Of Bats and Being Alone

It's been an exciting week in the Valley. My darling husband flew to Memphis on Wednesday to visit family and friends, so I was on my own. It is amazing how quickly one lapses into the habits of many years living alone. Most lunches and dinners have consisted of eggs in some form or pasta, except for the cucumber yogurt soup that took 3 minutes total to make, thanks to the food processor. By Thursday evening, I was eating the pasta straight from the bowl in which I mixed the fresh tomatoes (finally, our garden produced two!), basil, and chevre that composed the sauce (from one of my all-time favorite cookbooks, While the Pasta Cooks). Darling husband brought me two bottles of my favorite Rosato from the winery where he works, but I've been drinking cheap Italian Pinot Grigio from a 1.5 litre bottle, just as in my single days. 

Cats enjoy the morning sun

Although I lived alone for almost 25 years, I found it surprisingly unsettling to be in the house alone the first couple of nights. In the wee hours of Friday the 13th, I woke to hear strange noises. The cats were dashing about and there was a flapping sort of noise. I turned on the bedside lamp to see a bat flying around the room, and seemingly straight at my head. I shrieked and dove under the covers. When I tentatively peered out, the bat, apparently alarmed by the noise, had flown out into the hall. In a panic, I grabbed my phone and called my husband . . . and got voice mail, because his phone had died. I fired up Safari on the iPhone and searched for "getting bat out of house." Unfortunately, the method recommended by Wikihow required a number of items I did not have in my bedroom, so I donned my thickest hoodie, covered my head, and opened the bedroom door, staying low to the ground. The cats--originally excited by the bird/mouse combo flitting about above them--were starting to get freaked out and were glad to follow me downstairs. Closing the door at the foot of the stairs, I pondered my next move, while looking for my leather gardening gloves. 

Bat Battle Gear: Rose gloves and the sweatshirt my boss brought me from Vegas

It was then I saw the phone number for the 24-hour emergency veterinary clinic stuck to the refrigerator. "They'll know about animals!" I thought, "I'll call them." A very nice woman answered and managed not to laugh at my hysterical ravings. She and another vet tech talked me through going back upstairs (gulp!) and closing all doors to other rooms, leaving the bat in the hall with the wide-open window through which it entered. This involved some most undignified belly crawling and a few more girlish squeals of terror. I beat it back downstairs and decided to go look at the Perseid meteor shower while having a restoring glass of wine. I only saw one shooting star, but I got my wish: the bat found his way out.

"King's High Scent" sweet peas from Territorial Seed

The rest of the weekend was blessedly boring, giving me the time to appreciate such niceties as the sweet peas blooming by the back door. Their scent is the first thing you notice when you step outside--no mean feat since they are right beside the garbage and recycling bins and the small compost bucket (over which an enterprising spider built her web, where she is harvesting a feast of fruit flies).  Scent is an essential part of the garden for me. There are roses and lilies at the front, and more sweet peas, honeysuckle, and jasmine in the back yard. A magnolia tree blooms by the door into the side yard, reminding me of the South of my childhood. I ordered fall bulbs this weekend--always a difficult decision--and made notes of what has done well and what needs to be moved or replaced. More monarda is definitely called for: watching the hummingbirds it attracts has become our cocktail hour entertainment.

Purple monarda and white cosmos

"Raspberry Wine" monarda, the hummingbirds' favorite

Finally, we had two tomatoes ripen; one I used in the aforementioned pasta, and the other in the omelet I had for lunch. (Seriously, I only cook eggs and pasta.) Lunch was a locavore's delight, with eggs and feta cheese from local farms and tomato and basil from the garden. The tomato is a variety called "black truffle"--really delicious. The butter I used in the skillet was local, and Dave's Killer Bread, which substituted for a baguette, is made in Portland. 

Before...

... and After

I decided that a festive glass of wine was in order--it is Sunday, after all. It's been hot here--upper 90s--so I've been staying indoors reading in the afternoon: Jane Alison's lyrical but disturbing memoir, The Sisters Antipodes (my book club's selection for this month) and the always-entertaining Diana Cooper's autobiography. Happily, my husband will be back tomorrow. I wonder what he'll make for dinner?

Rambles

Somewhere under the rainbow...

A couple of weeks ago, I was suddenly struck with the urge to get up early the following morning and go for a walk. Do not ask me where this came from--I'm the sort of person who's devoted my life to avoiding early mornings and exercise. But the idea was irresistible, so I did it. And it was lovely. And I've done it every morning since. Summer mornings here could not be more perfect. At this latitude, it starts to get light by 5, so the east-facing windows in my bedroom wake me with the morning sun a little after 6. By 6:30, I've stretched myself awake and have taken care of my first and most important duty, feeding the cats. If you think I'm going to be able to leave the house without doing that, think again. The temperatures are in the 50s at the hour, so I need a sweater or hoodie over my shorts and T-shirt. The air is so fresh and cool, and all the neighborhood cats are out, stalking the early birds and the squirrels. This is a very cat-friendly area--every other house at least has a cat or two. Some watch me warily without moving a muscle, others run and hide, and others come running up to rub against my legs and be petted. I'm pretty sure they're the ones whose humans don't get up early to feed them.

