travelling with locals

Remember me?

2007-02-21T13:32:00.000-05:00

Yep, still here even though I have been woefully absent lately. I have been in a cold weather winter funk, wallowing in my at least quarter-annual existential, I-hate-my-job, what-in-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life crisis. Which, as with any life crisis, entails the serious consideration of drastic consequences. Last time I had one that lasted for about 8 months and, among other things, I seriously considered joining the Peace Corps or quitting my job and taking the vacation payout to travel cross-country with absolutely no thought of tomorrow. In reality, I ended up moving back home to the Shore. See? Drastic.

This time I was considering an organic farm internship. Meaning 40 - 50 hours of hard, physical labor a week for 6 months in exchange for housing, free vegetables and a monthly stipend of $400 - $600. I mean, I’ve considered those before as a future thing, seriously, because Papi and I want a farm someday. “Someday” meaning within the next ten years because we’re now both officially Over Thirty and I swear my body is beginning its downward spiral into decrepitude already. My biological clock is ticking not for babies, but for goats and sheep and basil and arugula and tomatoes and sunflowers and horses. Anyway, firsthand experience like that, while harsh, is the only way to learn what it is really like and to cut the learning curve.

But, you see, while I purposefully have few attachments like a mortgage or furniture, I do still have one significant ball and chain, a gleefully snarky and imperious devil named Credit Card Debt which grew big and strong from substantial nutritious helpings of dissatisfaction, misdirection and lack of discipline. Another story for another time. But suffice it to say, Mr. CCD does not make it easy to quit a job with good pay (albeit only 24 hours a week) and good health insurance, to go to one with virtually no pay, no benefits and the ominous dark cloud of having to immediately find another job on the Eastern Shore of Virginia in November when I came back. As you might guess, in the ruralness here, that ain’t like talkin’ about it.

I’m still reeling, but I think I’m emerging from this episode for now. The warm weather has helped. As did some good news and planning this year’s garden with Papi.

Recent highlights:

1. Yay me! I won a third place Virginia Press Award for my article in the local paper, “Hispanic Soccer League Struggles to Find a Home.” The category? Sports News Writing. Which is so ironic. That article was the only remotely sports-type thing I ever wrote. I am not a sports fan. I know nothing about soccer except that it is called fútbol in Spanish and involves a black and white spotted ball. I have never even seen a game.

The other things I wrote for the News that I was especially proud of—a Valentine’s story about a long-married couple in a nursing home, a Black History month article about an historic Rosenwald (African-American) school in Cape Charles that I wish would be restored, and an article about the local literacy council featuring a 70-year-old great-grandmother who is finally learning how to read so she can participate in church bible study—nothing. Nada. Notice the theme? All very touchy-feely human interest. That’s me. And that’s what I actually set out to write about with the soccer league, but after interviewing a few people it became obvious there was a different story there.

Anyway, I’m thrilled. And I was proud of the soccer story too, but I still can’t help but go “Wha?”

2. The removal of the navel ring that I got nearly 6 years ago and which never healed properly. Or at all. I decided that it was blocking the energy in my third chakra, the solar plexus, the center of personal power and finding one’s unique gifts, fully being who you were meant to be. So now I'm unleashed. Watch out.

3. The best Valentine’s Day ever in which I was surprised with roses and a sweet card containing a long, handwritten declaration of true love. Because, even if I don’t like to make a big deal out of mandated holidays, it’ s always nice to receive unexpected gifts, especially personal, heartfelt ones.

4. The Great Garden Planning Session in which sketches were made. Oh, we have big plans. Big. Larger space, companion planting, new pest management strategies, instructions for how to make manure tea fertilizer. Yes, indeedy. Big plans. Even though, due to a major car repair, I cannot afford to buy seeds until late March.

Sunflowers, tomatoes, basil, Papi and whimsical friend in The Garden, early August, 2006. This year, bigger and more diverse!

Things I love about February

2007-02-09T20:29:00.000-05:00

I promise that this will be more positive than my post about January. Although its hard, because it's really. really. cold. And I hate cold. But that's all I'm gonna say about that. Ahem.

Things I love about February.

1.) The air is so crisp that the stars look even brighter than usual, and I always gaze skyward when I take Abby out at night.

2.) My favorite constellation, Orion, is always right there, easy to spot. This is why he is my favorite constellation.

3.) That's all I can do, or I'll start to get negative again.

4.) If we had a fireplace and a clawfoot tub, I could list two more things. But we don't. So I can't.

5.) Valentine's Day is missing on purpose Sarah and Lindsey. Yes, I now have a reason to celebrate it. Every single day. So it doesn't count.

Anyone else?

