I’ll miss you dear readers,

It’s for you that I write

But the call of the wild (that is, my backyard)

Is too strong to fight

Schools out for summer

I’ve cut back on house cleaning

Yet my time packs right up

With picnic-making and sun-screening

And there are weeds that need weeding

And ice cream to eat

And bikes that need riding

And filthy bare-feet

The children are clamoring

Long forgotten is school

They run through the sprinklers

And jump in the pool

Between following the kiddos

And watering the plants

When it comes time for typing

I’m finding…I can’t

But I’ll be back soon

With stories for sowing

‘Til then, Happy Summer

And to all some good growing

**** As always, thanks for reading.  The Greener Biener is taking a sabbatical, but I’ll be adding garden updates from time to time to chronicle the progress of our home-grown veggies.

Hope to see you again in the fall.

I’m sure you’d agree that it takes some serious mama skills to hit the bottom of the peanut butter jar on the very last day of school.

Timing is everything.

The kids wondered why I was chronicling my morning sandwich making.  They should have been wondering how their strawberries were going to taste doused in a thick layer of my tears.

I was teary-eyed because although my timing peanut-butter-wise has proven impeccable, I have yet to figure out how to halt the ridiculous sprint of time that puts my babies into this space aged time capsule –

and spits them back to me as a 2nd and 4th graders.  I am not ready.   I practically just graduated from high school myself.  It’s simply not possible that I am old enough to have such big kids.

As if to prove the calendar right, the girls went and sealed the deal–

Kira donated 8 1.2 inches of her long flowing locks, transforming herself from this young innocent,

Into this sassy thing

One look at her sister’s cool new look was more than enough, and soon Acadia was hopping up into that chair.

Time keeps on ticking into the future, and those dang seasons, they keep going round and round and I swear there is just one thing that is keeping me from singing folk tunes as I sob into my coffee and that’s this –

Flax. Flax makes me happy.  The color is so deep and purple blue that it can actually hold back the hands of time and freeze my babies at this absolutely delightful stage.

Flowers have loads of medicinal qualities.  Time manipulation is merely one of many.

The message I’m getting from the universe: think otherwise.

Take, for example, my rhubarb.  Up until recently it was such a well behaved plant.  And then he pulled his thing out, right there in the middle of my family-friendly garden.

I told him to put it away. He upped the ant, and went all Rhubarb-Gone-Wild on me –

And the phallus phenomena is spreading.  All I wanted to do was prepare some locally raised organic chicken for dinner.  I’m no prude, yet something about this boasting roaster gave me pause. I can only imagine how he ruled the coop.

I hoped my nephews would help me out.  Surely my own little panel of experts had some insight into males running amok in the natural world.

It’s not pretty, but I will share what I learned.  My source is one of the following fellows:

To protect the innocent I won’t divulge if it was this guy:

Or this guy–

Or this guy –

Or this guy–

Or this one –

But I well tell you that the tidbit said nephew shared did shed some light on the wild bachelors and their love of living it up in the great outdoors:

Nephew:  Oh no Aunt Daphne. You don’t have to use the bathroom.  Do you know why?

Me (kind of hopping up and down): Why?

Nephew:  At my house we get to pee outside.  In the backyard.

Me:  Um…

Nephew:  That’s why my house is lots more fun.  Because boys really like to pee outside.  Want to go outside now?

Me: Um…

I don’t have much to say about boys and their aversion to indoor plumbing, but I do know what I’m going to do about that rambunctious rhubarb.

And it has everything to do with raspberry crisp.

]]> http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/05/put-that-thing-away/feed/ 7 http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/05/hes-huntin-wabbits/ http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/05/hes-huntin-wabbits/#comments Mon, 10 May 2010 14:17:15 +0000 daphne http://www.greenerbiener.com/?p=3918 What is our caped crusader up to this time?

I’ll give you a hint:  There are no wabbits on that rooftop.  But he is after something….

I know.  All super-hereos have their kryptonite, why should mine be any different?

He has a nemesis–

Do not be fooled by the banal laugh and bright feathers.  This evil bird haunts us;  every spring, sure as the unwanted snows cover the tulips,  woodpecker arrives on our roof in the pre-dawn hours to pound away like a jack-hammer on acid in hopes of attracting a mate.

He must go.  The squirrels and the robins are our friends.  But this early morning wake up call simply won’t do.

