other day?
‘Tis November and the leaves participate full swing in the pageantry of fall’s display, yet the praying mantis waddle around in a swollen state seeking to lay an egg sac more than a month or two later than usual. Odd. The jewel-toned trees sway and dance in summer-like days of clear blue skies filled with a warmth that invites us to dine out of doors in November. Strange? Or a gift? The plethora of tidying up chores in the garden have become easier in the languid summer-ish afternoons, but absent the crispness of true autumn hints I find myself unmotivated to prune, plant, or rake. We haven’t christened November with a bonfire to burn the twigs of the past year whilst we roast potatoes and eat “hobo stew” wrapped in foil and nestled amongst the vibrant coals. And where’s the fun of roasting a gooey marshmallow on a warm afternoon?
Butterflies flutter, hummingbirds hum; children lose themselves in a web of beauty and delight among the blooming flowers and the buzzing bees. Did the calendar get flipped prematurely? Why do I feel caught off guard every time I walk up the pathway to the front door and see scarecrows and fat buttery pumpkins lying so abundantly at the threshold? Who wants to count beans and wheat sacks? Who feels like accounting the remains of the pantry before listing the needs of a large family with plans to eat regularly through the winter months? Not me, it seems.
While Elizabeth fills in her farm journal with the many details of raising and harvesting from our lands and hands, I linger over a summery read of sailing from Toronto to Grenada and back again. The balmy prose and tropical menus found therein set me to thinking of mangoes and fresh conch on a beach rather than stews and pot au feu simmering gently through a snowy afternoon. I have yet to replace my fluttery skirts of summer with the denims and such to ward off the chill. Though I recently bought several pair of cute leggings and footless tights for that extra bit of warmth, I haven’t even cracked the packages yet.
I want to suspend myself in a bit more sweet repose framed in days of simple salads and filmy afternoons that reach forward into the eve with an ease that gives me freedom. Maybe freedom is the key. I freed myself of many “musts” and “shoulds” this summer. I filled copious journals with leavings and leftovers that needed a final resting place so that I could dance without added burdens. Life holds enough weight just in the daily doings in the bosom of a family, not to mention the ongoings beyond the garden gates; thus I needed to “lighten up” and “let in the light” where cobwebbing held the dust. I guess you could say I had a summer of spring cleaning and now I want to dance in the lightened space before the clouds of winter bring me inside for winter’s dance. Funny . . . I usually beg for relief from summer’s heat and anxiously await the first frosty flakes of winter. Not so this year . . .
But, life demands attention, or so it seems as the two little roosters from last spring’s clutch prance around and spar with every intention of “taking on” Bob for premium rights. The laws of nature and animal husbandry demand a reduction of leadership. Elizabeth’s course of study compelled her to carry out the necessary tasks assisted by a friend in search of natural education. I settled in to my own education, reading up on the proper procedure for preparing chicken feet for stock. Who would have thought that those prehistoric looking parts could yield such luscious culinary results? But I digress . . . At day’s end we gathered at table and celebrated another milestone in Elizabeth’s education. Not quite like having cake and tea after a harp performance, but the glow of achievement looked the same on her pretty face. Goals set, challenges faced, knowledge gained . . . education as it should be . . . acquired for life.
As we gather this year’s memories like ripened fruit we celebrate life lived and life dreamed of. As we take stock of the pantry we see what has been eaten and what lies waiting to be the makings of tomorrow’s celebrations. (Yes Rachel, that lone can of squash puree can become something to celebrate.) “Each day has something to be celebrated,” I sing out to my children every day. (Yes, they roll their eyes and smile.) Sometimes only a simple dish of chocolate squares passes from hand to hand around the table as we smile and savor its sweetness in the midst of sorrows or pain, but we did, indeed, find some sweetness in a day to celebrate together. I know not all days are sunny, but I have learned that the sunshine we store up in our pantry can see us through the tough times. (It sounds cliché, but that makes it no less true.)
And so we will continue to do autumn’s chores despite the carefree dressing of another summer-like day and the call to play, which has become a SHOUT around here as we prepare for my sister’s arrival late tonight. After a couple of days celebrating around here we will pack up a few summery items and take our celebrating ways to Disneyland early next week. I can hardly wait! Our months of planning and anticipation wind down to just a few more hours . . . just a little longer. How will I ever manage today’s chores?
So, I will be gone for a time of play but will return with more to share, more to celebrate, more to dance about. I will be stocking up on as many smile-worthy memories as my heart can carry. When I return I will also be wending my way around the blogdom “finding” you all again – yes, FINDING, as my newly revived computer received a new browser which came with an empty space where all my blogs used to reside. GRRRRRR! Those of you who left comments have left a trail to your place – bless you. The rest of you must be found the old-fashioned way. A nice blustery day would afford much opportunity for my fingers to do the walking, but as I have already said, we’re still enjoying summer. Enough said. I’m off to vacuum, count, and PACK!!!