The Bun-Buns are coming

2007-02-04T10:45:00.000-05:00

It was cool this morning but not unbearably frigid since the wind wasn't blowing. Still, I was bundled up for our morning constitutional, wearing my long wool coat, hood pulled tight around my ears and neck. Abby, coatless, was alert. The crisp air makes her frisky.

She's even more beautiful when she's in hunting dog mode. She's a full-blooded English Setter, but a pampered princess of a dog who has never heard a gunshot in the field. (The latter is a significant distinction. When we lived in inner-city Richmond we heard far too many gunshots, especially on July 4 and New Year's Eve when the morons would shoot in the air at midnight.)

Abby innately knows how to point and has been doing it since she was a puppy. Once prey is spotted (bird, rabbit or favorite toy), she instantly snaps into "the zone." Tail up, nose out, paw raised, she stands perfectly still except for a twitching nose. Her eyes are locked on her target, but with heavy drooping lids that paradoxically make her appear intensely stoned. It is possible to steal her gaze, perhaps by waving one's arms madly, but only for a breath. The big brown eyeballs give you, the flailing freak, a sideways glace, but you are not a small defenseless creature, and therefore of no consequence to her now. They click back into place. Slowly, methodically, she begins to creep forward. One carefully placed paw after another in an exaggerated tip-toe. Once locked into "the zone" she will not waver until either she, or her prey, makes a run for it.

This is the best illustration of "the zone" that I have on camera, although it is not a true point. But she is definitely in a staring contest.

English Setters are technically bird dogs, but Abby is not that particular, and in fact, birds are probably on the bottom of her list. She seems to prefer things that will freeze when they spot her and engage with her in a staring contest. Bunnies, squirrels, cats--they're all fair game, although the only thing she's ever caught was a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.

This morning, because she was feeling so energetic, we walked out into a nearby field for a change of pace. She was zigzagging on the leash in front of me, nose never leaving the ground. She had just settled into the hunched squat of her business when an adult eastern cottontail rabbit took off not two feet in front of her nose. Neither of us had seen it sitting there and it scared the pea-waddin' out of both of us. (Luckily, Abby was already in position.) Even though she was caught off guard, she still tried to give chase. But caught mid-poo as she was, it turned out to be more of an undignified pivoting stumble and she was left, frustrated, staring intently and wistfully, in the rabbit's dust.

Which completely cracked me up. Until I thought about it. We were blissfully rabbit-free in 2006, our first year on the property and our first year gardening. However, we have much bigger plans for the garden this year and they definitely don't include greenery-munching bun-buns. Apparently those big plans will now have to expand to include a fence.

The "protein pill" of the animal kingdom according to VADGIF which says that

"they are perhaps the most heavily preyed upon game species in Virginia.

In most years, 80% or more of adult cottontails are killed." But not by Abbycadabra.

Lost in Translation, the Spanish version

2007-01-30T23:01:00.001-05:00

Even before I met Papi, I wanted to learn Spanish. French is really my first love, but since I am not living in a cosmopolitan city, and won’t be moving to Paris anytime soon, I figured that with Spanish at least I’d have more opportunities to actually use it. And then I met Papi and it seemed perfectly serendipitous.

Unfortunately, I am not particularly disciplined in my study habits. So I decided to practice something a French-speaking native Romanian former pen-pal called “voluntary immersion,” whereby one chooses Spanish over English whenever the former language is available. For instance, I listen to Spanish music (Ojos de Brujo is a particular favorite) and practice “active listening” whenever Papi’s on the phone (strictly to learn, I assure you).

Also, I changed the language on our answering machine and now happily trill along when our message mami announces that our mensaje is “borrrrrrrrrrrado.” Really, it’s only spelled with 2 r’s—the extra ones are for emphasis and to provide a more accurate representation of my need to dramatically exaggerate the trill in order to do it which makes me feel rather like a transvestite drag queen diva. Je, je, je ! (That’s the Spanish spelling of light-hearted laughter.)

I am pretending that this will bring me fluency through osmosis. At any rate, it can’t hurt and I am picking up a few words here and there. Like on my cell phone where, from the first screen, I can choose to view either the Menú or Contactos. It makes me feel smart and worldly.

The non-English speaking members of Papi’s family (which would be ALL OF THEM except for his sister and brother-in-law) have been very encouraging of my efforts. His father and cousin in Cuba are now my pen-pals and answering the phone with a mostly non-English speaking mother-in-law on the other end forces one to try and use the language. In phone conversations and during our December trip to Florida, she and her friends would giggle delightedly as if at a precocious two-year-old whenever I surprised them with something beyond “Como estas?”

But, as I have mentioned, I have some difficulty processing information received aurally. I am terrible with names and new words in general until I write them down. Once I have seen them, and can picture them in my mind, then and only then do they have a chance of sticking.

Alternatively, I can be taught through the process of mortification.

