No, Not That Season

daphne on April 19, 2010

‘Tis not the season to be jolly.

‘Tis not the season for long, lazy days of riding bikes and lounging by a pool.

‘Tis particularly not the season to draw in deep carefree breaths of fresh air, unless you are particularly enamored of hours spent sneezing your head off.

‘Tis the season…

For jumping.

Last year I knew nothing from jump rope.  I carpooled and stumbled around blindly and despite my ignorance and incompetence we landed at the Junior Olympics and I wouldn’t have been more flabbergasted had a tornado risen up out of the sink.

I was proud.  I was stunned.  And I was stumped as to how best to support my jolly jumper.

This year, we know what’s up.  And we are all in.

For Kira, there are ropes to be jumped and ribbons to be won.

For me, there are children to be judged.   I don’t know why I thought that it would be nice to be out in the yard digging fresh seedlings into the dirt.  Fresh air and gardens evoke nothing compared to the whoops and howls of delight coming out of me during a Saturday spend indoors judging a child or 300.

That’s me; the intimidating looking judge second from the right.  I scrutinized moves as if I could tell an Awesome Annie* from a Backwards Frog*. (*Actual jump rope moves.  Go on, impress the crowds at your next cocktail party.)

While you’re busy with the image of me as a jump rope judge making you laugh until coffee squirts out of your nose, I will inform you that it was under extreme coercion with great pride that I agreed to provide direct support for my child’s chosen athletic outlet.

Because I may be clueless when it comes to handling an athlete, but I sure do love my kid.

And nothing says I love you like 12 hours in a gym.

Au Natural Trellis

daphne on April 13, 2010

When they were finally coaxed down from the trees, he built this beautiful trellis.

Hire your local twig collectors and relocators.  This is my crew, whom I highly recommend. They are hard workers who work cheap.  They negotiated the deal, which I gladly accepted — $1 plus a Popsicle each got me an entire twig pile moved out of the way. Everyone’s a winner.

The twigs were dug in and secured with nails to the garden frame.

The tops tipped in and tied together with twine, which we will also use to give the snap peas something to cling to.

Trellis, decorated for Mother’s Day–

When Monkeys Fly…

daphne on April 12, 2010

…that’s when I’ll be comfortable with my gang hanging around in the treetops.  Not only do my monkeys currently lack the capacity for flight, but they have a marked propensity for rapid, headfirst dismounts from all activities.

Now I am fortunate that my husband has congenially agreed to build me a trellis to support the tomatoes and snap peas that are sure to runneth over in our lovely new south garden.

It is unfortunate, however, that I had to crane my neck skyward to remind him of one very relevant fact:

UM HELLO? YOU ARE NOT A CAT! YOU’RE NOT GOING TO JUST LAND ON YOUR FEET, YOU KNOW!

I yelled this to him as he clung to the dead branches that had been targeted for trellis harvest.  He did not respond, though I feel certain he was thankful for my insightful, subtly delivered observations.

You know what’s really sweet? When children admire their fathers and want to be just like them.

Monkey See.

Monkey Do.

And by monkey see, monkey do I mean imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  Or some such nonsense.

Those of you who are familiar with our emergency room track record will appreciate the new rule I’ve instituted over here:  one monkey in a tree at any given time.  Unless of course they sprout wings like our beloved friends hovering around the Emerald City.  I’ll bet those adorable guys handle treetops movements with the greatest of ease.

Not so my run-of-mill-monkeys. I’m most content when their simian feet are planted on terra firma.  Besides, I need their help down here with preparations for the banner year ahead.  Just look at the growing going on:

We’ve got rhubarb,

and strawberries,

And garlic.  Oh my.

I’m Not Getting Voted Off This Homestead

daphne on April 5, 2010

The last attempt I made to live off the land didn’t go very well.   Half pint and pa never bagged a bear, and what with all the churning and mending to be done I utterly failed at the task of putting up enough food to feed my family.  It was barely November and I had to hitch the old (station) wagon up to the grocery store trading post.

No amount of chopping wood would have saved me from being voted out of the Frontier House.

I don’t know how those pioneer ladies did it.  They were a tough breed.

Kind of like my own pioneer babe–

Don’t let the Holly Hobby dress and sweet smile fool you.  This nine year old is brimming with teenage ‘tude that would serve her nicely should I follow through with my decision to free-range her out on the open frontier.  And since you were wondering, yes I did wear this dress to school as a suburban child of the seventies.  There is simply no denying it, when it comes to fashion I’ve always been ahead of my time.

But never mind that, food failure was so last year.  My family is on target to make it through this year, this entire year, completely independent from grocery stores.  That’s us, totally self-sufficient…at least as far as jam is concerned.

Oh shush.  Don’t tell me I can’t keep a family on jam alone.  I can do whatever I want.

I made jam, didn’t I?  See–

When we polished off the last of the jars I made back in June, I simply defrosted what was left of our strawberry puree from the picking last fall.   Then I added just a pinch of sugar.

