Thoughts for the New Year

Hello, Reader. What are you doing today?

Here in the Peninsula Town, we are cleaning the good ship Rack 'Em and Stack 'Em. Husband is swabbing the decks. I'm tending to the galley (although, obviously, I've just snuck off to write this post), and the cabin boys and girl have been ordered to tidy their quarters. Aye, aye, sir!

The close intersection of our big cleaning day and the turn of the year reminds me of something Jane Hirshfield spoke of at the reading I attended earlier this fall. She told the audience that each year at New Year's she cleans, or attempts to clean, every surface and object in her house. As she explained it, this is an annual ritual observed by Buddhists. She said that, although she has been doing this for many years, each year she always finds something that she has never cleaned before.

I find this idea fascinating: just to touch each and every surface and object that form the space one calls home... and to find places, spaces, things, that one has never touched... and then, to touch them for the first time.

I imagine that within the context of a healthy dose of Buddhist detachment, this ritual cleaning is very life-giving. However, trust me: here at the good ship Rack 'Em and Stack 'Em, under the overhang of Catholic guilt, we are attempting no such feat.

Still, I have ritual on the mind. Ritual, perhaps from the Proto-Indo-European re(i), "to count, number" via the Latin for rite, "religious observance or ceremony, custom, usage."

The holidays are rife with ritual. Even now the masses are going through the ritual contemplation of New Year's resolutions, no? Well, not me. I'm not much one for resolutions this year -- probably because of the way all my best-laid plans and goals for 2011 were cleansed away by Moving to California. This year, I'm thinking: I might exercise more, or I might not. I might eat more veggies, or I might not. I might put a chapbook together, or I might not (I pause here to offer extra credit for anyone who can tell me where this phrase comes from: "Might go to Yale. Might not.") As for New Year's rituals, we don't have any hard and fast ones around here. Sometimes we cook a nice dinner, then the kids complain about it and hardly eat, then we all go to bed. Sometimes not.

As I look to 2012, I'm thinking only

persist

natural bridge at Santa Cruz

shape and be shaped

pacific beach

stay on your path, the one you were made for

Skyline hike

keep things in perspective

redwoods

And, although I don't have a photo of it, the sign I caught sight of at a coffeeshop I drove by yesterday (and although I just had to get up from my desk, go into my bedroom, and lock the door to get it, and although someone has been hanging on that locked door crying "Mommeeeeee! Mommeeee! Mommeeeee!" for the last 10 minutes),


relax, you have plenty of time


Happy 2012, Reader.

(P.S. etymology info here)

Sabbatical Report: Week Two

Dear Reader, I am almost through week two of my sabbatical. I continue to congratulate myself for taking it. Slowly, I have chipped away at the theoretical to-do list (I say 'theoretical' because currently the to-do list is housed on a bazillion little post-it notes here and there throughout my house, purse, and devices). Every day I have put up my feet, closed my eyes, and listened to this song:



I highly recommend it as a short but effective meditation for mid-day. Go ahead, close your eyes and take a listen. I'll wait.

So, sabbatical-wise, here's what I've learned:

(1) I put way too much pressure on myself to be writing all the time, when really, I can't write all the time, and shouldn't. When I go back to my desk in January, I hope I can do it with a more helpful mindset -- one of gentle acceptance for the rolls and swells of life, rather than the mad paddling toward shore of writing time.

(2) I'm reminded that, although it's not fashionable to admit this, I really love my role as home-tender. When I was in school, we girls were always told we could do anything, we could have it all (sidebar: I wonder if they are still telling young girls that, or are we in a post-feminist frame of mind now?). But the 'anything' never included domestic pursuits; it was more oriented toward space exploration, political power, and the like. And an important caveat was left off of "You can have it all." They should've followed up with, "But not all at the same time." Sometimes it feels like our society has forgotten the value of a comfy little place called home. Although it can sometimes be tedious and repetitive -- three meals a day EVERY DAY! -- I feel good about creating a peaceful place for my family to be, a little hub in the wide, wide world. I feel so lucky to be doing what I'm doing. I don't want to be an astronaut, or run for president.