While in Florida, we visited Papi’s mother’s aunt, tía Laura. Papi shows me a picture of her recently deceased husband, taken nearly 50 years ago when he was a young and dapper policeman in Cuba. Papi tells me his name and I repeat it. Then I turn to tía Laura.

“Muy guapo, (very handsome)” I say.

She and Papi’s mother look at each other, pleased. “Oh, guapo!” they say and titter together. I am proud of myself.

Laura makes me Cuban coffee (I am addicted) and I get to say, “Me gusta mucho café cubano.” Again, yay me! I am speaking Spanish! To real Spanish-speaking people! I am so cool!

Afterwards, on the way home, I make converstation. "So, when did Chulo come to the U.S.," I innocently query.

This time there was no giggling. Only a nervous sort of "heh, heh, heh." (Or, I suppose, jej, jej, jej.)

Uh-oh.

Apparently, because I had been listening to too much Don Omar of late, I had just called her dear, handsome uncle a PIMP. Lovely. So very, very glad that I didn't say that earlier to the deceased pimp's wife, who, during our visit, had been crying because she missed him so, so much. No doubt she would have been very gracious, but I would have been absolutely mortified.

His name was Chelo. I was one letter off. One letter—a world of difference.

“Last night I dreamt that I grew wings…”

2007-01-28T17:00:00.000-05:00

I am a little embarrassed to confess that I dreamt about Josh Ritter last night. I also dreamt about braving a flood to get to my dog, but that’s another story.

In the dream, Josh was a performing musician, but also an agricultural scientist specializing in corn and kale. (I have been garden obsessed of late, pouring over the winter seed catalog glut.) I had been trying to germinate some kale seeds, but they just wouldn’t grow. Desperate for help, I brought them to the horticultural specialist-slash-musician who carefully studied the (in my dreamworld) walnut-sized seed and offered some suggestions. As I was profusely thanking him for the help with my brassicas, praising his scientific prowess, he gave me a sideways glance and a very sly grin and said, “But musicians often glow, don’t they?”

In Josh’s case, they most certainly do.

I had seen him in concert at the newly posh Attucks Theatre in Norfolk just hours before, so it isn’t too surprising that I had this ephemeral conversation with Mr. Ritter. I went because as I alluded in an earlier post, his music moves me. He is very present with his songs, and the feeling is amplified in person. Even though I love his music, it was more Josh the Human that moved me last night.

His simple set is an old-fashioned parlor, an accurate scene-setter. Exuberant or subdued, full spotlight or complete darkness, the performance was always personal. The overall impression is that Josh is so pleased that he’s here and that you’re here and let’s visit for a while.

The hospitality doesn’t end there. After the show he appears in the lobby to greet the people who have come to hear his music. I fully expected to cast myself in the role of devotee, but Josh turned the tables on me. He thanked me—and everyone else he talked to—for coming several times, which left me feeling good…and a tad confused. Imagine someone painting your house for free and then genuinely thanking you for the opportunity. His entire interaction makes it clear that the privilege here is his.

Josh is a hugger, and they are liberally distributed. These are full on, sharing, I-really-mean-it body hugs, not shoulder-brushing I-don’t-know-where-you’ve-been superficial hugs. His cup overfloweth with life and—on-stage and off—it feels like he is about to burst, combustible energy glowing. His verbal and musical exchanges completely project the message that he feels very fortunate to be doing what he is doing, and that gratefulness, that joy, permeates the entire experience.

Which I suspect is why he also permeated my sleep. From all the events of the evening, my slumbering subconscious processed and distilled a crucial truth and then conveyed it through the fictitious Josh's final dream remark to me. It was a message that it felt was so important to me that I woke right up as soon as it left his lips.

I have been struggling for a while with the “be who you are” thing. In the midst of signing my CD, and valiantly trying to make conversation with the deaf-mute that was me at that moment, Josh asks what I do. Since I presently feel that what I do in no way reflects who I am (or at least, not the me I want to project, and that probably says too much), I hedged, saying, “Oh, I’m still finding my way in life.” So he writes, “Keep looking for the way! (Then tell me.)”

Earlier during the show he says during one intro that he used the song to break the news to his mother that, two years into his neuroscience degree, he had chosen to become a musician instead of a scientist. Today, plucking apart the threads of my nocturnal message, I thought about this as choice made, seed planted. Though seeing it through to fruition isn’t like talking about it. Watching Josh perform, it is obvious that he truly is “singing for the love of it." My impression is that he is an embodiment of the idea that being who you are and following your truth, faithful in its service, creates an unmistakable glow that folds everyone in its embrace.