Or perhaps it was a wagon-load of sugar.  I’m not exactly sure.  Then a dollop of magic–

And Voila!  Jam!

2009/2010 will be known far and wide as the year we made it on jam alone.  Impressive, yes, but for 2010/11 I’ve set my sights a little higher.

Welcome to my lofty goal of the year:  tomatoes.  These guys may not look like much but just you wait.  These little guys have been tapped to nourish my family throughout the year to come.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Aquariums are for Posers

daphne on March 29, 2010

Spring Break 2010; we certainly had no intentions of sitting idly by and letting other party people have all the fun.  So we said farewell to the gray skies and sloppy snow and hopped a plane or twelve to Boston.  We had grand plans of visiting museums and cultural centers galore whilst local kids worked away at school.  The incredible Boston aquarium featured prominently on the to-do list.

My children had other plans.

Arguably, an aquarium has fish and water, but hadn’t we just flown thousands of miles?  Why come all this way and stop just short of the real deal?

Icy rain, micey-shmain, get thee to the beach.  And so we did.

We piled on hats and scarves and braved the brisk breeze.  I even convinced some of our party peeps to strike an impressive Spring Break pose.   I call it, “Who Us? Nope. We’re Not Cold!”

The rain subsided and the wind even let up for a second or two and I was forced to admit that my children had made a brilliant choice.  The beach was gorgeous and at just a half hour drive from the city I deemed it perfect, and decided to move in to one of the cozy mansions hugging the coast.

So I sold the children on the spot.

With these deep dreamy eyes and that impossible head of hair my nephew Miles commanded the big bucks–

I sold him to the first pirates that happened by.  Sure we’ll miss him, but he feels great just picturing his auntie in her sweet new seaside digs.  Here the girls are craning their necks for a glimpse of the ship laden with bags of gold for their own bounty.

Alas the ship never showed and so I was forced to pack up my un-purchased children and return home.  Despite plummeting temperatures and the snow that keeps on coming, our snug little incubator of a dining room is showing signs of springtime success.

Our briccoli (that’s broccoli when sign-making is outsourced to local first graders) has sprouted.  And you know what they say — where briccoli is sprouting, swiss chard won’t be far behind.

What? You haven’t heard that saying?  Trust me; it’s all the rage with the pirates.

It’s Super Cali Fragil Istic, or so

daphne on March 22, 2010

Last week while Colorado was being slammed with yet another blizzard, I was off in sunny Atlanta battling a stomach bug visiting friends battling stomach bugs with friends.  News that my laid-back un-anxious husband had rushed our youngest to the emergency room with a high fever did nothing to help settle my stomach.

It was not exactly a jolly holiday with Mary.

But by the time I returned my daughter’s fever was under control and the snow, which remained firmly frozen over last year’s garden plot,

was melted completely away from the newly selected southern spot.  So I took a teaspoon of sugar to help the medicine go down, then I hit the dirt.

I planted snap peas, spinach. lettuce and onions in the lusciously warm soil outside.  Then I started the broccoli, chard, tomatoes and eggplant in a cozy nook in our dining room.

Maybe Dave had harbored ideas of lounging around, maybe he even wanted to go fly a kite, but instead he hunkered down to constructing the frame for our new plot.

Meanwhile the girls declared it officially picnic weather.  They swept the snow to the ground and snacked in the sun.

It would be hours before we trekked down to Denver to see the musical Mary Poppins (what? you didn’t catch the theme?)

Yet the feel of fresh dirt was warm in my hands.  Soon, so soon, we’d have fresh vegetables.

The girls laughed as they danced from snow pile to swing set.

My handsome hard-working husband hammered happily.

I’m a lucky lady.

It was a perfect day.

And I felt positively supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

Stupid March

daphne on March 14, 2010

This was yesterday.

The sun was shining on my hard-working husband as he measured out the twine. It’s all going according to plan…that is, our grand plan for square foot gardening in our brand new sun drenched garden plot.

Isn’t that a sight for hyper-organize, Type-A eyes?   All orderly and grid-like and ready for methodical planting that will result in plentiful vegetables for our happy homestead.

Here, in our new southern backyard locale, the sun warms the soil for long stretches of time; this is where the magic will occur. Here, tomatoes will swell to globes of obscene size and cucumbers will twirl up a hand-wrought trellis and squash will at last feel free to fornicate do what it takes to make little squashies.

I sat in the dirt and let the sun drip its Vitamin D all over my pale self while overseeing the work over at Fairy Village.  They were receiving a much anticipated upgrade over by the dwindling snow bank–

All was good.

The birds were singing.

Even the garlic poked up a tentative scape to greet the Spring.

The children were frolicking and the garden was brimming with promise.

I was warm.

I was happy.

Today, it is snowing.

Stupid March.

Highlanders Make Great Friends

daphne on March 9, 2010

I’m having one of those days.

Actually, it’s been a few days but who’s counting.

No matter how fast I spill my wheels I can’t get out of the mud.

The mud here being work and kids and meals and gardens and field trip slips and summer plans and exercise and homework, never mind my poor neglected novel sitting in a dusty corner crying itself to sleep at night.

I’m running in circles.

There is smoke coming out of my ears.

Even my loving family would probably tell you I’ve been a tad on the cranky side.

I’ve duct-taped my head on so I won’t lose it, but everything else is getting away from me.

I could scream.

I could tear my hair out.

But I’m a grown-up.  I’m holding it together.  Besides, if I’m down and troubled and I need a helping hand at least I can lean on my new friend.

This is my new friend–

Isn’t he gorgeous?  I’m in love but we’ve agreed that it’s best for us to just be friends, what with all the prejudice against inter-species dating these days.

I’m pretty sure his name is Herbert.  He’s a grass-fed Highlander who lives far, far away at Nectar Hills Farm in New York.

And I love him.

I Pledge, Well Kind of

daphne on March 1, 2010

You bet I accepted the Huffington Post’s Week of Eating In Challenge. I’m all in.  Shine that spotlight on homemade meals and watch me frugally budget.  Who knows? All that money I’m saving could add up to bags of gold that will allow me, some day, to bid adieu to my aging appliances and rip out the Formica that callously imprisons my kitchen in the late 1970s.

Pledge-smedge, bring it on.

We eat in all the time anyway and what a perfect excuse to try out new recipes and yippee for family cohesion and what? What’s that you say? It’s this week? Oh no that simply won’t do.  This is the week of my 40th birthday and I’ve got visitors in town and lunch dates and hey, BACK OFF!  I’m pretty sure that everyone out there in pledgeville would agree that no one should have to cook dinner on her 40th birthday.

How about this?  I’ll gladly pledge you Tuesday for a birthday dinner today?  Just this week, that’s all I’m asking and then I promise I will cook at home from here to eternity.

I can say this with conviction, because based on my incredible haul of birthday loot I know that there is an awful lot of cooking in my future.

It’s awesome, isn’t it? My gorgeous cherry red Kitchen-Aid surrounded by the best books in the biz. I can’t wait to start flinging flour.

Rest assured I am going to spend hours gleaming expert advice from these legendary cookbooks.  I will create masterpieces that will have eaters in tears.  Already I have visions of Crepes Suzette dancing in my delusional head.

But I have to tell you, despite thousands of pages of beautifully detailed recipes, the advice that captured my loins attention came not from a renowned book nor from a celebrity chef.

No, one voice stood out from the crowd.  His beautiful, naked request really spoke to me.  Grabbed me in that visceral sort of way. (Visceral sort of way = passionately around the waist as the sun set over the waving wheat and he easily hoisted me up onto the saddle and steadied me with one bronzed arm as he steered the steed towards the nearest haystack.)

Now that I am older and wiser I understand why, as some women age, they seek to make changes.  Some take up knitting.  Some go blond.

In honor of my 40th birthday I have officially changed my name.

Call me Biscuit.

Teach the children well

daphne on February 23, 2010

Recently I participated in a conference call with Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack.  By participated I mean that I told him a thing or two about feeding our nation’s children and doing right by our schools.  Either that, or I listened quietly and jotted down a note or two.  It’s kind of hard to remember.

The call centered around Michelle Obama’s campaign to end childhood obesity and the possible role that the FDA might play, particularly with regard to school lunches.  If you don’t have kids in public school you may not know that current lunches are almost as nutritious as chocolate coated bike tires.

We’re gearing up for a change.  But it’s going to cost money.  And it’s going to ruffle feathers.

I know this because our district got a jump start on this by hiring Renegade Lunch Lady Ann Cooper to remake the face of lunch in Boulder County Schools.  She is clearing out the high fructose corn syrup and the chemically constructed chicken nuggets.  She is offering fresh fruits and vegetables and locally sourced hormone-free milk.

Inconceivably, it’s got some folks really upset. Grown-up folks.

It’s mind boggling to me, because surely they love their kids.  And I know that they want what’s best.  And yet they are stomping their feet because someone took away their chocolate milk?

We want our kids to be healthy. To grow strong. To have every opportunity to learn.  So why are we sitting back and watching as their brain cells are taxed with highly processed foods? How can we challenge teachers to feed their minds when we’re not doing our best to nourish their bodies?

Why are we okay with this?  Other countries aren’t.  Other countries have stepped up and said no to things like hormones and antibiotics in their food.  They aren’t thinking about chocolate milk.  They are planning for the future.

It’s high time we take some steps towards ours.

I’m glad the schools are putting the brakes on shoveling bad stuff into our kids.  Now we need to start figuring out our food.  What’s in that snack we throw into their backpacks each morning?  We need to know, because then we can help our kids make smart choices.

We’re the grown-ups here;  if we don’t sell it there’s no way the kids are buying.