Greenhorn

I was struck with the most odd thing this morning. I am not sure I can convey how new and unusual this feeling is.

We need bread. I have to bake some.
We need yogurt. I have to make it.

Does that sound weird to you? It does to me. Not, "I have to go buy this" but rather, "I have to make this." I guess it is because baking has never really been a necessity (One does not really need cookies or cakes), so it feels new to have to make the daily bread rather than go pick it up at the market. And yogurt. I mean, who makes yogurt? I heard a description once from someone..."I mean, she sews her own clothes and makes her own yogurt..." in an awestruck, slightly incredulous tone.

Today, I can feel how the next few months are going to be. I can imagine picking tomatoes and oregano, parsley and making batches of sauce. I can imagine salads coming from my own backyard. It seems like a story I read once, but never actually thought I would be living.

I am excited.

Susie Homemaker

Today the boys and I are home. Brother has Fifth Disease, which sounds so freaking scary, but you don' t even treat it. It he weren't in the 25% that gets a fever, then he could have went to school. But me? I am always looking for a (good) excuse to take a day off. So I am home with my two darlings. Brother feels ok, but I am making him lay down and drink juice or play quietly. Our state is one of the ones that got the lovely 'flu epidemic' declaration, so I am not taking any chances whilst his system is invaded by rash-y viruses.

Jelly, on the other hand, is teething. He doesn't take it very well and bites when his mouth is achy. Also, after the round of antibiotics for the ear infection a couple weeks ago, we are still battling the obligatory oh-someone-is-going-to-get-a-yeast-infection-somewhere gig. Fortunately, my tender bits were spared, but Jelly Bean's booty is red red. The cream the doctor gave me isn't working as well as I had hoped and I am restraining the urge to smear pro-biotic yogurt on his butt. (Think it would work??? I don't know...)

I love staying home and playing housewife. It is novel, I guess, since for most of the week I was conferencing and networking in the Capital. But on this sweet misty morning at the beginning of the world, I feel fine. It is 10:00 AM and I feel pretty accomplished. Want to know what I have done so far?

• Got up and got the kids fed
• Unloaded and loaded the dishwasher
• Did two loads of laundry (one of clothes and one of Brother's bedding)
• Folded a load of towels
  
• Started my first batch of homemade yogurt in my new yogurt machine
  
• Baking a loaf of bread in my new bread machine
• Put the Bean down for a nap.
• etc. etc. etc.
  

Next on my list is to go through the seeds that I ordered in the mail yesterday to check out which ones have to be sown directly into the garden and which ones need to be started indoors. I have decided to attempt to grow the ones that can't be started directly in the garden in old cardboard egg cartons filled with a bit of soil. I hope this will work. This year is my first year trying to seriously grow vegetables. We are still having some cold nights, so I am worried about starting things too early, but my state guide says that I should have already put some stuff out there. I am doing raised beds and ordered some to be built at the farmer's market last weekend(we have no woodworking craft in this household). They will be delivered tomorrow. I am really excited. I also had a long conversation over lunch with another gardener and he told me he uses old tires to do his raised herb beds and all. And they are FREE. See, I could have used that idea before I dropped 100 bucks at the farmer's market for wooden boxes. But then I worry about being the creepy strange lady who grows tomatoes out of old tires? If we had a privacy fence, I might not mind so much.

I am trying to do a lot more things at home. I got a new cheese making book and that will be my next project. After I figure out how to make a decent loaf of bread.... My whole wheat concoctions could be called more brick and less bread. (So if you have any bread machine whole wheat recipes, send 'em my way...or I just may be relegated to using some white flour). And I am hoping the yogurt goes ok. I like the idea of just buying milk and making my own yogurt, sour cream, and cheese. A lot of our budget goes to dairy products and I found a local milk supplier I am loving. We have tons of strawberry farms around where we live so getting a flat of berries in the summer for about $12 is no issue. And Honey's Granny has over 40 blueberry bushes at her house. So I have already said that we will go in late May, mid June, and early July to pick blueberries to freeze. For yogurt and muffins and the like. It is exciting. I think maybe I had been needing a new hobby. And I can fit this one in, because it is about the stuff I worry about already: What we eat.

