I bought a pound of peas at the farmer’s market that cost me more than five dollars, and I thought, this is crazy. Five dollars for a pound of peas! But they are bright green and so so crunchy and they taste like sweet and like summer, and the peas in my garden are still only as high as my hips.
People spend five dollars on less all the time. You might spend five dollars on a beer or a pack of cigarettes or a very fancy coffee drink or a Big Mac, and I hardly spend five dollars on those things ever at all. Whereas these peas will make me happy all week long, if I don’t eat them all at once.
This evening after work I will pick up my first CSA box, filled with fruits and veggies from a farm a few miles north of town. These mysterious boxes will come once a week all summer. I don’t get to choose what’s in them - whatever is ready for picking each Wednesday morning is what I will get. Today I expect strawberries and onions and maybe beets. It’s going to get thorny when the arugula and parsnips start coming in, because what do you do with these things? I guess I will learn.
Craigslist magic has got me my first chest freezer. There’s nothing like frozen blueberries in March to remind you that the sun will be back. But it’s a not-so-fine line between throwing plastic bags of berries in the chest and pickling kohlrabi, which is more than my current putting-over proficiency allows. Sure, I jar jam. I grow carrots. But I don’t own a food mill. I don’t make my own yogurt. I’ve never brewed a beer or a jug of wine. I’m not sure where on this slippery slope of urban homesteading I will settle.
For now I’m crunching peas. I will miss going to the farmer’s market for little indulgences like this. I’ll still swing through for eggs and bread. But for the next few months my veggies will be whatever grows in my garden (the kale continues to thrive while the slugs have consumed all the pole beans) and whatever comes in the box. Lettuce, anyone? I have a whole lot of lettuce.
6.17.2009
6.08.2009
speed
No one is writing much anymore and I’m no exception. I don’t think anyone has time for reading, either. It’s practically summer. The days are so long now that life seems to have doubled. My friends are frenzied. My camping gear stays packed. My radishes are as big as your head. Ok, not really that big. But big.
This year is going somewhere fast, and I’ve given up keeping track of it. At this point I’m just holding on. I’ve been to Bend twice so far, for the hot dry days of hiking. I’ve been to fireworks and parades. I’ve pinned up my laundry in the yard. The AD pruned my maple and hung my gutters. All the babies I know keep doing things they didn’t used to do. What if this is how it goes from here on out?
I’m sitting at my desk right now, sipping chocolate milk, being in the moment. But in one hour and five minutes I will head out into the sunshine, and the bright warm world will be mine for four more hours, and suddenly it will be September. My calendar keeps filling up so I print out more pages.
This year is going somewhere fast, and I’ve given up keeping track of it. At this point I’m just holding on. I’ve been to Bend twice so far, for the hot dry days of hiking. I’ve been to fireworks and parades. I’ve pinned up my laundry in the yard. The AD pruned my maple and hung my gutters. All the babies I know keep doing things they didn’t used to do. What if this is how it goes from here on out?
I’m sitting at my desk right now, sipping chocolate milk, being in the moment. But in one hour and five minutes I will head out into the sunshine, and the bright warm world will be mine for four more hours, and suddenly it will be September. My calendar keeps filling up so I print out more pages.
5.26.2009
i'll learn to speak lion
Saturday morning, start of a three-day weekend, my little purple truck rolling through the lava fields of central Oregon, hot air blowing in the windows so loud it practically drowns out the stereo, bed packed to the gills with sleeping bags and folding chairs and a soccer ball and hiking boots, cab filled with me in my sunglasses singing and the AD in the passenger seat with his shirt off flipping through a map book and the AD’s daughter playing with her favorite Ironman action figure and the AD’s daughter’s fifteen favorite stuffed animals stacked on top of one cooler of string cheese sticks and soda, and here comes the high desert, here comes Madras and Metolius and Terrebonne and Deschutes, one shallow river and one deep cave and an impossible number of stars, but for right now just me and these people I love and the hot dry air and the highway. And I used to want other things from this life, I’m sure of it – but I can’t remember what they might have been.