His light and beaming energy followed me home and kept me company for a while. Perhaps if that isn’t the way, it is a least one very important way, regardless of the path chosen or the vessel used. If you feel grateful for what you have received, finding that the giver feels even more fortunate as a result of the act creates an endless euphoric reciprocation cycle. Like the cartoon chipmunks, Chip and Dale. Thank you. Thank you. No, no thank you.

I don’t think I adequately sputtered it out in the Attucks’ lobby, Josh, but what I wanted to say was—no, no, thank you. Thank you so very much.

Note to self: bring the entire sweater next time so that your recently acquired I’m-comfortable-in-my-relationship paunch is not permanently flawing an otherwise great picture.

The Real Deal from the House of Deals

2007-01-25T14:38:00.000-05:00

Breakfast is sacred to me.

Other eating times are social--good conversation with friends or family over dinner and wine is a wonderful experience--but breakfast is a private affair. I prefer getting up before Papi so that its just me, eggs, toast or biscuits and (fair-trade) tea, the Eastern Shore News, Mother Earth News or the New Yorker in front of me. It is a quiet and restful time, a transition from bed to the whizz and whorl of the outside.

I have become hooked on fried eggs, (perhaps not the healthiest of choices, but better than a doughnut) and have finally mastered cooking them without breaking the yolks. I feel a great sense of accomplishment about this--you have no idea how long it took me to get here!

Lately, the breakfast experience has taken on a whole new level with the discovery of fresh, local eggs from The House of Deals in nearby Onancock.

When I was younger, I never paid attention to The House of Deals because it was not the sort of place that most teenagers find appealing. The lighting is so dim that from the outside it doesn't even look open. Inside, the smell is a bit musty, the merchandise is close and jam-packed, and there is an overall sepia-toned appearance, as if you have just stepped into a 1930's photograph. Which is not as fantastical as it sounds. This is your grandfather's hardware store, complete with tin ceilings and wooden Coca-Cola crates. A group of old-timers routinely congregate here to chat over card games in the back.

Real eggs from a real chicken with a real life.

But up front, at the wooden counter, one can ask for a dozen or two elongated, bullet-shaped, brown eggs. That is, until recently. It seems that the hens are on strike. Papi, who grew up on a farm in Cuba and later worked at one of Perdue's research farms, assures me that this is a natural process, that hens go through periods where they simply do not lay eggs. Ok, I really can't blame them. It must be hard work pushing those things out all the time. But I miss them!

What I did NOT have for breakfast this morning.

The yolks are a deep, golden yellow and always double. And the taste? Just as rich and deep as the color. The ones from Food Lion are pale imitations in color, taste, and so I've read, nutrition. Seriously. After weeks of eating the bullet eggs, the Food Lion knockoffs that I had this morning were, well, bland. And watery. Truly, I cooked them exactly the same as the real eggs, and not only did the edges not crisp up, but they broke off in white puddle-like spooges on my plate. Ick.

Corporate agriculture and factory farms are awesome.

I can't even think of a title.

2007-01-22T18:15:00.000-05:00

Perhaps you have read about the horrible car accident in Onancock on Friday night which took the lives of four young men and a two-year-old boy, and injured two others. I was surprised to find that word of it was on the AP wires.

The sadness of it only just caught up with me today, partly because I didn't sleep well which makes me overly emotional, partly because it is a dark, rainy, gloomy day, but also because I stepped out of the cocoon of home to go to work. That put me in contact with the outside world, and under the same shroud that seems to be hanging invisibly around us. You go out and you cannot help but come into contact with it, either from snatches of conversation caught in the bakery or grocery store, seeing it on the news or discussing it in office conversation. It's everywhere. And even though I did not personally know, or even ever meet, anyone who was involved in the accident, because it is the Shore, it is personal.

Even though the Eastern Shore consists of two counties--Accomack and Northampton--we consider it one community. It really does feel like one small town. I like to joke that it is not six degrees of separation around here, it's more like two degrees. When I was a teenager I found this painfully confining. Now, after living in a few mid-sized cities, I find it very comforting.

Through those two degrees, I am connected to four of the people in that accident. The woman and toddler are the daughter and grandson of an acquaintance. One of the boys was the son of my sister-in-law's pastor, whom I have met a few times. And another was the grandson of the woman who went to our church and lived 3 blocks away from me when I was a child. From the time I was born until I was 15, I went to her house with my mom to get our hair done, and her late husband used to pump our gas and fix the family cars at his service station in downtown Parksley.

I do not wish to be caught up in the tragedy of it, but it is difficult to stop thinking about it. Even if I don't personnally mourn one of the boys or the young child, I can't help mourning the loss of life itself. Mostly I am mourning with the parents and grandparents and family, because that's where my connection lies. I can only remotely imagine what they must be thinking and feeling and I am having a hard time getting it out of my head. Because I have real faces to go with those feelings--those people fit somewhere in a place in my life--and I am so very sorry for them.