Local, Organic, I am trying my best. But I have had some set backs. Like the lovely Roma tomatoes I bought last week. Brother eats so few good things, I hate to not have them just because they are out of season here. So, I fell off the wagon a bit. I did make sure they were from the US at least. And I skipped the golden Chilean nectarines and chose instead the local citrus that is everywhere currently. It is a process. Hopefully in the end, it will make a difference. Wish me luck!

Into Movement

So, I have finished Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I was the first to check it out of the library. Literally had the paraprofessionals speed up processing so I could get my hands on it. And Oh. It was lovely. I savored every moment. Well, not every moment. The essays from her oldest daughter were a bit tedious. But that may have only been in comparison to Kingsolver's melodic style.

Because I loved Prodigal Summer so much...(in fact, just thinking about it and writing that post the other day has caused such a yearning in my heart that I pulled it off the shelf and am reading it again. It has cast this spell over me in which each and every word is read, enunciated, and savored in my mind. Ah.), Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is like the 'behind the scenes' in a non-obvious kind of way. If you know Prodigal Summer as well as I do, and indeed, I can quote the book, then you can see where Kingsolver got her inspirations for these little minute details. But that is not really the point. The point is that, all by itself, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is a wonderful tale. Non-fiction for those of you who are into that, and wonderful.

See, I can't stomach non-fiction so much of the time. (Ok, all the time.) I need poetry and dialog and action to keep me interested. But this was such a page turner. Probably because I was so interested in what she had to say and how she had to say it. Local foods. Supporting the community that you live in. Taking care of the planet in your own back yard and everywhere else all at the same time. Making conscientious decisions. All that without sounding condescending or holier-than-thou. Now THAT is an accomplishment.

I have never read a book that has sent me flying to the computer so often. A call to action that has spoken so deeply to me I needed to find out how to take these baby steps for myself and my family. And also, a miracle of my own. So often I feel so isolated in my community, but this has caused me to call local farmers, to visit the markets, and to treasure what I have. It has caused me to take action to support my community because it is MINE. Reading this book has given me a feeling of ownership. And we take care of what we own, you know? So I would encourage you to check this book out. It just might change your mind about some stuff. It just might confirm everything you already know. But maybe, just maybe if you read it and I read it and your neighbor reads it, we can create a Movement into Movement.

Movement

Do you like to read? I really love it. My love to read was cemented when I moved from everything-I-knew when I was 10 to everything-that-I-know-now. More concretely, when I moved away from my friends and family in Ohio to go Down South with my parents. Culture shock is a hard thing on a 4th grader and I hid myself away in books to escape the strange reality I currently found myself in.

Now, my favorite books are actually fantasy. I like knights and faeries and magic. Harry Potter makes me squeal like a teenager and the new Spiderwick movie sent me clamoring to the library workers to get me all five books, stat. (I did enjoy them, even though they were really simplistic and can't wait to see the movie version.)

But my favorite book is not a Tamora Pierce or Holly Black. Not even an Alison Croggon (although these are all fantastic authors), it is not a fantasy or YA novel at all. It is Barbara Kingsolver's Prodigal Summer.

The first time I came in contact with this book, I was commuting to grad school an hour away and I was using my travel time wisely in the form of books on CD. There wasn't a huge selection at my local library, but I had heard of Kingsolver's name and decided to pick up the only novel available. The feeling this book gave me, just listening to the first chapter, was initially mystical. Not in the traditional sense, but I could see Deanna, walking up the hill in the green and swarthy mists. When Eddie Bondo showed up, my prudishness exerted its prune-withered-porch-sitting-self. I literally said to my radio, "If this book is all about sex, I am so not listening to the rest of it."