But I do want to be a poet, and I look forward to returning to my desk with renewed energy in January. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to close my eyes and listen to the Miserere. Then I'm going to get dinner ready with my kids.

On Sabbatical

sabbatical  n.  a break or change from a normal routine (as of employment); from the Hebrew shabath "he rested"

A little voice inside, known in these parts as intuition, has been whispering sabbatical to me. My right brain -- librarian that she is -- has scoffed at the voice: "Absolutely not! You must keep writing poems!" My left brain -- creative wild child -- is giving the voice a double thumbs-up and saying "Groovy, man." I'm going with my left brain, and with intuition.

In the Catholic church, and in many other religious traditions, we are amidst a time of joyful waiting called Advent. I love Advent, except for the reality that most years it's more a time of stressful hurrying -- not joyful waiting -- as I attempt to cram a bazillion extra tasks into days and weeks that are already full. As I've learned over and over again in this life, if something isn't working well there's usually something one can do to change it. Enter: the little voice.

So I've decided (or intuited) to take a wee sabbatical from drafting poems for the rest of this month. I plan to keep reading and learning from good poetry, submitting at least once a week, and revising the Mail Order Bride series. I'll still be here blogging. But I'm giving myself a break on generating new work.

That breezy, rushing sound you hear is me exhaling. Until I came to the idea of a sabbatical, I didn't realize how much pressure the Librarian puts on the Wild Child to produce!produce!produce! I'm a little nervous that I'll lose my momentum, and the Librarian would like me to believe that if I take a break now I'll never get back into a good drafting groove again. She's a little hyperbolic.

Dear Librarian, I appreciate your role in my life, but I want to make cookies with my children, make my house fair as I am able, trim the hearth, and set the table. I want to take walks in the morning, sit down in the afternoon to put my feet up, and click a few things off my holiday to-do list every day. I want to avoid another Speechless Wednesday.

Let the joyful waiting begin... 

Overdue Gratitude: Domesticity Edition

Don't know what this is? Consider yourself lucky.

Today is Thankful Thursday, and although gratitude is my constant companion, it has been a while since I've written about it here.

Today there is a weather warning in our area. I mean a "special weather statement." It states:

... A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER IS IN STORE FOR THE DISTRICT...

AFTER SEVERAL WARM AND DRY DAYS THE WEATHER WILL BE CHANGING ACROSS NORTHERN AND CENTRAL CALIFORNIA AS THE FIRST IN A SERIES OF PACIFIC COLD FRONTS MOVES ONSHORE THURSDAY.

Reader, they use the term 'cold' loosely out here, but the wind is gusting, the temps are falling, and the hulking grey cloud bank over the Santa Cruz tells me this ocean means business. So today, I am grateful to have a roof over my head, sturdy walls between me and the wind, and the furnace as a last resort (tempting, but I haven't turned it on yet).

And I am grateful for my mom who, although I didn't realize it at the time, taught me how to run a household, how to cook healthy meals, and that a house isn't made into a home by accident, but by intention. And now, the list of planned meals for the week, the pot of beans soaking for soup, the hum of the dryer, the ability to make dinner, kiss a scraped elbow, and drill someone on their math facts all at the same time -- all such a comfort to me. I confess, I think I learned from the best. Thanks, Mom.

I am grateful for all the tools we have in these modern times that make keeping house so much easier than it once was. Hello, washer and dryer, dishwasher, oven, coffee pot that automatically turns itself on ten minutes before I wake up, you guys are the best! Vacuum, I like you, too, but not as much as I like Broom (I confess, it's true).  Also, Lids-off, I was hoping not to meet you until I was much, much older, but thanks for opening the pizza sauce for the kids' lunch today.