Sweetness two ways

2007-01-21T22:46:00.001-05:00

Now that Papi's oral surgery wounds are healing and he no longer has to take his meals with a straw, he could have birthday lime tart. Mmmmmmmmm. Tangy.

Abbylicious! Don't you just want to spoon her?

Buy free, sell cheap

2007-01-19T10:45:00.000-05:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I love virtually all living creatures. Love. Or at the very least, feel empathy towards. Cannot bear to see harm come to them. Even doing pest control in the organic garden last year was truly a moral dilemma.

In my house, spiders who are actively working stay put. (There's one in the hall window now with about 30 little bug corpses littering the sill below her web.) If they are not carrying their weight, (or if they are large or really hairy) they are carefully placed outside. Ok, if it's January they will freeze anyway. I guess that I 'm hoping that they will find another warm spot to call home. Somewhere over the rainbow, perhaps.

Until recently, (i.e. moving in with Papi), I was also adamant about live traps for mice. Again, put them outside in January, their chances are probably not too good. But maybe....

So one night this week, Luis and I were sitting on our one-year old, like new, red sectional sofa which we are trying to sell (interested? Email me!) And we're trying to get more creative (i.e. do something besides tell my mother) and my first impulse is the community bulletin board at the local post office. Here you can find ads for: puppies, lost or for sale; firehouse spaghetti dinner fundraisers; firewood or walnuts for sale; repent and be saved by Jesus or you will burn in hell please come see us at First Baptist Church. That sort of thing.

Then I remembered Swap Shop on local radio station 103.3. WESR--pronounced like the band Weezer--is a true country community radio station, folks. I think they still read the school lunch menus and the obituaries on air in the morning. Swap Shop is a call in (or these days also fax and email in) selling show. You call in with things to sell or give away, and you can also notify the people of the Shore of things you're trying to find, because you never do know what people might have just sitting around the house that they can't wait to get rid of. Like the callers last week who were looking for: lawn ornaments (don't you just steal them?), windows for a 98 Kia Sophia, and a cherry picker.

So we go online and fill out the form giving info about our couch and say that we're LTB (looking to buy, to those in the know) a wheelbarrow and a garden tiller. And then, just for kicks, I read the transcripts of last week's show to see what was out there.

And, that's when I see, nestled among the .22 rifles and Star Trek plates and washers and dryers and parts of cars, this one:

BLACK CAT, $5

What? I was outraged. Somehow, this is more demeaning than "Free." Like going to a restaurant and leaving a penny tip for your hardworking server. (Which would be ME when I was--briefly--a waitress. I searched and searched the table thinking, this must be some kind of joke. Sadly, no.)

I want that cat just to get it away from the crack whore who found it in her yard and decided to try and sell it for $5 and will probably end up using it for dog food.

And then, near the end of the week's postings, this:

LOOKING FOR ELEC. BUTCHER'S SAW AND DUCKS.

I do not even want to imagine.

Who's your papi?

2007-01-17T06:52:00.000-05:00

Today is Papi's 31st birthday! Feliz Cumpleaños, mi vida!

To celebrate, here are just a few of the many reasons why I love him:

He doesn't mind at all when I sing along with the music I am playing, like, say, Josh Ritter (only 10 more days!)

He is very, very patient in helping me with my spanish.

If I am in a difficulty-sleeping rut and I say that I need to switch sides of the bed because I am weird and in order to start sleeping well again I have to have a different perspective even if its while i'm asleep and even though switching sides of the bed will then put him in a difficulty-sleeping rut----he does it anyway. With zero complaint.

He tries very hard to understand me, and what he doesn't understand, he accepts. Eventually.

He began, and upholds, the unstated rule that I cook dinner (because I love to) and he compliments the meal, does the dishes and cleans up my mess.

He doesn't celebrate Christmas either!

He's hot.

He is encouraging and positive and supportive.

He likes to try new things.

He has a good heart and a beautiful soul.

And he cheeses for pictures.

Te amo mucho, mi cubano dulce!

Lost in Translation, the English version

2007-01-12T16:36:00.000-05:00

As I have mentioned, mi papi, the wonderful man who shares my life, was born and raised in Cuba. When he came to the U.S. 11 years ago, he did not speak English. He is now perfectly fluent, although he speaks with a rather strong accent (which, by the way, I love and would not change for anything in the world.)

Unfortunately, I have something of a tin ear when it comes to non-standard English, whether it be foreign, ghetto or two-year-old. I think its because I am a visual learner and I have a difficult time processing information aurally. It's nothing personal. Let me tell you, though, children get really hacked off when they are earnestly trying to tell you something and you have to repeatedly ask, "What?" Sort of like when they show you their recently rendered masterpiece of an elephant and you innocently say, "Is that a pumpkin?" Trust me, they do not like that.

With Papi, I often feel like Lucy to his Ricky. (Note: When I first told him about I Love Lucy, he informed me with some disdain that Ricky Ricardo is an absolutely ridiculous and un-Cuban name.) He has never seen the show and my humorous references to it do not amuse him. Sometimes I repeat words that he has just said using his same accent as Lucy used to do. To his query of whether I would like any poultry for dinner this evening, for instance, I might say something like, "No, bebé, I don't think I want any shicken for dinner tonight." Papi does not like it when I do this.

Sometimes a corrupted word is silly enough to permanently enter into our own personal lexicon. In general usage, both of us intentionally replace the real word with Papi's accented pronunciation of said word. The most popular of these is fuckus: to concentrate attention or effort. For instance, I might say, "Don't bother me right now, bebé. I'm trying to fuckus on writing this article." Then we will each say "fuckus" a few more times, giggling, shades of Beavis and Butthead.

However, the accent barrier will occasionally tie us in verbal knots. A good example is this morning's conversation about composting which quickly degenerated into the following.

"Some people have compost heps," Papi says. I am confused. "Hep?" I ask. Papi nods and repeats the word as if I am a dullard. "Hep."

"Hep?" I say again, in a tone which is clearly asking for help. "Yes. Hep," he says evenly, not throwing me a bone. Rather than use the "say it louder and slower" method of making oneself understood, (Papi does not like to raise his voice) he just repeats the word or phrase relentlessly. Which has a mind-numbing and spirit-breaking effect similar, I imagine, to receiving repeated blows to the skull with a blunt instrument.

Clearly I need to try a different tactic. "H-E-P?" I spell.

He looks at me quizically. "Hep?" he asks.

I sigh. "Spell it, please."

"H-E-A-P. "

"Ooooooooh" I say, relieved that we have made contact and that this will all be over soon. "Heap. Compost heaps."

"Heap?" he says, frowning. "No, that's this," he says, pointing to his hip, quite sure of himself.

"No, that's a hip," I say in what I imagine is a helpful third-grade teacher-type voice.

He frowns at me again. "Hip? What's a hip?"

"I'd rather be the one who loves..."

2007-01-12T12:02:00.000-05:00

"...than to be loved and never even know."

I love Josh Ritter's music. Love. Deep, visceral love.

This is not like my 1984 - 1990 adolescent hormone- and "rebellion-" fueled love of hair metal bands like Poison and Motley Crüe where, let's be honest, the music was very secondary. Its not like the lyrics of "Girls, Girls, Girls" were speaking to me in a personal way:

"Friday night and I need a fight/My motorcycle and a switchblade knife/Handful of grease in my hair feels right/But what I need to make me tight are/Girls, Girls, Girls"

Oh yeah. I am so with you, Vince.

No. This is mature love. The kind that is comfortable and calm. The kind of love you settle into after the brain and body are no longer addled by passion, when the relationship is based mainly on mutual interests, easy companionship and dedication.

I have loved Josh's music from afar for four years, ever since I first heard him on WYEP in Pittsburgh (one of the ONLY radio stations I listen to because I am anti-commercial radio and they are awesome!) But for one reason or another, I have never seen him live. I was planning to go last year when he was at the Ramshead Tavern in Annapolis, but I would have had to go by myself because Papi didn't fully appreciate Josh at the time and I become narcoleptic if you put me behind the wheel of a car at night so that just wasn't going to work.

Having flashbacks to 1986 when I begged my mom to let me go with my friends to see Bon Jovi live in concert on their Slippery When Wet tour—Bon Jovi who is the best band ever and Pammy's uncle is taking us so it will be absolutely fine and please please please mom, I want to go soooooooo bad, they are soooo gorgeous, pleeeeeeeeze—I asked Papi to give me the early birthday present of seeing Josh in a special acoustic show at the Attucks Theatre in Norfolk. So the scene wasn't quite as hysterical as (oh my god) 20 years ago, but there was a lot of girly giggling and a little jumping up and down. Hey, I'm not too proud. And I had just had caffeine.

And bless his little pea-pickin' heart, he said yes! He's even paying for it, which I wasn't going to ask for because all I really need is a chauffeur, because it is 1.5 hours away and there's that falling-asleep-while-operating-a-motor-vehicle thing. My man went over and above! Muchas gracias, mi amor!

I think that Papi has also reconciled himself to the fact that we will be listening to all of Josh's albums every day until the concert and that I will repeatedly remind him of the amount of days left until we hear Josh live for real!

Yep, mature love.

(Only 14 more days!)

We are very amused.

2007-01-12T11:40:00.000-05:00

Because I am of British, Scottish and Welsh ancestry, and because I love Monty Python, when I saw this, I had to do it. Over and over again.