The late, lamented Maeve, the first cat who came to stay

I adore cats, and currently have four of my own. I grew up in the country, and we had alls sorts of pets: cats, dogs, rabbits, frogs. The cats, to my distress, were never allowed in the house. I had a beautiful Siamese/Burmese mix named Serena, who produced several motley litters that included cats of every color before we had her fixed. I was allowed to have a dog inside, a toy poodle. I know, stop laughing. Yes, she was white and she came with the name of Precious and she and I adored each other, so just hush. But what I really wanted was a cat I could keep inside. This didn't happen until I was grown, had been living on my own for some time, and had bought a house where no nasty landlord could tell me what to do. One cat arrived, and led to another and another and another, as they tend to do. They're such elegant, independent creatures. It's the independence that I admire above all, I think. I am extremely uncomfortable with clingy, dependent creatures--I would have made a dreadful mother--but I respond very well to cold and aloof. 

Today was, for the first time since I started this routine, a bit misty--a foreshadowing of the cool, wet mornings to come, when this new whim will be put to the test. It was cool and lovely today, though, with the smell of rain added to the jasmine, honeysuckle, and roses on my route. I love seeing what others are growing in their gardens, noting what does especially well in our little meso-climate, and getting ideas for next season. It's almost time to order fall bulbs, incredibly. So strange, because our tomato plants are only now beginning to set fruit. I think I saw a hint of red on one this week. 

This Friday's cocktail/market/dinner combo featured local beers at the bar on the roof of a local hotel, with marvelous views of the mountains and the valley. Whenever I go up there, the fact of that I live in a picture postcard is brought home to me yet again. Really, it's ridiculous. The market had fresh albacore tuna an clams, which my brilliant, creative hudband turned into this:

Soooo good. We sat in the garden in the twilight, finishing the wine, watching the stars come out, and talking of many things. He's taking off this week to visit family and friends in Memphis and Oklahoma City (and to enjoy the heat-and-humidity festival), so I will have no cocktail companion or chef. Back to omelets and pasta for me!

I must go and deadhead some flowers, and cut a bouquet for the house. One of the great advantages of having a garden is the luxury of a free and constant supply of fresh flowers for the house. Honestly, I almost prefer the pleasure I get from that to the satisfaction of growing food (although picking berries for breakfast is one of my favorite things). One is food for the body, the other for the soul. Sometimes we forget to nourish both. Like my walks, for example. Although it is no doubt benefitting me physically, it's the beauty and the quiet that give me the most immediate pleasure. For me, as usual, it's all about the aesthetics.

For those who don't know about Booktryst, the blog I write for in a my professional capacity, I'd like to link to the post I wrote this week on J. P. Morgan's librarian Belle da Costa Greene. It's one of my favorite things I've written.

Olio

This Sunday in the Valley is a special one, because it's my husband's birthday. It's been a lovely day--even though poor boy had to work--and tonight we'll celebrate at our favorite restaurant, Bistro Maison. Fabulous French food, excellent wine list. Can't wait! 

We've had gorgeous weather this weekend: cloudy, cool mornings and sunny afternoons, highs around 80. The mornings were perfect for gardening and the afternoons for reading and napping. I made a batch of marionberry jam (as addictive as crack!) this morning. Marionberries taste like a cross between a blackberry and a raspberry, and make the most fabulous jam. In fact, my marionberry jam is the only thing I've ever made that has been served in a fine restaurant. A chef friend used a jar of it to make a sauce for a wine dinner. I even got credit on the menu!

I've been re-reading Brideshead Revisited this week. I had recently read Mad World, an account of the Lygon family who were the inspiration for Brideshead. Evelyn Waugh has long been one of my favorite authors. I love his acerbic wit, his close observation of social mores--the anthropology of the drawing room and the cocktail party, as well as his use of language. I know some find him snobbish and mean, but I rather like that. The people he skewers generally deserve it. 

When I first read Brideshead (my paperback has photos from the PBS Masterpiece Theatre series on the cover, so more than 20 years ago), I was barely older than the youthful Charles and Sebastian. Now I, like Charles the narrator, am middle aged. It brings a new perspective to the book, and a different way of identifying with the characters. I always appreciated Waugh's wit, but underrated his compassion and humanity. The gentle, elegiac tone of Brideshead is inexpressibly moving.

These photos show the progression of Friday night's sunset--really a spectacular display. Clouds blew in at the last minute, cooling things down and providing a wonderful palette for the setting sun. 