I am grateful for learning, albeit the hard way (chronic illness and the standard-lowering but adorable third child) to lower my standards in the housekeeping department. To resort to store-bought pizza sauce once in a while. To step over the piles of laundry between me and my writing desk. To concoct a not-quite-dinner out of almost nothing. To sleep in instead of putting the laundry away......... again.

Also, front porch, you are the best place for en plein air art projects, and Sister and I love you for that.

And, Whole Paycheck, I mean Whole Foods, thank you for your two-fer on roasted chickens every week. One for dinner, one for the freezer. I am not afraid to say you roast chickens better than I do.

Did you know that the average food stamps recipient has to feed him/herself  and his/her family on about $4.00 per person per day? I am so grateful not to have to worry about how I'm going to feed my kids tonight. I am so grateful that my kids have never gone to bed hungry.

For having learned delayed gratification. For resisting the temptation to play hooky on my household responsibilities today. For knowing, knowing that our weekend would be stressful if I did. For waiting until tomorrow to have a day at my desk (.....oh...... it hurt, Reader, it did).

Yes, for all things domestic: for windows, house keys, rugs, lamps, bookshelves, a warm bed, hot water on demand; for delightfully comfortable beds, flannel sheets; for clean, dry towels; for a kitchen table taking on the patina of hard use; for hungry children who need to eat every time I turn around; for being the CEO of this small enterprise called Family; for all this, I am grateful indeed.

Rack 'Em and Stack 'Em!

Way long time ago (in my life, this means "before the kids were born"), Husband and I were watching a home decorating show. Don't ask me why. We obviously had time to kill. At any rate, this show was interesting because it was devoted to resolving differences of opinion between spouses/partners on how to decorate their home. This episode featured a couple who couldn't agree on how to configure their guest room. They wanted to have room for their four grandchildren to sleep over; they also wanted to be able to use the room for other purposes (perhaps as a den or office? I can't remember) when it was just the two of them.

The husband wanted to "rack 'em and stack 'em!" -- in other words, he thought bunk beds were the obvious answer. The wife preferred the day-bed-with-trundle-plus-Murphy-bed approach. The husband must've said "rack 'em and stack 'em!" fifty times in the half-hour segment.

Later in life, when Husband and I had a several things, not the least of which were children, to rack and stack, we took to calling out to each other "rack 'em and stack em!" Yes, we find humor wherever we can.

At any rate, I'm thinking of rechristening our little house the  Rack 'Em and Stack 'Em House. Because of the shortage of space here, there are many, many things which are put away on top of other things, which are put away upon other things, which are in turn put away on top... well, you get the idea. If Anyone (I won't name names) decides to, say, rearrange the fragile system of racking and stacking, we end up without a place for certain crucial objects. Such as the coffee mugs. Or the T.P.

I decided last week I need to take a similar, rack 'em and stack 'em approach to my writing life. In other words, I need to find a stack of hours for writing, and a stack of hours for other stuff like being a mom and running a household. If I don't keep the stacks separate, if I don't arrange them just right, then something loses its spot. And, of course, writing is always the thing that gets muscled out of the stacks of time.

So, starting this week, I started racking and stacking. I started three dinners on Sunday, so I wouldn't need to spend as much time in the kitchen during the week. I set aside a stack of mornings as work days. Yes, work days. I have actually spoken these words: "I can't do it on Tuesday because I work that day." I've stacked up my errands and household duties for attention on other days, at other times. This probably seems like no big deal to many of you who have been balancing work and home responsibilities for years, but since I have just recently entered the phase when parenthood doesn't require my constant attention, I am learning it anew.

In keeping with the rack 'em and stack 'em approach to life, today I took a good look at all my recent work, everything in my "Active" file. The poems I feel excited and hopeful about, I left in the "Active" stack; other poems, ones I don't really feel much energy for, I put into the "On Hold" stack; a few poems went in the "Submit" stack; several had the chance to meet the shit-can (sorry, Mom! but sometimes only the right word will do).