Because the first time is pure, that's the one inexpertly pasted into the sidebar. (Sarah! Help!) Others were just as apt.

Empress Stacia the Expensive of Lesser Cheese Winston (Lindsey, the cheese snob, will agree.)

Her Grace Lady Stacia the Careless of Hopton Goosnargh (oh my, careless is so me.)

Countess Stacia the Indecisive of Hoptonshire by Leer (I do not know where Hopton is, but apparently I rule there. Indecisive? So me again. How does it know?)

And, even though Papi is Cuban, we learned on our recent trip to St. Augustine, Florida that the Brits owned Cuba for a while. So let's get him one too, shall we?

Very Lord Luis the Rustic of Fishkill St. Wednesday (How appropriate! He used to go spearfishing in Cuba and he still does farmer blows! Can't get much more rustic than that.)

Ooooo, just imagine the wedding invitations!

And finally, introducing the true love of my life, the Most Noble and Honourable Abby the Contrite of Kirkby Overblow:

She's very regal, isn't she?

Things I love about January

2007-01-12T08:58:00.000-05:00

It's January on the Eastern Shore. Which normally means that I would be too depressed to lift my head. January on the Shore sucks. The predominant evergreens are loblolly pine whose needles, in the dead of winter, are actually a depressing shade of poopy-brown green. The fields and marsh are all buff-colored brown which makes the water look even browner. The grass is brown. And if the sky is full of slate gray clouds--blech!

But I am trying to cultivate more positivity in my life this year. And I do like to try and find beauty in things that at first glance do not appear beautiful. I like to give things the benefit of the doubt. So here goes.

Things I love about January:

Trees with no leaves. The bare branches are beautiful. One day I am going to learn metalwork and I am going to make a small forest of leafless trees to put in corners all over my future house. I love trees. Except loblolly pines in January.

I would list snow, but we rarely get that around here and if we do its only about 1 inch. There have been exceptions, but normally, its not much. Which means that you just whisper the word "snow" and schools close and the grocery stores run out of milk and bread and people spontaneously drive their cars into ditches.

This veered a little towards negative, didn't it? Let's correct.

New garden catalogs.

That's about it.

Yes, blessedly, the seed catalog winter salvation glut has begun.

Which makes me remember things like this swallowtail butterfly in our garden last year.

Sigh.

Grapefruit Rhapsody, Part 2

2007-01-10T22:25:00.000-05:00

Did you know that grapefruit rind is bitter?

Yeah, me too. But I had temporary amnesia. All these great, organically grown grapefruit with a peel that was just going to get tossed in the compost! Not exactly a waste, but eating them would be better! When I saw the recipe in one of my favorite books I was completely entranced by the idea of using something that is usually discarded. As a recycling zealot, I love reuse. I also love trying new things with food.

So I carefully scored the grapefruit peel and pulled it off in sections, saving the grapefruit for another use. (Four days later and we're still eating the naked things.) Then I dissolved sugar in water over medium heat and plopped in the peel and cooked it for a couple of hours until the peel was translucent. It looked beautiful!

And it tasted bitter. Not spit-it-out bitter, but unpleasantly bitter. Bitter obscuring sunny grapefruit joy. Bitter taking the fun out of the experience. Bitter. Maybe it will get better when I roll it in sugar, I thought.

Looks great (albeit somewhat like sugar-encrusted french fries.) But still bitter.

It was at this point, after much peeling and cooking and rolling and even more chagrin that I decided to research further. Typing "candied grapefruit peel" into Google and choosing one of the first three results, I easily found out what I should have done.

Put the peel through at least four boiling water washes to leach out the bitterness. I told papi of my discovery. Oh yes, he says, nodding with recognition. That's what my mother does with the sour orange. He nods some more, happy that he found the answer.

Thanks.

So I peeled more grapefruit. And boiled the peels 6 times, just in case. And cooked them for a few hours. And rolled them in sugar.

Much, much better. Sweet golden tangy goodness, even without the sugar coating.

Soon, I will dip them in chocolate.

Grapefruit Rhapsody, Part 1

2007-01-06T12:27:00.000-05:00

I remember reading and hearing stories of children in my grandparent’s day up here in the (usually) cold mid-Atlantic receiving a few golden orbs of citrus in their Christmas stockings and being overjoyed. As farmer’s or railroad worker’s kids they didn’t get much else either, certainly nothing on par with the glut my nieces and nephews—or even I in my earlier years for that matter—receive on Christmas morn. Eating the readily available, standard supermarket fare, I never really understood what a gift those oranges were, how exotic, how special, until we went to Florida at the end of December to visit Papi’s familia.