Since I began this post, we went to dinner at Bistro Maison. Incroyable. A half bottle of Taittinger to start, then an enormous Antipasto plate with French ham, anchovies, potato-chickpea salad, roasted tomatoes and red peppers, salade, and bufalo mozzarella, accompanied by a bone-dry Sancerre. I had moules frites as my main dish, and the birthday boy had wild river-caught sturgeon with saffron beurre blanc, this accompanied by a half-bottle of Gigondas. For dessert, I had the chocolate lava cake with cherry amaretto ice cream and fresh cherries macerated in amaretto; birthday boy had a tasting of tawy ports--10, 20, 30, & 40 years old, with a bar of Schaffenberger 70% cacao chocolate. We are now sitting stupefied in the garden. 

.

This post has been rather disjointed. Highlights of the week: watching hummingbirds feed on the monarda, finches on the cornflowers, and chickadees at the bird feeder. Book group, with great discussion and much wine, topped off by a beautiful moon rise. A weekend of domestic joys, crowned with a stupendous dinner in honor of the love of my life. It doesn't get much better.

Friday Night in the Not-So-Big Town

Fridays are my favorite night of the week. My husband picks me up at work and we go get a cocktail somewhere (last week was margaritas outside at a Mexican restaurant, this week--with the temperatures in the 90s--a G&T for him and a Lemon Drop for me at a secluded, air-conditioned little bar). Then it's off to the market, where we shop for dinner and for the coming week. When we eot home, my husband cooks dinner while I sip wine and try to be amusing. Often we get fish for dinner--we're close to the coast and our local grocery gets very fresh seafood. This week, it was too hot to cook in our un-air-conditioned house, so we got prawns, which my  husband grilled and served over pasta (cooked on the grill's gas burner) with cherry tomatoes, red peppers, leeks, olives, garlic, and chard (I picked and washed the chard, my sole contribution to the meal preparation).  We ate outside, and drank a bottle of cava with the leisurely meal. Once you open a sparkling wine, you have to finish it!

Since it was what passes for "really hot" here this weekend, I decided to stay inside with the window blinds closed and the ceiling fans going and get some household chores done. Saturday morning, I put in some laundry and started cleaning the kitchen--and I mean cleaning, not just the take-dishes-out-of-dishwasher-put-dishes-into-dishwasher routine I usually perform. Fired up by this, I next tackled the bathroom. You have to understand, I detest housecleaning. Detest. Loathe, even. And yet, somehow I was finding satisfaction in this. I've no idea why--it was like suddenly discovering that I could fly. Frankly, it's more than a little disconcerting. Today, I thoroughly dusted, did more laundry, including the slipcovers, and organized a number of drawers that badly needed it. All that remains are the floors, which my husband cleans since I conveniently have back problems. 

I'm not sure what brought on this odd spurt of domesticity--a longing for order, a need for control, the heat--but I'll just enjoy the tranquillity of a clean house, at least until the cats shed or throw up on something. I give it until 9:00 tonight.

Peace and Quiet

Today has been an especially lovely Sunday in the Valley. The weather--cool and overcast in the morning for gardening, sunny and 70s in the afternoon for walks and reading in the sun--has been nothing short of perfection. It has been particularly peaceful in contrast to yesterday's trip into the city. I'm becoming quite the little country mouse--I find the traffic, noise, and crowds more than I can bear. The city has much to offer, but for me it's sometimes a bit too much. Quite unintentionally, I ended up at one of Portland's famous farmers' markets---acres, it seemed, of beautiful organic produce, artisanal foodstuffs, and crafts--but I was too overwhelmed by all that was on offer, and by the crowds and the noise, to appreciate it. Too many choices, too much stimulation. I was happy to escape to a quiet lunch with an interesting companion.


Growing up in the country, all I wanted was to escape to the big city. Now, as I near the half-century mark, I long for the quiet of the country. Noise is the pollution I find most stressful, and I have a hard time dealing with more than a few days in a large city where it's never completely quiet. Even living in a small community, as I do now, there are the sounds of cars going by, radios blaring, children screeching, dogs barking (I admit to a very wicked moment of hoping the dog was in fact going to eat the screeching children). But there is also the soothing sound of the fountain in my garden, and the purr of the cat in my lap. I try to focus on that and shut the rest out. Quiet, for me, is the greatest luxury. My husband and I dream of one day owning a few acres in the country, where we can plant a small vineyard and a house that overlooks it. For him, the future winemaker, the allure is agricultural. For me, it's the quiet, away from other people, that most appeals.

It was a day of simple pleasures--working in the garden, going for a walk, getting a chocolate dip-cone at the Dairy Queen, baking a blueberry-raspberry pound cake, reading a good book. (A very good book indeed: The More I Owe You by Michael Sledge. Most highly recommended.) Tonight we'll grill fish, sit outside and drink wine, and enjoy the peace and quiet.