I've been walking around my house today proclaiming, "Rack 'em and stack em! Rack 'em and stack 'em." It feels good.

(P.S. For a beautiful reflection on the integration of writing life and family life, read Sage Cohen's post today.)

(P.S. Again: !!!WARNING!!! In case anyone in the readership (all 3 of you) is considering the wisdom of the rack 'em and stack 'em approach to sleeping arrangements, let me say this: DON'T DO IT. In another small house of mine, I was persuaded by Someone (I won't name names) to bring into our home a loft bed, which is the bunk bed's poor country cousin. Said Someone, "Rack 'em and stack 'em!" The loft bed was very annoying but minimally workable until I got sick, after which there was no earthly way for me to change the sheets when Someone was traveling for work. I pause here to remember the spectacle of my friend, the big shot lawyer, changing the loft bed while wearing a three-piece suit. Let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. Keep the beds low to the ground, Reader, low to the ground).

Confession Saturday: Cross-Country Move Edition

I confess, I'm drinkin' out of a fire hose.

This is what my big brother used to say to me every time I asked him how he was during his grad school years. Me: How are you? Him: I'm drinkin' out of a fire hose. I thought I was drinkin' out of a fire hose during grad school, too -- two jobs and full-time school. I confess, I had no idea.

I confess, I have committed ZERO acts of literature in the last two weeks. Unless you count getting lost late at  night in Wuthering Heights and The Deep End of the Ocean. Perhaps it's a little strange that my old reliable escape-into novels are, well, utterly heartbreaking. But it works for me.

Even though I truly believe everything with the move will work out fine, and that we will find happiness and abundant life in California, my body doesn't believe it. I confess, I haven't eaten or slept very well since the news came down from on high. I confess, Advil PM is my new best friend. Ensure Plus is my old arch nemesis, but I've resigned myself to it for now.

As usual, all my favorite people in the world are rushing to my side to help. Those near are stripping some very-80s wallpaper, replacing cupboard pulls, and hanging pictures. Those far are sending their good thoughts and words of support. My parents have come from far to near to do all sorts of helpful things. I confess, I have the best friends and relations.

I confess, I'm getting pretty good at getting houses ready to sell. Lots of practice recently. I confess, I'm afraid to jinx anything, but let me just say I could live without this little song and dance for a good long time after this go-round.

I confess, I miss poetry right now. I know it will be waiting for me when I can get back to my desk. Which has been moved downstairs at the stager's directions. Sigh.

I confess, when people ask me how I'm doing, all I can think of is the bookmark my BFF gave me a million years ago. It says:

Oh, I'm fine.
Just fine.
Perfectly fine.


Really.
I'm fine.


Fine.


(Really, I am!)

I confess, I've missed my bloggy-life during all the hubbub. I'll be around as often as I can until the fire hose turns off.

Wordless Wednesday: Love-Hate Relationship

Gratitude Journal: Turning of the Year Edition

Over at Drew's blog, it's Thankful Thursday.  Every Thursday, she (and others) take a few minutes to think about and share what they're thankful for.  I am a big fan of taking time to step off the hamster wheel to focus on the small and not-so-small blessings in life.  Here's what I'm grateful for today:

~For my new mailbox, built by my dad and installed last weekend by my dad and Husband.  Our old one was leaning, leaning, leaning down into the street.  A little more lean each month.  Also, it had a bad habit of hanging around with its mouth wide open.  Couldn't seem to keep it closed.  The new mailbox is handsome and sturdy and keeps its mouth closed when it should, just like the men who built and installed it.  It makes my house feel a little more like my house.  Thanks, Pop.

~For comfortable shoes.  For shoes that are so comfortable, they all but erase my completely irrational longing for ballet flats that work for arthritic feet.