5.19.2009
Nine Great Things About My Truck Break-In
1. The thief left behind my stereo.
2. The thief also left behind my GPS. Apparently the fact that I had wrapped it in a plastic grocery bag was effective camouflage, despite the cord connecting the plastic bag to the cigarette lighter.
3. Less surprisingly, the thief left behind my CDs, including John Denver, Man of La Mancha, and several good mixes.
4. The only thing the thief did take was the emergency bag that I bring out on my volunteer calls. The contents included a flashlight, a bottle of water, several pens, a glue stick, hand wipes, and a hat. It also included a packet of tissues, which perhaps the thief made use of when he realized the bag did not contain a laptop.
5. I discovered the smashed-up window ten minutes before last night’s downpour – exactly enough time to find a trash bag and some packing tape.
6. I have the sort of job where I can shoot my boss an email saying “My truck got broken into – I’m taking a long lunch to get it replaced,” and he will respond, “That sucks.”
7. Halfway between the AD’s house, where the truck was parked, and my house, is an auto glass place called Apple Auto, and their office is full of apple-themed trinkets.
8. Next to Apple Auto is the Sheridan Fruit Company, where they sell very good zucchini crepes at lunchtime.
9. An hour later, I had a good-as-new window. I went back to work.
This morning I came across an article about the passengers of US Air flight 1549 – the plane that to any reasonable expectation should have disappeared under the Hudson River with everyone aboard, but which, thanks to a very talented crew and tremendous fortune, landed safely on top of the river instead. Now, five months later, the passengers are angry that cash is missing from their returned belongings; they are banding together to sue for emotional damages. I think its time for each of them to make a list.
2. The thief also left behind my GPS. Apparently the fact that I had wrapped it in a plastic grocery bag was effective camouflage, despite the cord connecting the plastic bag to the cigarette lighter.
3. Less surprisingly, the thief left behind my CDs, including John Denver, Man of La Mancha, and several good mixes.
4. The only thing the thief did take was the emergency bag that I bring out on my volunteer calls. The contents included a flashlight, a bottle of water, several pens, a glue stick, hand wipes, and a hat. It also included a packet of tissues, which perhaps the thief made use of when he realized the bag did not contain a laptop.
5. I discovered the smashed-up window ten minutes before last night’s downpour – exactly enough time to find a trash bag and some packing tape.
6. I have the sort of job where I can shoot my boss an email saying “My truck got broken into – I’m taking a long lunch to get it replaced,” and he will respond, “That sucks.”
7. Halfway between the AD’s house, where the truck was parked, and my house, is an auto glass place called Apple Auto, and their office is full of apple-themed trinkets.
8. Next to Apple Auto is the Sheridan Fruit Company, where they sell very good zucchini crepes at lunchtime.
9. An hour later, I had a good-as-new window. I went back to work.
This morning I came across an article about the passengers of US Air flight 1549 – the plane that to any reasonable expectation should have disappeared under the Hudson River with everyone aboard, but which, thanks to a very talented crew and tremendous fortune, landed safely on top of the river instead. Now, five months later, the passengers are angry that cash is missing from their returned belongings; they are banding together to sue for emotional damages. I think its time for each of them to make a list.
5.08.2009
magic the house
Winston Churchill had a daughter named Marigold. Marigold.
I wonder if I will ever have a daughter. If I do perhaps she will already come to me with a name. Maybe I will have two daughters, or three. I have a friend with three and they seem to bring her nothing but joy. Of course they are still small, and daughters – if I or this particular friend are any indication – can grow into quite a headache when we’re older. But I think if she has another baby it will be girl again, and secretly she will be pleased.
In a game of Life last weekend I filled my plastic car with little pink pegs, surprising even myself. Greg Brown has a lovely song about daughters. I guess she lives on air and sun and noodles. Greg Brown has a daughter named Pieta.
