April

Did I tell you that it snowed here on April 1st? Prolly not because if I'd told you then you wouldn't have believed me because it was April 1st. But it did. Wet, sloppy but very blizzardy snow for something like 5 freaking hours. Which meant that the Seattle area has had some kind of snow event for 5 straight months.

The globe, she is warming, and I will smack upside the head anyone who still thinks that can be debated.

On the other hand, this weekend was lavishly springlike and warm. Beautiful, hopeful, singingly springlike.

I almost trust it.

But not enough to go out and pull weeds, lay compost and set seeds. It was the perfect opportunity but every time I'd read a seed packet I'd see those words: "After all danger of frost is past".... and I couldn't do it. I couldn't trust those teeny tiny bearers of life to a cold ground that could easily be colder tomorrow. It just didn't seem right. The thought of their tiny little selves squeezed to death by ice crystals just made me want to cry.

So we'll wait and see if this warm stuff is any kind of trend before we risk the manicure.

It sure was a pleasant change of pace, though, I'll tell you that.

Bringing in the Sheaves

The Seattle area is being graced with that most splendid of meteorological events, an Indian summer. Long past the point when it is supposed to be warm and pleasant it is, uh, warm and pleasant. The mornings are cool and dewy but the days are full of the sun we should have had in July. The crisp air of autumn is on hold until evening.

I had plans for a very lazy Sunday afternoon, but something about this last burst of warmth tripped the Pa Ingalls wire in The Spouse, who decided it was time to bring in the harvest. So I let him. Knock yourself out with your hops there, Papa Bear, I thought from the smuggery of my computer game, the notion of a nice long nap edging itself into my thoughts.

But after he brought in his bushel of hops, he insisted it was time to go after the grapes. His reasoning was sound. Next weekend we will be too busy (Autumnal Feast + a visit from Buck) and, given the current conditions, the grapes are ready now and will not wait for 2 more weeks.

I frowned. If we picked the grapes, I'd have to convert them into jelly and juice. He didn't expect me to drop everything to do that but using the same "not waiting for 2 weeks" logic, I knew that if the deed were going to be done it would have to be now. So I made a run to the grocery store for pectin and jars.

And may I just say that it delights me no end that here in the 21st century, in an urban center, one can still find Mason jars at Safeway.

We took to the vines with our tubs and scissors and whatever residual gripe I felt was smoothed away by the magic of the vendage. The sun beat down, the grape leaves rustled in the welcome breeze. The Child joined us with an exuberant "I love to pick grapes!"



















It was a good harvest.



















The Spouse and Child left for a party and I set to washing and stemming. I got out my old blue canner. I'm sure it came from Dame Judi, back in the years when I was in full "urban homesteader" mode. Something spoke to me, as it always does, a tug, deep in the heart, reminding me of farm days and DJ's steaming kitchen and the sweet ephemeral fragrance of fruit filling the house. In so many ways I do not live as my mother, my grandmother, my great grandmother did. But in this one thing, at least, we are all connected...the tools and recipes are unchanged and through blue enamel and pectin I am as much the child of my ancestors as it's possible to be.



















I measured and boiled and ladled. Then, as I started parceling out the green grapes for juice, I counted the pings as the seals set on the jelly jars...6-7-8....ah, there it was. I called out "nine!" triumphantly...all the jelly will keep.



















Then I was done, having added 12, count 'em, 12 quarts of grape juice to the tally. Not a bad afternoon's work after all.

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

We had an exceptional weekend here in the great city of Seattle, with temperatures up into the 80s. Gor. Geous. Despite the vagaries of a dismal, wet and over-long winter, the tulips bloomed and now, as they fade, everything else is in bud. The May air is soft. Even on the chill, overcast days of last week it portended the warmth that was coming and on the mottled wings of that warmth, fragrance lingers. It stops me. I can be engaged in the most mundane of tasks - taking my wastebasket to the recycling, going to the garage to get chicken breasts from the freezer - and the air commands me to stop. There is a general sweetness of miscellaneous bud and blossom, fruit trees, new grass, the last hyacinth and the first rose but the top note, unmistakably, is lilac.

Nearly everyone in this neighborhood has lilac bushes. Sometimes I imagine that there used to be one grand house here, owned by a lilac fanatic who planted swaths and swaths of them. I imagine how gorgeous May must have been in that house- windows opened to allow the spring air to clear away the last vestiges of winter from the corners. Those homeowners would have been very calm and happy people, smelling lilac all day. It is a healing fragrance.