~For absentee ballots.  And actual ballots.  For secret ballots.  For the voting machine in Sidney Township where I first voted.  For the memory of pulling all those little levers down.  For the freedom to say, this one, not that one, this one, not that one.  For the (sometimes cold) comfort of freedom and the power of one vote, even when things don't turn out the way you hoped they would.

~For the silvering beauty of November.  For prairie grasses in their feathery prime.  For gunmetal grey clouds.  For the bent and wretched beauty of the bare oak tree.  For sunset at 4:52 p.m.  For a time of year that tells us to stop, look around, find beauty in sparseness and in waiting.

~For almost forgetting to put the marjoram in the split pea soup, and then NOT forgetting to put the marjoram in the split pea soup.  For split pea soup.  For the fact that everyone in my family likes split pea soup.  For an enormous honeycrisp apple from King's to serve with the split pea soup (Hello, easy side dish.  And while I'm on the topic, for all easy side dishes including: grapes, canned pineapple, canned mandarin oranges, olives, pickles, applesauce, cottage cheese, baby carrots, and sliced cucumber.  But I digress).

~For my heated mattress pad.  For central heat, warm socks, and a polarfleece bathrobe.  Yes, for warmth.

~For full moons, crescent moons, Harvest moons and Hunter's moons.  For waxing and waning moons.  For Jupiter, southwest of the moon.  Also, for Orion hanging low in the sky, bidding us goodbye for the winter.

~For every single day with my kids.  Amen, amen, amen.

I hope there are many small and not-so-small things that you are grateful for today.

Florence Nightingale, Reporting for Duty

Or not.

Husband doesn't make too many appearances here at Both Fires.  That's because I don't feel it's fair to thrust him into the blogosphere just because he happens to be married to me.  But I will tell you that he had knee surgery this week, and thus, I have been a little short on a few things.  Namely: sleep, time, and words.

I must admit that I'm no Florence Nightingale.  Did you know she was called "The Lady with the Lamp" because she, ever vigilant, would make the rounds even at night?

Here's what I do at night:  write out a post-it note with times and medications, and tell Husband to set an alarm.

Then again, he is no injured Crimean War soldier.

At any rate, we are limping along here in South-of-the-River, getting ready for school to start for the three lovelies next week, and enjoying the first weekend of college football games (a little plug for my team:  Go Irish!  Beat Boilermakers!).  The weather is cool and autumnal.  All of this is channeling my Inner Planner, and I'm jotting down notes in pencil so that I have the family schedule set for the start of school.  And then I'm using a Sharpie in ALL CAPS to schedule my WRITING TIME for the fall.  Husband has been duly informed that We will not be scheduling physical therapy during Our writing time.  Ahem.

Reader, I am wishing you the best of all things September (if there are any Michiganders out there reading, eat a few Paula Reds for me).  Soon I will be back here having had more sleep, more time for writing, and with some more words about what I'm reading, ch-ch-ch-ch-changes in my writing life, and other general musings.

(P.S. Vintage Red Cross postcard is public domain from the Nurse Entrepreneurs Network online collection of vintage nursing postcards)

UNCLE!

Ok, well..... not quite. But I feel just about ready to cry "Uncle!" under the proverbial pin of NaPoWriMo.

Reader, I'm behind. At least three days behind, I think. Perhaps a poem a day is just too much for the Mom Trying to Write? Especially when she is also taking a Poetry By Firehose class, having company, and getting ready to teach Tanka poems in second grade on Friday? (I won't even mention first communion, baseball, and scouts. Well, okay...... I will). And, yes, running out of toilet paper, as we always do when Mommy Is Writing. Really, I would love to try just running out of milk for a change.