But that's the thing. The book really IS about sex. And all it's glory. The World Almighty. Life and Death and Continuation of this species and all the others. Amen. After Chapter 2, I was fully in love with Lusa and would never let her go. I was gently drawn into Deanna's and Eddie's story, into Garnett and Nannie's. I would never be the same. I have read the book, but this is only a reasonable option for me because I have listened to it so many times, I can hear Kingsolver's voice on every page. I hear the bird calls mixed in with the transitions. I know their voices.

I am a huge advocate of books on tape. This book is one of the reason's why. The second is Bridget Jones (I hated the book, itself, but listening to Barbara Rosenblat was some of the best hours of my life. Swear.) But that is another story. Speaking of other stories, I set out to tell you about Prodigal Summer, but really just as a segue into Animal, Vegetable, Miracle...

Valentine

I am so lucky to have such wonderful boys in my life....


My Honey, who is my perfect partner.
Brother, who always manages to crack me up and the most inopportune times.
Jelly Bean, who is so scrumptious with baby sweetness and ornery. SO ornery.



I hope your every day is blessed as much as mine.

Sloppy Joes

(picture of a cute baby removed because I am a paranoid freak)

...are Hilarious!

**Speaking of other funny things, go look here. Go on. It is quite amusing if you had an odd sense of humor, which, occasionally, I do.

Stolen Oranges are Sweeter

Today, we took a drive. There is a station of a renowned agricultural research center close enough to our house, we might could hit it with a rock. Today they had an open tour of their camellia gardens. I have never seen a camellia garden, but I do enjoy botanical shows and sales, so I cajoled my boys into going with me. Camellias are not my favorites, but they are lovely. A cross between a rose and a carnation and a peony. In this garden, they had collected a veritable red, pink, and white rainbow of varieties. We were particularly enthralled with this one that Brother nicknamed "the candy cane flowers."


We explored.

(picture of mama and baby removed)

We examined.

(picture of brother removed)

There were gallons of blooms still on the tree/bush creations, reaching their loose tight heads for a kiss of sunshine and a visit from a pollinator. But there were also fallen angels among the pine needles...


...that could be scooped up into a pocket to be sprinkled in our own sleeping flower beds,

... for no other purpose than a little boy's amusement at bringing home treasure.

They did have camellias for sale, but the price for the five gallon bucket was a little to rich for my blood. Instead we spent much of our visit in thievery. I noticed a seedling smaller than my hand next to a vibrant red bush and tugged its roots from the soil, wrapped them in a maple leaf and placed the plant in my back pocket. I told my Honey how I was like his Granny, who boasts of plucking beautiful plants in her yard as seeds or newborns from this place or another. The new little plant is in a pot now on my front porch. We were not the only ones engaged in this. I saw a man using his pocket knife to saw off a bud of a sparsely flowered, yet insanely purple bloomed bush. I am guessing this is where the seed was hidden?

But on the way out, there was an orange grove where the trees were so heavily fruited, the limbs were weighed down. I glanced out of the back windshield to look for official types and then told Honey to hop and and pick us some oranges. He grabbed three bright orbs before diving back into the car and pulling away. We teased each other and Brother about coming back with pillow sacks in the middle of the night to liberate the trees of their burdens.

When I got home and Brother, with a glint in his eye, talked about how we stole those oranges, I tried to come up with a good reason why we had done it and how it fit into the We never steal rule. I hemmed and hawed and finally told him that it didn't fit. There was no excusing it. And left it at that. I sliced deeply into the colored flesh and we all tasted the sunshine-made-food. It is true. Stolen oranges really are sweeter.

Will You Marry Me, Bi-illl?

...I love you so; I always will....

Ok, so I got me some news. No, it is not about a marriage (I have already made that legal commitment). But it is about someone that I love. You know. "Love" in the way you can love a public official love. Totally smitten with a superstar kind of love. But LOVE, nonetheless.

Guess who went to a Hillary Rally on Friday?
And guess who else was there?