I imagine, sometimes, that the house had to be taken down...unfortunate investments, a heir who was neglectful of the family legacy...and the land being sold off in tiny parcels to post-war developers who raised up all the little ranch houses and cottages that line the streets now. But this would have been the '50s after all; these plain little houses were built with care and the heart of the craftsman still informed both design and construction. I fancy those developers saw the lilacs and held back modernity just enough to plot the footprint of each house to accommodate the old lilac bushes, striving to keep at least one for each property.

That's not what happened. And in fact, the lilac on our land is one we planted ourselves. But from the back garden I can see lines of lilacs to the north and south and can't help but think they were here long before our houses were built.

After our splendid weekend of heat, the lilacs too are fading for the season. Summer flowers are coming on. The irises, which might otherwise have waited until June, have begun to pop open and the roses are loaded with buds. The blossoms of the apple stick are falling like snow and leaving behind tiny green apple babies. The bees did their work; there will be lots of applesauce cake this year.

I must away to gather rosebuds while I may and hang washing on the line.

Today Has Not Begun Well

The Spouse is my snooze alarm. About 5 minutes after my alarm brutally rings, he comes to me with a cup of coffee and a goodbye kiss. A most excellent way to begin one's day.

This morning he came in with the kiss and an apology. He'd managed to make coffee without installing the pot. And he had to go to work. Oops. Sorry.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Sure, there was a pool of coffee on the kitchen floor but I have to mop today anyway. No, the problem was other.

First, there are no coffee beans in the house. No where. Which means that the only coffee available is the emergency pre-ground stuff that was leftover from the Big Blow. Fine. The adage "coffee is coffee" is not one I ascribe to, but a sip or two of hot beverage is still required.

The situation is not optimal but it is times like these that test one's character. I was brave.

Except that something, and heaven only knows what, has rendered the coffee maker mute. It will not light up. The little digital clock face is blank. I unplugged and replugged the machine (because that's the first thing you do in any mechanical misfire). Nothing. I smacked it, gently, but smacked it. Nothing. I swore at it. Still nothing.

Having exhausted my technical repertoire, I boiled some water and made some totally crappy coffee with the emergency* crap.

Fortunately, I do not have time to sit around and worry about this unfortunate turn of events. I have a house guest coming tomorrow and preparations must be made. Including getting some decent coffee into the house.

---

Yesterday The Child and I went out to harvest grapes. Ah, the vendage. The harvest was not as bountiful as last year but there look to be enough to make jelly and juice. But that's not the important bit. The important bit was that as I was harvesting on one side of the vines and she on the other, I was thinking to myself that this was one of those perfect moments: brisk autumn breeze, the rustle of leaves, the snip of the shears, the scent of the grapes warmed by the sun. It made me recall moments on the farm, harvesting this or that with my grandpa or Dame Judi...little moments so perfectly perfect that they swell and make it seem, in memory as if growing up was always late summer, always harvest. And it made me wonder, as I do from time to time, what moments of her childhood will stick with The Child in that way?

And as I was thinking that The Child sighed and said, "I really love doing this, mama. It's one of my favorite things". She went on to rhapsodize about the glory of grapes, how they need so little effort...just planting and watering and pruning to yield satisfying fruit. She asked if I'd be making a winemaker's cake with some of the grapes and if there would be enough for her favorite juice. She told me that she wants to own a vineyard when she grows up.

I almost cried.

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*Note to self: get decent coffee for the emergency rations. What? We're going to compound the stress of a cataclysm by drinking crap? I think not.

Breathe In, Breathe Out

My email isn't working. That's like having my right hand chewed off by a rotweiller.

My car is packed to the gills with 412, 000 pounds of used school uniforms which I have to figure out how to get into a locked school because actually selling them is not my look-out but if I don't get them out of my car I can't go grocery shopping.

The Child is wearing me out. I feel like a Judiciary Committee member trying to get Alberto Gonzales to answer a straight question. It's not that she's being sneaky or deceitful, mind. It's just that every single solitary discussion for the last 48 hours has been an argument. Not a yelling, screaming argument. A "But Muh-ommmm" argument, a "ok, but just listen because I was thinking..." argument. An "oh-for-the-love-of-Mike-could-you-just-do-xyz-instead-of-telling-me-why-you-can't-right-now" argument.

Worn. Out. And it's only 10 a.m.

The Blue Angels will be here soon to freak out my little dog.

On the plus side, it rained last night so I don't have to water my garden and it will make it easier to pull the abundance of weeds that are still left in my front garden, even though I've been pulling weeds (oh, most thankless of tasks) all week. And why do I have to pull weeds, you ask? Because The Hat is coming to dinner tomorrow night and other people are coming for a bbq on Sunday. And I just want things to look pretty for them. (Which also means I have to mop things. Drat).

I organized my own closet yesterday. That was fun. And I really love my new purse, which I take everywhere, even just to the store to get ice and tonic water.

Blogger wasn't uploading pictures earlier this morning but it is now. See? Here are pictures of what my garden looks like when I ignore the weeds and take closeups. Clever, huh?

Hops, from which The Spouse will make beer in the fall.

Grapes are coming on nicely. Good thing, as we are nearly out of jelly.

Creeping thyme with a concrete pillow.

Artichokes for ornament.

2:30? What the...

Where did the time go?

Wasn't supposed to have a meeting this morning but then one board member who's been MIA the last couple of weeks showed up and then we found out that no one told us the End O' the Year picnic had to be rescheduled because of some church event. And me, just having requested a reservation from the city at a nearby park since our playfield is going to be a construction zone by then.

But we came up with an alternate date and I was able to secure time from the city so that's all good. Then we spent another hour or so talking about next year's schedule and lots of other stuff so we can hit the ground running. Always a good thing when you have to raise $10,000 in 8 months.

Then it was home to clean and write letters and clean up some sort of unidentifiable substance that had been deposited on the family room floor by an unknown pet. Love that.

Last night The Spouse and I finished our annual May Day viewing of "Reds". Love that movie. It explores some very interesting ideas regarding the subject of revolution, that's for sure. But man, it's long.

And now it's time to go get The Child and my other little riders, an hour earlier than expected. But that's ok because it will give us more time for our new favorite game, a little thing we like to call "Puppyball". The Child is working on her baseball fielding skills (which are rather impressive, though I say it) so we've been playing catch in the afternoon. The Dog seems to think he's involved and runs back and forth between us, hoping for a dropped ball. As soon as that happens he pounces and runs away with it. We pick up the volleyball and start bumping it, which makes him drop the baseball and start racing between us in hopes we'll drop the big one. Which we do, intentionally, so that he can jump on it and start chewing while we retrieve the baseball, which then becomes known as the spit ball. And so it goes. He loves it and so do we.

It's been beautiful here the last few days. I have little teeny tiny baby lettuces coming up. Yay.

Gotta run. But here's another take on the concept of revolution, just for fun. (Sorry, Rosie).

After

Total hours: 10, inclusive of the harvest itself, 2 trips to Safeway (once for quart jars, once for more pectin) and 1 trip to Baskin Robbins with The Child.

Total injuries incurred: 1 sliced finger (left hand), 6 scratches on right arm, 1 burned thumb (right hand)

The haul: 3 gallons grape juice via the Mennonite method (scant 2 c. grapes & 1/2 c. sugar in quart jar, filled with boiling water, processed and set aside in the dark for 2 weeks, then strained); 1 gallon grape juice via the Lucy Ricardo method (which is in a freezer bag because I was out of quart jars and didn't want to go back to Safeway. Again). 8 beautiful amythest colored pints of country fair perfect grape jelly. 1 bowl of washed and stemmed grapes ready for a Winemaker's Cake, which I'm going to have to do tomorrow because my back is killing me and I'm just plain done standing for the day.

General state of The Busy Little Canner Woman: Tired and content. The jars are happily giving off the little 'pings' that signal that the seal has set. The house smells like jelly. Even though I am a full-fledged City Mouse, there is just nothing like the satisfaction of putting up and preserving my own crops against the coming hard winter, just like the days of my Country Mouse childhood.

I thought a lot about Dame Judi today, and hot summer afternoons when she was busy putting up preserves and pickles of mind-boggling varieties. Because 1 day is enough to do me in and she would spend days and days putting up applesauce, dill pickles, bread & butter pickles, pickle relish, tomatoes, beans, peaches, pears and so many kinds of jam that I can't even start listing them. Then all those gleaming jars bursting with home-or-nearby-farm grown goodness would line the many, many shelves of the pantry that stood behind the house. (I would sneak in there sometimes, escaping the heat of the day in the dim coolness and I would organize the shelves, lining up the jars just so. A little anal, I guess, but it's a fond memory).

Dame Judi would also, after a day of canning, make dinner for her family. I'm ordering take-away Thai.

Bring it On

There is no denying it. Nature, being a lass who cares very little for human trifles like clocks and calendars, has decided that autumn will come to the Northwest sooner rather than later.

It is a clear, lovely morning. The warm sun is winking at me just over the roofline of The Neighbor's house, coyly peeking through the massive cherry tree. But a cool breeze is blowing and for the first time all summer, I have to wear a sweater while I sit out here with my coffee. It's not a cooling breeze, like the sort we prayed for in the dog days. It's the sort that is eager to start pulling leaves to the ground. The apples are beginning to blush, the grapes - well, just look at those grapes. One more warm week and I expect it will be time to make the first batch of jelly.

I wasn't ready a week ago but I am now. Whenever I sit to plan the week's menu I'm drawn to the recipes for chicken & leek pie and burgandy stew. I grow weary of inventing one more twist on grilled chicken salad. Instead of cool fruit tarts I want to make a big, hot plum cobbler. I should send The Child and Best Friend out berrying.

It rained yesterday. Not a lot and it came inbetween a day and early evening of sun but the ground is still wet. The grass, which has been dried into hay, seems relieved. It might well be ready to try turning green again.

It has been a long, lazy summer but I'm ready for a change. I'm ready for regular bedtimes, for sending The Child off to master algebra and read Shakespeare while I keep to my quiet, empty house. I'm looking forward to long blocks of uninterrupted time with books and papers. Autumn is coming and that means baking bread, seeing BBB married off, pulling out sweaters and fresh episodes of "Gilmore girls". I'm ready.

Change is good, especially the rhythmic changes of the year. Autumn is coming and she's welcome.

Reprieve & Other Thoughts

I just found out that a meeting scheduled for tomorrow night has been moved to next week. This makes me so happy. I hate evening meetings. I go to as few of them as I possibly can. With a child in school there are unavoidable, "mandatory" meetings. They frown on you not showing up for Curriculum Night. But if I can be involved in a project without giving up my valuable TV viewing time, I am a happy camper. If they could only figure out a way to video conference these things I'd be all for it.

Here's a hypothetical question:

Let's say your a good looking guy in your 30's. You've spent the last 8 years or so focusing on your medical career. You're feeling pretty established but now you're ready to focus some of your energy on a relationship. You meet a girl at a party. She's attractive. You start talking and she says, "I'm really ready to move on to the reproductive phase of my life". Do you a) think, "Dang! And I thought this was going to be work!" or b) run screaming into the night? That's what I thought.

The Neighbor and I watched "The Bachelor" last night. It's not really my favorite reality show but The Neighbor and I always have fun. And this season is set in Paris and what's not to love about that? (If Jim Carrey made a movie set in Paris I might watch it. Especially if it also starred Meg Ryan, Cate Blanchett and Diane Keaton. And if John Cusak and Colin Firth were in it, that would be great. And Alan Rickman. If it was written and directed by someone like Woody Allen or the Coen brothers, that would be good. And then, if all the scenes with Jim Carrey were left on the cutting room floor, that would be one superfantastic movie. Yep, I'd definitely watch it then.) I digress. There was one woman in the 25 who -seriously- described herself as having "rotting eggs". Later in the program, after she - shock of shocks - didn't get a rose, she was complaining to the other non-rose girls about how she'd tried everything, conventional dating, online dating, blind dates and no man would have her. It was really pretty sad. She apparently doesn't see that her "rotting eggs" line is not her strongest lead.

In other musings, one of my new year's intentions was to read at least 3 books I've never read before. So far, I'm not doing so well. I'm currently re-reading "Pure Drivel" by the brilliant Steve Martin, or as we like to call him, The Child's New Daddy. The library is holding Barack Obama's autobiography and I have to pick that up. So maybe that will be my first "new" book. I was going to get a book called "My Prescription for an Anti-depressive Life" by Jonathan Adler, about the importance of design in your environment. It sounded like a fun read. But when I found the book at Barnes and Noble it was a) $30 and 2) a coffee table book. It had pretty pictures but I have lots of books with pretty pictures and I was looking for something to read. All it did was put me in the mood to re-read "Domestic Bliss: Simple Ways to Add Style to Your Life" by Rita Konig, who writes for British Vogue. And I probably will re-read it but then I'll just be re-reading a book (albeit a very entertaining one) and not venturing into new territory. Maybe I'll see if I can find "Helena" by Evelyn Waugh. Our priest mentioned it in his homily on Sunday and apparently it was Waugh's favorites of all his books. Of course, my favorite Evelyn Waugh book is "Brideshead Revisited". Time to re-read that, too. I'm thinking that reading 3 new books is looking pretty ambitious at the moment.

Speaking of ambitious, I labeled 3 boxes of invitations in 2 hours today at the Cantwell office. It's a new volunteer record. I am so getting that tiara. Maybe they'll present it to me at the election night party and I can wear it on TV. That would be swell. I also got all my ironing done this afternoon. Which is also tiara worthy.

I also have the '06 intention of being a better gardener. I was going to start cleaning up all the beds and potagers, just 15 minutes a day, but enough to have everything cleaned up in time for spring. But it has been raining here for 23 straight days. This is God's judgment on me for living in Seattle in January.