My friend in Los Angeles has a daughter who last week locked her out of the house, and this daughter is only two. She knew what she was doing. She laughed as my friend pounded on the door. My friend was furious, and proud. She does not want her daughter to be obedient. For this she endures many things.
The AD has a daughter who is eight. I’m not sure if she likes me, but I’m sure she doesn’t like the idea of me. It’s a complicated distinction to be able to make at eight, and for this I give her credit. It is strange to admire someone for their ability to not like the idea of you.
I think if I ever have a daughter, and if I get to name her, I will name her something silly and marvelous like Marigold. I will try to teach her about all the things that don’t matter and about the few things that really do. That’s what I think now. You have all these plans about what kind of parent you will be, says my friend in Los Angeles. But then you have a child, and it turns out you had no idea.
Happy mother’s day.
I wonder if I will ever have a daughter. If I do perhaps she will already come to me with a name. Maybe I will have two daughters, or three. I have a friend with three and they seem to bring her nothing but joy. Of course they are still small, and daughters – if I or this particular friend are any indication – can grow into quite a headache when we’re older. But I think if she has another baby it will be girl again, and secretly she will be pleased.
In a game of Life last weekend I filled my plastic car with little pink pegs, surprising even myself. Greg Brown has a lovely song about daughters. I guess she lives on air and sun and noodles. Greg Brown has a daughter named Pieta.
My friend in Los Angeles has a daughter who last week locked her out of the house, and this daughter is only two. She knew what she was doing. She laughed as my friend pounded on the door. My friend was furious, and proud. She does not want her daughter to be obedient. For this she endures many things.
The AD has a daughter who is eight. I’m not sure if she likes me, but I’m sure she doesn’t like the idea of me. It’s a complicated distinction to be able to make at eight, and for this I give her credit. It is strange to admire someone for their ability to not like the idea of you.
I think if I ever have a daughter, and if I get to name her, I will name her something silly and marvelous like Marigold. I will try to teach her about all the things that don’t matter and about the few things that really do. That’s what I think now. You have all these plans about what kind of parent you will be, says my friend in Los Angeles. But then you have a child, and it turns out you had no idea.
Happy mother’s day.
4.29.2009
I'd buy whatever you would sell to me
The thing about Portland is that at two pm on a Tuesday afternoon you can decide you feel like Going Out, and you can flip through one of the two alternative weeklies, skim the readings and theater and film and music sections, weigh the potential fun of a Blazers game and darts in a neighborhood bar against three dollar Slumdog Millionaire in an old restored church that now serves up movies and beer, and decide finally on the alt-rock Austin band you haven’t heard about in seven years that’s playing again up on Mississippi.
And even though you live in a place with all these choices, you can drive there at five minutes to showtime, park half a block away right there on the street, walk up to the door and buy a ticket for fifteen dollars. The audience is small and on their feet already for the opener, and everyone is quiet and attentive. Between sets you sneak across the street to the place that serves southern food, open at ten to ten with a single waitress; you share a pile of fried okra as big as a basketball, and blackened catfish, and mac n cheese.
You hurry back in time to catch the headliner’s second song, and the room is more full now and vibrating, but still so small that you are reading the insignia on the lead singer’s t-shirt, admiring the bass’s crooked smile. Between songs the keyboardist chats with the audience like it’s a dinner party. He asks someone to look up a fact on her cell phone, and she does.
Before I moved here from Eugene I had this Portland fantasy, and the fantasy went something like this: Portland will be what I love about Oregon, plus what I miss about New York. It will have things to do on a Tuesday after dark, but these things will not require reservations and the right outfit and copious amounts of cash. And here I am dancing around in my blue sneakers with stars, and once in a while my boyfriend slips his hand into my back pocket like we’re teenagers, and I can’t believe my fortune.
And even though you live in a place with all these choices, you can drive there at five minutes to showtime, park half a block away right there on the street, walk up to the door and buy a ticket for fifteen dollars. The audience is small and on their feet already for the opener, and everyone is quiet and attentive. