A Provincial Life

Anemones

Finally, finally it feels like spring is really here. The daffodils and tulips are finishing up, the bluebells are blooming, and the iris have buds. The garden is waking up after a long, wet sleep. We have entire days of sunshine occasionally (last week on a weekend--unheard of), and it's slowly warming into the 60s during the day. My darling husband is home after two looooong months in Australia, so the heavy yard work is finally getting done. Also, we no longer have the most disgraceful lawn on the street--it's neatly mowed, even if it is mostly dandelions (excellent crop this year) and moss.

I, too did some traveling for work, to New York for the Antiquarian Book Fair. I'm just too old for that. Even with non-stop flights, getting there and back was exhausting, and except for seeing friends and some lovely books, it was pretty miserable. I am no longer an urban person. Too many people make me nervous and claustrophobic. I dislike being surrounded by huge buildings and miss the lovely greens of Oregon. It was good to get home to the provinces and resume my provincial life.

Baxter straddling the fence like a politician

With all the stress in daily life and world events, I have been taking refuge in the Provincial Lady books and other works by E. M. Delafield, and the Barsetshire novels of Angela Thirkell, both full of sly wit and social satire. The comedy of manners is one of my favorite types of novels, and both of these writers continue in the tradition of Jane Austen, only in 20th century England. I know many "serious" readers look down on books like these, but I find more of value there than in most so-called literary fiction. À chacun son goût. I could no more face wading through Thomas Pynchon at the end of a stressful day or week than I could rise and fly. So I'll stick to my provincial, middle-brow reading and let better folk than I deal with James Joyce or the latest David Foster Wallace. 

Gwydion

This weekend has been the kind of slow-paced, simple time that I love. Yesterday was marketing, picking up CSA veggies, and arranging with my farmer to sell some of the herbs that are taking over my garden in his booth at the market. Desultory cleaning and gardening next, followed by a nap. Today has been all about the kitchen: baking bread and cookies, making chicken stock to freeze, preparing rhubarb compote to have with my yogurt and granola for breakfast this week, using leftover rice and assorted CSA veggies to make fried rice for lunch today and to take for lunch during the week, and finally, making beans & greens for dinner. Nothing complicated or intensive to prepare, just a steady day of puttering about the kitchen. 

Cocktail corner is ready and waiting for warmer weather

It has rained--sometimes torrentially--off and on today, so it was a good time to be indoors, cooking, reading, and puttering. Tomorrow it's back to work and deadlines, but it's lovely to have a peaceful day of rest in order to recharge for the challenges in the week ahead. 

A Little Sunshine Makes All the Difference

Is there anything more contented than a cat sleeping in the sun?

Yesterday, it was sunny!! On a Saturday!!! I can't remember the last time this happened, but it's been weeks. The cats and I spent some quality time sitting on the swing in the backyard, soaking up sun like lizards. I did a bit of long-postponed garden clean-up and found quite a bit of new growth coming up. The only bulb actually blooming is the small snowdrop below. I planted 50 of these, and so far this is the only one to make an appearance. The drifts of snowdrops in my neighbor's yard are mocking me.

50 bulbs, one flower. I blame the squirrels.

I saw dozens of snowdrops, along with purple and yellow crocus and a yellow primrose on my walk to the library. The daphne and camellias have buds about to pop open. Spring really is on its way. I need to get my peas (both sweet for flowers and shelling for eating) planted soon.

There was baking, too. The regular weekly loaf of bread and a loaf on banana bread on Saturday (half off over-ripe banana at the grocery is a great excuse for banana bread), and today, these sinfully delicious  whole lemon bars, so called because you puree a whole lemon for the filling. Extra lemony goodness!

Tomorrow I turn 50, which quite frankly I never thought would happen. I struggled with the black dog of depression for many years, and when I was in my 20s I was sure it would defeat me. Thanks to my friends, my siblings, my shrink, and Celexa, I've made it to the half century mark. I'm living in a beautiful place, have a dream job working with antiquarian books and medieval manuscripts, and most miraculously of all, I'm married to a beautiful man who loves me and accepts me as I am, warts, depression, and all. I will not be one of those women who won't admit her age--I want to shout it from the rooftops, because I'm so grateful for making it this far.

A Spot of Bother

So far, 2011 has not been a good year. Family emergencies and illnesses, unexpected travel, large unplanned expenses--it's been a recipe for major stress and depression. At the end of this month, my husband leaves for two months abroad (for work). And in just over a week, I turn fifty. All I can say is, "Bartender! Another round!"

Daffodils by the front steps

Fortunately, little bulbs are beginning to poke their heads up in the garden, promising spring just around the corner. Meanwhile, the rain continues to keep me indoors (November through April showers bring May flowers!) so I've been sorting through closets, chests, and cabinets looking for garage sale material, should we ever have a sunny Saturday.

Books have been treasured companions and welcome respite from life's trouble these past weeks. I've particularly enjoyed Debo Mitford Devonshire's Wait for me!, which I won in a drawing at Stuck in a Book---thanks, Simon! I love the cover shot of the 90-year-old duchess holding two of her beloved hens. As always, I find enormous comfort in mysteries, preferably psychological thrillers. Andrew Taylor's Roth Trilogy was a fascinating series tracing the making of a psychopath.

There has also been baking--brownies, scones, banana bread. I continue to bake a loaf of no-knead bread every weekend. The budget will be a bit tight with just one income for the next couple of months, so I've been adding to my repertoire of inexpensive vegetarian recipes. I've been trying to be a more mindful consumer, so this will be a very good exercise.

A New Year in the Valley

We got SUNSHINE for New Year's. You have to live with two solid months of rains and grayness to really appreciate that. I was able to walk to the library without getting soaked, to tend to a few outside chores, and to join the cats in basking in the rays shining through the windows.

New Year's Eve was quiet for us. I had the day off, so I finished cleaning the house for the new year. My husband was a waiter for 15 years, and not having to work in a restaurant on "amateur night" is something we celebrate every year by staying in. He cooked some wild-caught steelhead trout (similar to salmon) and we had a lovely bottle of prosecco. After dinner, he watched the Flaming Lips show streaming live from Oklahoma City, and I retired upstairs with a book and a large glass of wine. We toasted the New Year at midnight, to the accompaniment of the neighbors banging pans, drums, and blowing car horns--a traditional way of scaring off evil spirits. That part was rather charming. Their drunken arguments out in the street every half hour until after 3 AM was not.

As a consequence of being awakened repeatedly in the night, I started 2011 tired and grumpy. Apart from baking a loaf of bread and making hoppin' john (black-eyed peas with rice) and greens for New Year's dinner like a good Southern girl, I did nothing. I spent the day curled up by the fire reading the marvelously eerie The Little Stranger, or watching old Miss Marple mysteries on Netflix.

After a peaceful night, I woke to sunshine and experienced a burst of energy. I made coffee (OK, some of the energy was caffeine-related), scrambled eggs, and toasted homemade bread with homemade strawberry jam (my smugness over the "homemade" part makes it taste so much better). After cleaning the kitchen, I peeled and roasted assorted root vegetables for soup. I love making soup and bread for Sunday night dinner, thereby having leftovers for weekday lunches. While the vegetable were roasting, I conducted another wardrobe weeding, pulling out things I haven't worn in forever to donate, and organizing the remaining items.

After lunch, I mixed up a batch of cookie dough and put it in the fridge to chill while I walked to the library. I had forgotten that I usually cut this recipe for "Cowboy Cookies" (chocolate chip with pecans, oatmeal, and coconut) in half--I got it from a friend who makes batches for after-church coffee hour--so I ended up with five dozen cookie. Hope none of my co-workers have started diets for the new year, because I'll be bringing treats to the office.

No pictures today, partly because there was nothing new and interesting to photograph, and partly because it takes too much time. I'm far less likely to write something if I need photos for it. So I'm sorry it's just plain ol' text, but that's all I can handle right now.

Comfort & Joy

Last weekend, I made my very first loaf of real bread. Oh, sure, I'd made quick breads--banana, zucchini, etc.--but never anything requiring yeast.  I decided to try the no-knead bread from the New York Times, which is perfect for the lazy. It requires only flour, salt, yeast, water, and about 20 hours rising time, in a room that was at least 70 degrees F. This presented the only obstacle: our 1927 farmhouse does not have central heat, is not well-insulated, and is rather drafty. We use the woodstve in the fireplace and lots of down comforters to stay warm. There are small space-heater-like units in the wall of each room, but none of these is capable of getting and keeping the room at a balmy 70--except for the one in the bathroom.

Cat and dough enjoying the warmth

Yes, I know: food in the bathroom. Ewwww. But, I reasoned, it's in a bowl covered with plastic wrap, and I'll put it up on top of the hideous, laminate cabinet (bathroom was sadly "renovated" in the late 70s/early 80s--all 20s charm is gone, gone, gone). With the door firmly closed, it was possible to keep the windowless bathroom warm enough for the yeast to do its thing. My bread got a little more than 18 hours rising time, because I got confused calculating times and started the bread at 9 AM, which gave me a choice of getting up at 3 AM, or letting the bread rise for a few extra hours--you can guess which I chose. The extra time didn't hurt it at all, and it baked up beautifully in my cast iron Dutch oven. I was so proud and excited you'd think I'd discovered penicillin. The bread was enjoyed with soup, and the remnant used to make the "Pumpkin Stuffed with Everything Good" on Christmas Eve.

Tuesday, date of the Winter Solstice and lunar eclipse, was our first wedding anniversary. The rainy weather on the west coast made it impossible to see the eclipse, which was huge disappointment, and a family illness put a bit of a damper on anniversary festivities. We decided to wait and celebrate on the 22nd, when the loved one was out of danger. My dear husband bought me books because, as he noted (to my amazement), the traditional gift for a first anniversary is paper.  I, jumping inadvertently ahead to the traditional fifth anniversary wood gift, got him a wooden cutting board made by the farmer from whom we buy our vegetable out of wood from a white oak on his farm. We had dinner at the wonderful Bistro Maison, a marvelous French restaurant. The rain stopped long enough for us to walk there and back--a great way to justify the calories consumed in the baked Alaska we had for dessert.

As I've noted previously, Christmas is not my favorite time of year and I try to ignore it as much as possible. My grinchy-ness was alleviated somewhat this year by a number of examples, some local, some far away, of generous and unselfish giving that offset the annoying orgy of consumerism I associate with the holiday. I made it through five hours(!) of Christmas music on Christmas Eve before I snapped and started throwing things. And on Xmas day, though I lost my ambition to make the full turkey/dressing/cranberry sauce dinner I'd planned, I did manage to roast a turkey breast and make a ginger-pear upside-down cake while recruiting my ever-indulgent husband to make the sauce, mashed potatoes and green beans with almonds.

We even had a minor Christmas miracle: two members of the household managed to catch fire Xmas day, and neither of them was the accident-prone moi! My husband was sitting on the hearth in front of the fire, watching a basketball game online, and I was in the kitchen peeling pears. Suddenly, I heard him shout "Fuck!" and I ran to see what was wrong. A couple of sparks from the crackling fire had landed on his fleece pullover which, being basically plastic, promptly began to melt onto his skin. I helpfully observed, "Oh, you're on fire," as he wrangled his way out of the smoldering, smelly mess.

Later, we were sitting at the table, candles lit, when our long-haired cat Baxter (pictured above) decided to saunter across the table to see if any stray turkey might come his way. Sadly, his magnificent fluffy tail brushed against a candle, causing a shower of sparks and the ever-so-appetizing smell of burnt hair. Kitty was luckily unharmed, although he kept looking at his tail and trying to figure out if it was the source of the extremely unpleasant odor.  As my husband said, it's not a successful party until someone catches fire. And so another Christmas is survived--this time with the comfort and joy of a partner who is understanding of my neuroses about the season and who will turn off the music when I just can't bear another note.

Bah, humbug

Just enough room for kitty to rest his head. Apple is so thoughtful.

Today I bought my very first pair of long underwear. I've had thermal long-sleeved tees before, but never a real set of long johns, for very good reason: I've never needed them. If it was that cold outside, them obviously the right thing for me to do was to stay indoors where it's cozy and warm.

So why now? Because I need to walk every day, and I won't be able to force myself to get up and do it if I'm going to be cold and miserable. Yes, it's true, I'll admit it: exercise makes me feel better--not just physically, but mentally. Happy, every know-it-all doctor I've ever had? You were right. God, I hate saying those words.

Since the rainy season started a month ago, my walks have been few and far between, and I definitely feel the worse for it. Here's hoping the thermal undies can help me overcome my reluctance to leave a warm bed to walk on a cold, dark morning.

So, only three weeks until the horror known as Christmas is behind us for another year. I don't know about you, but I can't wait. I despise the Christmas music everywhere, the orgy of consumerism, the waste, the forced cheer. Now, I'll admit that I don't have warm, fuzzy memories of wonderful childhood Christmases--the one that stands out most is the time my grandfather, drunk by noon on Xmas day, ran over a dog on the way to the big family dinner and didn't even slow down--and perhaps that colors my feelings for the season.

To the extent I can, I ignore it. I don't decorate at all, and I only buy gifts for the children in my life. It helps enormously that we don't have a TV and I only listen to public radio, so I'm not overwhelmed with commercials. I stay away from stores as much as possible, and give thanks that I live in a town without a shopping mall.

I made slice-and-bake cookies for the first time in years this weekend. I grew up on Pillsbury slice-n-bake cookies, the only kind my grandmother ever made. The ones shown above did not come from one of the dough boy's neat round tubes, however. They are maple-pecan sandies, and they're an odd shape because I couldn't get the log of dough very round. The recipe calls for them to be dipped in melted bittersweet chocolate, but I can't decide whether to do this or not. They're really good plain. Probably should test a few more before I make up my mind.

In Memoriam

Boys' Night Out at Ayers Rock with Jenny by N. J. Irza

Thanksgiving was long my favorite holiday. This probably has something to do with the fact that I stopped spending it with my family when I was in college, always electing thereafter to be with friends on that day.  More importantly, it lacked the pressure, consumerism, and expectations that haunted Christmas and turned me into a grinch at an early age. Thanksgiving was about gratitude and good food and friends, all things I could support wholeheartedly. 

Bird, by N. J. Irza

One friend I shared Thanksgivings with was Nick Irza. He and his partner, Jim, were my gay godfathers, and Nick in particular became the father I never had, and I was his princess. Nick was an artist--these are his paintings here.  After Jim passed away, we became especially close, and spent most holidays together. He was a wonderful cook, and I had inherited lots of china, silver, and crystal. We made a great entertaining team. On Saturday, November 22, 2006, Nick and I were decorating the Thanksgiving altar at the Episcopal Cathedral. In addition to being a member of the congregation, Nick was an amazing florist. He was feeling unwell and sat down to supervise while I did something simple like put chrysanthemums in brass urns. Suddenly, he said, "I think I'm having a heart attack." 

Spirit Cats, the first painting Nick did after his partner's death

I looked around and he was white as a sheet, he head gleaming with perspiration. I called 911, and foudn the sexton to tell him what was going on. He called the priest and brought in reinforcements from the altar guild to finish the altar. I followed Nick's ambulance to the hospital and let the medical staff think I was his daughter so I could stay with him. Nick was uninsured, and we were not the medical staff's highest priority.  By the time we saw a resident, lividity was setting in. By the time the cardiologist arrived, I knew from the look on her face that he was going to die. They took him to surgery, but were unable to repair his ruptured aorta. He never woke up. 

Persephone Moon

His funeral was held in the Episcopal Cathedral we'd been decorating on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. He and I had planned to spend the holiday at my house with two other friends. Nick was to cook the turkey, while I made the jalapeno cornbread dressing, praline sweet potatoes, and pecan pie. I was too devastated to face the traditional meal. I made pasta and got extremely drunk, then lay in the back seat of the car giving incoherent directions while the friends who'd joined me for dinner drove around my neighborhood to look at the elaborate Xmas lights.

Matthew, a sketch in pencil of one of Nick's 12 cats

Thanksgiving was kind of ruined for me for several years. It wasn't until I moved to Oregon that I made a turkey with all the trimmings again. The holiday is still bittersweet, because it's forever linked to a devastating loss. But I have much to be grateful for, not the least of which is that I had Nick in my life, and that I am still surrounded every day my his beautiful paintings. Artists have the only kind of immortality I can believe in, a legacy of work that lives on and tells the world who they were. Nick left some magnificent creations that will bring joy for generations. I also have a living, breathing reminder of him: one of his cats, a black female named Nikita in his honor. 

Phoenix Pear

I will spend this Thanksgiving with my husband and a friend who is coming to stay with us. This friend also knew and loved Nick, came to the hospital to sit with me while he was in surgery, and went with me to his house afterwards to feed his cats and parrots and to honor Nick's final request that I get rid of his porn before any lawyers, executors, or family arrived. 

May you spend this holiday with people you care about, and may you be thankful for their presence in your life. Happy Thanksgiving.