Back … to the Future

daphne on November 17, 2010

Weee’re baaack.

And by back I mean that we have jetted right out of the 1970s and landed smack dab here in the future.

And by “we” I am clearly not referring to these jokers

These jokers love the good old days.  These jokers would never bid adieu to School House Rock, not for all the counter space in China.

Well, maybe for all the counter space in China.

Do you have any idea what one can do with all the counter space in China?  I don’t want to brag but it is now completely possible for me to lay out not one, not two, but four slices of bread side-by-side and wham bam pass the jam, sandwiches are made and packed up in so many elementary school lunch boxes.

Just like that.

It’s exciting.

It’s liberating.

It’s enough to make one walk away from the hustle with nary a backwards glance.

Okay, so a couple of us may have had a backwards glance.  And who could blame them? They were blinded by the gilded treasure hidden right beneath their very own kitchen floor.

Why yes that IS golden medallion linoleum. I know, it’s special, and yet still I dishonored it by ripping it up and tossing it out faster than you could Rock Down to Electric Avenue.

Luckily my lapse of judgment was quickly overlooked.  All it took was the suggestion that the fashionistas themselves were of age to create a masterpiece or two in the futuristic kitchen and they were off, forgiving and mixing and

leaving me on my own to say farewell to the groovy, neat-o and peachy keen stuff of decades past, while I bravely dip a finger into the chocolate pudding of the future.

(click here for the recipe for the girls’ yummy from-scratch chocolate pudding)

Gone Fishin’

daphne on June 7, 2010

The Greener Biener Takes A Break

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.

Time keeps on ticking, alas

daphne on May 31, 2010

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.

Put That Thing Away

daphne on May 17, 2010

I’ve got girls, so it’s not too surprising that I’d be confounded by the abject masculinity surrounding me these days.  Still, I figured that having five nephews kind of qualified me to manage males.

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.

He’s Not Huntin’ Wabbits

daphne on May 10, 2010

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?

Hello? Can I get some Raindrops on Roses over here?

daphne on May 3, 2010

After the week we’ve had here, I could do with some raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens, or perhaps a tutti fruity tropical beverage with a pink umbrella on top.

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.

The Birds, The Bees and The Booty Shake-Shake

daphne on April 25, 2010

I’ve got a bone to pick with a particularly heated humpback whale. Or maybe it’s that mudskipper’s fault. I don’t really know who’s to blame but my first grader has picked up an alarming new habit and she didn’t get it from me.

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.

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.