These grapefruit look, well, nasty by most people’s standards, brainwashed as we are by the industry to think that fruit must be brightly-colored, perfect, and blemish-free to be edible. Only occasionally yellow, more often buff or tan and dull from lack of waxing, these ugly ducklings have it all over their Miss America cousins. Their beauty is on the inside. A zing of grapefruit essence zaps the nose when the peel is stripped back to reveal salmon-pink flesh, oozing tangy yet sweet juice. These babies are voluptuous. On a 75-degree afternoon, Papi picked them from a tree in his tía Laura’s back yard and we gorged ourselves right there.

It is the best holiday gift I could have gotten.

And it keeps on giving. We picked more to bring back home to Virginia and this weekend the next phase began.

Papi rhapsodizes about the candied/preserved sour orange, papaya and límon frances (French lemon) that he enjoyed (always with white cheese) in his Cuban childhood. The process is simple. The fruit of the papaya, and the pith—the white, bitter, bioflavonoid containing part between peel and the fruit—of the orange and lemon, is boiled in a simple syrup mixture until it becomes translucent. Stored in the syrup, it keeps for months in the refrigerator.

Inspired by one of my favorite cookbooks (which I'm not mentioning because I don't know a thing about the rules for that sort of thing yet), I am trying this with the grapefruit peel.

Stay tuned............

No, I don't have a problem

2007-01-05T11:48:00.000-05:00

I am a recycling zealot.

I can’t really afford to save the planet through consumerism (i.e. buying expensive “green” products). I’m not an activist and writing letters to politicians just seems too pointless.

So I recycle. It’s easy, and it gives me a feeling of control, no matter how tiny. Yes! I am doing something!

But it doesn't stop there. At the risk of alienating friends and family, I am on a mission. In order to save the planet, I force (ahem) gently persuade and "educate" them so that they can feel lofty and obsessive, too. When at their homes, and the need to throw away a non-recyclable item pops up, I take the opportunity to do them the favor of making a quick inventory of their trash receptacle and then calling their attention to the aluminum cans that I'm sure they accidentally put in the wrong container. I watch their daily movements and kindly remind them that the toilet paper roll they just thoughtlessly tossed in the trash is valuable paperboard. Recycle it, so that the lowly toilet paper roll can metamorphose, have a second chance and be born again! And if I can’t appeal to your higher nature, just trust me, you’ll sleep a little easier at night you ingrate, I mean, friend.

So perhaps it should not surprise me when my papi, mi vida, the wonderful Cuban man who shares my life, thought that my recycling urges might have compromised my better judgement.

I had to gather a stool sample from my dog to take to the vet this morning, and I chose a #2 margerine container as the receptacle. As I'm sure you know, (and don't make me tell you again!) there are numbers on the bottom of plastics which can be used in many areas to determine their recyclability. Turns out, I didn’t have to take it in, but I called to inform him of the vet’s phone diagnosis. (Tapeworms! Easily cured, but really, do not be a bad mom like me and slack on giving your pet their heartworm pills—public service announcement.)

“Did you dispose of the crap?” he sweetly asks.

"Duh!" I thought. “Yes,” I said.

“Did you dispose of the container, too?”

Oh come on!

What am I doing with a blog...

2007-01-05T00:03:00.000-05:00

...when I really didn’t want one?

Even though the peer pressure from my dear friend, Sarah, to create a blog and comment on hers was quite heavy—there were termination of friendship threats—I somewhat self-righteously held out. Pressure has waned significantly (the restraining order may have helped). Yet and still, I have caved.

Because:
1. They look cool. Seriously. I wanted to do a computerized journal and nothing else looked so snazzy, with pictures and video and layout and all.

2. I wanted to make myself accountable to myself. Even if noone reads this but my friends the fact that the thoughts, goals, etc. are out of me, in print, visible, physical in a way, makes it more….real. I mean, someone could see it.

3. This makes me a self-published author. Oh, the wonders of the internet. Put a monkey on a keyboard and make him talk.

4. Number 3 might have sounded a little bit cynical. It was actually meant to be self-deprecating.

5. With a blog, I don’t have to spend all kinds of my valuable time individualizing long, boring letters to my friends. Just talk to the blog, people.

6. I like manipulating things—like layouts and colors and fonts and pictures. Manipulating things. Not people. No. Never. (Sarah, if you were truly my life friend, you’d do the html coding for me.)

7. I actually don’t like making lists. I don’t know where this list-thingy is coming from.

8. ?

You—meaning this amorphous, faceless mass that I’m sort of talking to but not really—will learn a lot about me here. More, perhaps, than I even know myself. But, since one of the main blogging goals was to know more about myself—ooops, I forgot to put that on the list!—that’s a good thing.

So, to recap, I think what we’ve learned here today, is that:
1. While I do not like lists, I do love the hyphen.
2. And italics.
3. In fact, I love emphasizing things. Things. Not people. No. Never.
4. Sarah.