We’ve discussed my husband’s single minded dedication to triumph over the woodpecker here before.  He’s out to get that bird.  And I am totally on board.  If I were any more supportive I’d be a bra.

It’s just that there is already a pretty impressive arsenal awaiting our fine feathered friend.  Our roof currently sports a large mirror, a duct-taped reinforced line of nails, and now this –

Yup.  It’s patriotic. It’s plastic.  It spins in the wind.   And our house is officially that house.  Sorry, neighbors.  And here you were so supportive of the whole bug-selling venture.

Meanwhile, down here on the ground–

That snow was so 2 days ago.  This weekend Mother’s Day brought sunshine and daisy-chains.  Head over to Digging in the Dirt to see The World’s Longest Dandelion Chain and other garden updates.

Spoiler alert — you’ll find this Gardener’s Challenge.  Tell me, please, what on earth has gotten my rhubarb so excited?

Everything was going along swimmingly.

Our trees, lush and pink and beautiful, burst into bloom right on schedule.

And then it snowed.

Which was fine. I can roll with it. The season doesn’t want to move on, kind of like those guys who are all that in high school but then they stick around too long and go from cool to creepy.  The lettuce, however, took issue with the creep.

And hey, wow, where does the time go?  Had an entire month really passed without a visit to  the ER?  That simply won’t do, so off we ran to log some scary time there with our nine year old.  Truth be told I’m over this record breaking streak of emergency room visits.   Though I think all I need is one punch more in my frequent flier card to be eligible for that free boob job.

Oh yes, and another bone up and broke in my stupid foot.  Let’s just say turning 40 and jumping rope don’t exactly go hand in hand.

No worries.  I can deal.  I mean, the snow did eventually stop falling, and we’ll replant the lettuce as soon as it warms up again.  At least no driving means no carpool duty for a whole 3-4 weeks.  Someone pass me the bon-bons.

You see, all good.  We’ve got hail on tulips instead of raindrops on roses, but I’m not one to complain.  After all, I’ve got nephews in overalls,

And girls with red tulips–

Blooms persevering,

And a bustling new business.

Well, these are actually the brains of the operation–

With the snow melting away and mom laid up and out of the way, they decided to embark on an ambitious bug selling venture.  If consulted I probably would have pointed out the flaws in their business plan so it’s best that I was left to hobble around unobtrusively.

Good thing too.  Out they went, up and down the street with a tupperware o’ bugs, and back they came with 70 cents clutched in their filthy, bug-germy entrepreneurial little hands.

Baths?  They don’t need no stinkin’ baths.  That stench is merely the smell of success.

Maybe it’s the season.  Something in the air.

I know I just got through saying that this season was all about jumping rope, but perhaps I was hasty.  Even jumprope can’t trump that sense of er, love in the air.

Well, love.  Or mating.  Something like that.

I’ve got one kid happily engrossed in setting Abba tunes to spinning ropes–

And another who can’t stop talking about mating rituals…yours, mine, the cows, the birds…you name it, we’re discussing it.  And it’s all thanks to the incredible imagery in LIFE, the picturesque if slightly randy Discovery Channel documentary.

We were fascinated to learn the extent that some bird fellas will go to lure a pretty lady to his nest.   And thrilled, of course, that the kids finally have the down-low on the snuggling habits of cuttlefish.

But what my nine year old really needed to know was this:

So what did you do to attract your mate, Mom?

While I frantically tried to drum up an answer that didn’t include vodka shots or shimmying in dimly lit bars, her little sister stepped forward to field the question for me.

“I know how people attract a mate,” she boasted to her naive sibling. “Booty shaking.”

And her money-maker’s been in motion ever since.

Before you get suckered in by any cute thoughts about this dancing queen, I should confess:  This shake-shake routine goes out with a bang.  And by bang I mean a slap;  a playful slap executed upon her own unexpectedly and abruptly exposed shaking booty.

I am so proud, so proud you see.

Or mortified.  I get those two emotions mixed up.

Either way, thanks a bunch, natural world.  Sure, you’re educational, but I’m not really on board with the downward direction in which you’re dragging my little darling.

‘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.

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–

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.

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.

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.

]]> http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/03/aquariums-are-for-posers/feed/ 7 http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/03/stupid-march/ http://www.greenerbiener.com/2010/03/stupid-march/#comments Sun, 14 Mar 2010 20:57:12 +0000 daphne http://www.greenerbiener.com/?p=3531 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.

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.

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.

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.