So Much Light

The summer days begin very early here in the valley: when my husband and stepson left for the airport at 4:30 this morning, it was already getting light outside. It won't be too dark to read in the garden until after 9:00 PM. I've never lived this far north, and the long summer days--and very short winter ones--are a new and pleasant phenomenon. The difference in the seasons is heightened, brought into sharp contrast. The long hours of light, the garden's exuberant flowering, the plethora of berries, fresh local produce--all these things make up for rainy, grey winter days when it's almost dark by 4:30 in the afternoon. In summer we practically live outdoors: the garden becomes our living room and dining room, the grill our kitchen.  We eat so much of seasonal vegetables that I almost tire of them. Right now, I feel I can wait for next spring before eating any more asparagus. Lunch today was the watermelon shown above, with salt, the way we ate it when I was growing up. I like the contrast to the sweetness.

Today has been mostly pleasant tasks and leisure, as a Sunday in the Valley should be: making blueberry jam, starting the yogurt for this week's breakfasts (which will also star blueberries), deadheading the roses and cutting the single branch (!) of blooms below for the house. The only dark spot has been the failure of my Moka espresso pot due to incompatible replacement gasket. Factory approved parts have been ordered from Amazon; in the meantime, I have no fewer than a dozen coffee shacks to choose from for my AM fix, even in a town of 30,000.

I decided to change this to a Sunday blog because as I close in on 50, I am getting better about accepting my limitations. I rarely feel like writing during the week because that is what I do for a living; by the end of the day, I've run out of words. I also write for a rare book blog and that takes up at least on of my evenings. But after running around on Saturday, doing errands, shopping, and chores, by Sunday I'm ready to sit back, reflect, and write. 

A chef from my little community made the New York Times this week due to his extreme passion for sourcing one's food locally. While I wouldn't come to blows over the subject, I do try to eat locally and buy locally as much as possible, and I'm willing to pay a bit more to do so. I enjoy getting not just my vegetables and fruit but my meat, cheese, and eggs from local farmers. I'm really no good at growing my own food, and I'm glad to have so many small farms in my community who can supply my needs. 

One of the many reasons I like living in Oregon is the ease with which I can do things I feel are important, like eating locally, recycling, being within walking distance of shops and services so we're less dependent on a car. Like any good liberal, I'm consumed with guilt. Being able to do these small things may not make a real difference (especially considering the flights we take to see friends and family each year), but at least I can feel, in some small way, that I'm not making things that much worse. 

Now it's back to the comfy swing (if the cats will make room for me) to read more of Sybille Bedford's memoir Quicksands--marvelous writing, like listening to a fascinating person reminisce.  

Summer At Last

Only one sad little green tomato so far.

Summer has decided that maybe she will drop in on the cool, grey Pacific Northwest after all. Last weekend, which happened to be the date of the party we threw to celebrate our nuptials last December, was, despite my fears, clear, bright, and perfect. Warm, but not too warm, and not a cloud in the sky. We even got to enjoy the full moon, which happens about three times a year. 

More jam was made this Independence Day, apricot this time. A kilo of apricots yielded only three full jars of jam, with a little left over to enjoy on the batch of blueberry scones I made. Remember, kids, don't drink and bake: I had to throw out the dry ingredients for the scones when I realized I had put in 2 ½ Tablespoons—not teaspoons—of baking powder. Luckily I realized my error before monster scones exploded in my oven.

If given a word association test, my reply to "summer" would be "reading." That was my #1 summer activity during all my school years. My family had a summer home on an island off the coast of South Carolina, a quiet place with few things to do apart from swimming, walking on the beach, and reading. I wish I still had that much leisure, but the long days do allow for many pleasant hours of reading in the garden. I was absolutely horrified to learn that my stepson, who will be in 5th grade next fall, has NO summer reading assigned. Another casualty of education budget cuts. My husband has given him the copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes that his father gave to him when he was a boy.  Holmes and Watson should prove entertaining summer companions for him--and if he is like us, lifelong friends.

The UK cover is so much better, of course.

Recent reads include Paula Byrne's excellent Mad World: Evelyn Waugh and the Secrets of Brideshead. I'm now eager to re-read Brideshead Revisited. Waugh and his friends (especially Nancy Mitford) just fascinate me. Most people now don't put in the effort to be witty and entertaining.  I suppose not everyone has it impressed on them from childhood that it is one's duty to be amusing. Of course, we were also taught common courtesy and proper etiquette, but that is a rant for another day.

For now, I shall retire to the Cocktail Corner with a Pimms Cup and a good book. I've just started Fifth Avenue, 5 A. M. : Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany's, and the Dawn of the Modern Woman. It promises to be quite interesting.

What is on your summer reading list?