This morning I thought I would just give up and be happy enough with writing fifteen or even just ten poems in April. But then I visited a few blogs of poets who are writing a poem a day. And then I saw the e-mail from my friend, Ms. W-K, who is a high school English teacher, a mom of two, and a NaPoWriMo poet. And I decided I wouldn't throw in the towel just yet. I am channeling the energy and creativity of all the people out there furiously writing a poem a day. On May first, I think I'll feel like I imagine super-healthy people feel when they do one of those cleansing diets -- liquids only for a week, then no food for a while -- to clear out toxins and such. Well, I could *never* do that; but I will keep trying to scratch out a poem a day for April if it kills me. Here's today's effort two days late:

--this draft has been removed--

The First Week of Peace

Last week in this post I wrote about my plans to make Spreading Peace my Lenten observance this year. Here's what I can say one week into the endeavor:

--Focusing on peace has helped me to feel more peaceful (I haven't taken any polls on how others under our roof have experienced the past week). Taking a moment to breathe deeply and to remind myself, I am bringing peace to this moment, has helped a great deal. Whether managing an obstructionist 4 year old, or slamming on my brakes behind the person who is texting while driving and just cut me off on the expressway, I have found that I can be more patient and forgiving if I just focus. As usual, it seems when we try to do something good for the world, we end up doing something good for ourselves.

--Getting enough sleep has made a huge difference. File this under Things Molly Has Had to Learn Over and Over and Over Again. For the first several weeks of this calendar year, I was getting up very early (4:30) in order to carve out some writing time. The result was a tired, crabby mommy with a few mediocre poems. As I turned my attention to peace for Lent, I knew I had to recommit to getting enough rest. I have the luxury of getting at least eight hours most nights, and it feels wonderful. And, of course, I am less crabby and more patient because I am well-rested.

--A little advance work in the household planning department goes a long way (re: where to file this, see above). My own personal downfall is meal planning and grocery shopping. I hate doing it, so I tend to put it off until we're out of...... well.... everything. The result: stressful afternoons trying to pull together Something Decent for dinner; no milk for breakfast; no fruit in the fruit bowl; you know the drill. With a little more planning ahead, our afternoons have been less stressful and our larder more stocked. Peace-o-meter on the rise. (Important note to caregivers of children age 3 years and under: This bit does not apply to you. If you have children 3 and under in your house, plan all you want while the gods laugh. And laugh. And laugh.).

--Being honest about my needs has made me feel more peaceful. Carving out time to write during the daylight hours. Asking Husband for a night off in the kitchen. Asking the kids for a little peace and quiet (which, I know, is like asking a waterfall to stop flowing...... but sometimes even thirty seconds of peace and quiet while one tries to explain one's need for peace and quiet is enough).

--I have yelled less. Yahoo.

--I have started thinking about other things - things outside the realm of under-my-own-roof - that could make the world a more peaceful place. In particular, I have been thinking about how hard it is to feel peaceful when you are under-nourished. Because of the way my chronic illness affects my body's ability to absorb nutrition, I actually know what that feels like. I'll tell you something: when you're not getting enough nutrition you never feel quite safe or secure; it's easy to lose hope; and your brain doesn't work very well. Also, there is no light in your eyes (which is a corollary to: It's easy to lose hope). I wonder how much more peaceful the world would be if everyone had enough to eat? So, in my effort to spread more peace I'm going to be sending $10 more per month to our local food shelf. It's just a little something, but it's something.

Peace to you.

Benign Neglect

Does this desk look lonely?


















No? Well, who has been working at it?
Oh, the little creatures have been busy with Christmas ornaments and holiday cards.
Wait, wait -- is that a poem I see buried underneath?
Yes, it is, but it appears to be yellowing with age.





















Has someone been procrastinating about putting away laundry? Is that a suitcase I see buried underneath? One that hasn't been unpacked yet? Do you think it will get unpacked before next Wednesday when it will need to be packed again?




















What's for dinner? Oh, I see: yogurt and salsa.



















How about a glass of milk with that?




















Oh. Well, maybe there's more in the outside refrigerator.


















Ok. Maybe not. But, hey, there's a package of hot dog and four yogurts. That's another meal!

**

Reader, it's the most wonderful time of the year. The Season of Benign Neglect. I am embracing it fully. Beds are unmade, counters un-wiped, and laundry un-done. Refrigerators are empty. Mail and toys and tape and legos and tea sets and dolly clothes and toothbrushes and towels are piling up everywhere, and seem to be multiplying in the dark of the night. And my writing desk is very, very lonely.

But my shopping is FINISHED, we have plenty of toilet paper, and the kids are happy and healthy. Those three facts are unrelated, but I mention them because I am letting all the rest go for now, knowing everything else will be waiting for me come January (wait -- did I just throw in the towel for two whole weeks??).

I hope you are neglecting some things, too, so that you have time to enjoy the twinkle lights, the music, and the magic of the season. I wish you warm, cozy days and silent nights. Happy holidays!

Sunday Dinner

There were no complaints.

Eating Like a Farmer

We belong to a CSA (community supported agriculture) farm. This means that each spring we purchase a share, and every Thursday from mid-June to mid-October, around four o'clock in the afternoon, a box like this appears on the front doorstep. Usually I don't notice it until one of the kids sees it and hollers, "MOM, THE PRODUCE IS HERE!" And then the fun, and the work, begins.

In Michigan, where I grew up, we learn to "eat like farmers." Distilled to its most simple meaning, this means to eat what's in season while it's in season, and to somehow preserve what you can't eat. I still mark my summers according to what produce is ripe, even though I don't live close enough anymore to partake of much of it. We start with asparagus in late spring. Strawberries are next, mid-June. Then cherries; then blueberries right around my mom's birthday toward the end of July. Next we have apricots and plums. (For veggie fans, here also start the cukes, sweet corn, green beans, peppers, and tomatoes). In August, the peaches begin, and in September the earliest of apples begin and yield to the next variety and the next, on into October. At the beginning of each fruit's season, no one can get enough of it; by the end of its run, you almost feel like you never want to see another strawberry (or blueberry, or apricot) again. Until next year, that is.

When I was a girl, my mom, and sometimes the whole family, would pick and preserve produce throughout the summer. We would eat as much of it as we could fresh; the rest was "put up." Strawberries were made into jam. Blueberries were washed, frozen on baking sheets, the put into containers in the chest freezer to last for the year. Cherries were pitted and canned. Mom also canned tomatoes and beans, and made pickles. Some years, there was even peach jam (Indeed, I will never forget the time my little brother came into my fifth grade classroom to ask, "Do you have that peach crap on your sandwich, too?").

Now, as a the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer of the family, I appreciate how much work it takes to eat like farmers. My friend, M. (who buys a share from the same farm), and I sometimes commiserate about being behind on our produce. This morning I spent three and a half hours roasting beets, carmelizing onions, and washing greens. I still have some kale staring me in the face; it needs to be washed, chopped, and put in freezer bags (I add it to soups in fall and winter). Then there are the three enormous eggplants clamoring for my attention. And the five green peppers -- or is it six? Suffice it to say that even though stuffed peppers are nobody's favorite dinner around here, we will be having stuffed peppers one night this week. Oh, and the sweet corn that will go bad if it isn't used soon. Like yesterday. I admit it: I get tired working on my feet for hours in the kitchen to use our produce each week.

Not that I am complaining. The taste of farm-fresh produce is, to me, sublime. And in trying to use the produce each week, I feel a connection to generations of families who used to eat like farmers. Before the modern food preparation and delivery systems were in place, everybody had to. You just couldn't get a box of strawberries in December (and our family still doesn't. I admit it: I am a produce snob and I look down my nose at strawberries in December). I think of the generations of people who, if they wanted to fix chicken for dinner, had to go out and butcher the chicken for starters. I think of all the resourceful cooks who stretched every last inch out of every crop so that they would be able to feed their families throughout the year. And I also have a deep appreciation for the farmers of the world, and their families. If it takes a lot of planning and work to use what is grown on the farm, just think how much goes into raising the crops.