It was a bit like going to church. The feeling of doing the right thing for youself, for the common man, and for the world. It made me want to do something important. It made me appreciate how much the Clintons have done for the world. I was astounded to find out how some of Hillary's first world changing works are things that affect me everyday: the protections for abused children. How much things have changed since a Clinton was last in office. How much things could change again if a new Clinton was in the White House.

Now, whether or not she even gets a shot at being President, I know this. These are people who I strongly admire, who care about a lot of the same things I do. In my view, they are heroes. Real ones. It is moving to be in the same room with him. I don't really live in a place where progress is prized or liberal is a decent term.

And guess who got to shake Mr. President's Hand?


That's Right. I shall never wash again.

Who's a lucky girl? Who? ;)

TMI

I have secrets, you know. Dastardly horrible secrets that I would never ever tell anyone in real life. In fact! If asked about any of these things, I would promptly glibbly lie about how I would never and have never done such things. But I shall spill them all to you, fine bloggy citizens, promptly.

*Warning! I am gross and unkempt and am going to outline these facts in detail. So if you are weak of constitution or mentally unstable, please stop reading now and navigate elsewhere. The End*

1. I am sitting at my desk, here at work. I should be working. But I am not. I have a huge report to do. But am not doing it. Or the other one I have to do. Slacker.
2. I am sitting here, at my desk next to a trash can that is not filled with the litter that is all over my messy messy desk (old conference announcements, sticky notes from 1996, etc.) but rather the lovely green mucous I keep coughing and coughing and coughing up and spitting in there, wads of used snotty toilet paper (I jacked a roll out of the office potty), and an ungodly amount of Twix, Snickers, and M&M miniatures wrappers, that I have eaten.
3. I bought the Valentine Wrapped Chocolate Miniature 17 oz bag yesterday. It is 3/4s gone. I predict the empty bag will be tossed with its empty entrails into the nasty trash can before 1 PM, Central Standard time. Because I will have eaten them all.
4. I am wearing maternity pants. Not because my non-maternity clothes do not fit, not because they are all dirty (because quite a bit of my laundry is dirty, piled up waist high in my baby's bedroom) but rather because. Well, because. Well... They are loose. I like loose. They are pink, and I like pink. And I just happened to be wearing white underwear that can not be seen through the light pink pants. It was fate, I tell you. And I am a big freak who still wears maternity clothes when her baby is 17 months old. I am choosing not to care about this.
5. My hair sucks. The cut I got is f*cked up. He cut it so it parts wayyyy far over on the wrong side. The front is long and stringy. The back is short and layered. For some reason, this sheek new cut that was going to force me to fix my hair did not accomplish its task and I am putting the damn hair up in the same ways I did when it was halfway down my back. And now, I have those little hairs? You know the ones. The little 3/4 of an inch new hairs that are growing out right at my hair line at a freakish angle and make me look messy and unkempt? So I shelack them with 3 bottles of hairspray to make them stay back and subsequently look like one of those Robert Palmer Chicks? Only with long stringy hair on the sides and layers in the back? I am choosing not to care about this as well.
6. My coffee is cold and gross. I am drinking it anyway.
7. My water is a day old with a film of dust floating nonchalantly on the top. I am drinking it anyway.
8. I didn't shower this morning, because I was too tired. I am sure I now smell something akin to a locker room drenched in body spray and deoderant. Yet again, I am choosing not to care about this.

ShOck & aWe! ShOck & aWe! ShOck & aWe! ShOck & aWe!

There. Now, don't you feel better about yourself? I know I would, if I were not me. But alas, I am. And I am decidedly ok with that.

Sick

There is an alternating, yet continuous outpouring and clogging happening in my facial region.
Every cough feels like a frozen knife to my chest.
My head is full of achy cotton.
I am tired and yet not tired.
Grouchiness and whiny-ness abound.
NO, I do not want any more Tylenol.
Damn Virus.