Nonetheless, it is always a bit of a relief for me when the last box of the year comes and goes. Then I don't have to work quite so hard to use everything up before it goes bad. Until then, we will continue to eat like farmers. And I will cook like crazy to make it happen............ oh, my achin' feet(!).

Confession Saturday

... by the skin of my teeth.

I confess:

Even though Husband was away all week on a business trip and didn't get home until late last night, I signed him up to take the kids to the dentist at 7:30 this morning. And I confess, it was lovely to eat my breakfast in peace. I confess, I ate cake (it's true) and yogurt with mangoes and strawberries. And almonds. And yes, hot coffee.

I have not put my clean laundry away in over a week.



















I buy specialty toothpaste for myself and I don't let anyone else use it. I confess, it costs about $5 per tube and I generally have two tubes going at once (variety is the spice of life). My favorite flavors are fennel and cinnamon-clove.

Even though we just moved into this house at the end of October, the drawers, cupboards, and closets already need to be cleaned out and reorganized.



















I confess (oh, this one is hard to admit), I have an aversion to playdates. For one thing, I don't like the word. It sounds too cutesy or something. I also don't like being a social secretary, so my kids hardly have any playdates unless another mom initiates it. And since I'm confessing here, I confess that I sometimes find it difficult to have extra kids in the house; three usually feels like plenty. My favorite way of having the kids play with other kids is for them to go knocking on neighborhood doors until they find someone who can play. Or, to call someone spur of the moment to see if they can come over. I do understand that playdates are part of modern parenthood so I try to be a good sport about them....... at least from time to time. I confess, this aversion may be related to the fact that I'm an introvert.

I forgot to mention in my post on motherhood one of the most important ways I've learned to take care of myself: by hiring someone to help with laundry and cleaning. I confess, I always thought we couldn't afford it. And then when we didn't have a choice anymore (when my arthritis became so bad I couldn't do laundry or cleaning), we somehow found a way. I confess, I think more moms and healthy moms should hire household help - - it is a wonderful way to take care of yourself. A few hours a week goes a long way.

I confess, the fact that someone else actually does my laundry makes not putting it away feel even more egregious.

But I'm learning to live with it.


(P.S. I confess, I had some trouble posting this & I hope subscribed readers didn't get twelve e-mail updates).

Let it Shine

I washed my floor today.
I washed my floor today!
I washed my floor today!!!!!

I realize this may not seem like a big deal to most people, but those of you who know about my experience with illness over the last several years can probably appreciate what a big deal it was to me.

[About the illness, for those who don’t know...... Someday there will have to be some writing done about this, including a post on this blog, but for now I have not really been able to write about it without either being completely detached or completely melodramatic. So I will give the Cliff’s Notes version and move on: For the last several years I have experienced a fairly severe form of inflammatory arthritis and as a result have lived with pain, fatigue, and stiffness pretty much every day. Now, back to the floor.]

In terms of knowing and respecting my limits, washing my own floor was not a good idea. I will pay for it in the form of a dull, throbbing pain in my hands and shoulder joints. I will wake up stiff tomorrow. And the floor will be so dirty by then that no one will ever know I did it. But just the fact that washing the floor seemed possible today gave me great joy.

As I swept and then washed (I am a proponent of the hands-and-knees method for washing, with a vinegar and water rinse applied afterward with a mop), the writer’s voice in my head kept thinking, I should write about this. The beauty of a simple tool. The angle of the broom that gets right into the corners, sweeping out whatever it finds there. Coming face to face with the floor where pad the feet of my children each day. Finally washing my own floor after years of having others do it. The way knees are perfect for, well, for kneeling on.

Then I thought, Give it a rest, Molly. Just wash the damn floor and enjoy it!

And I did. I really, really did.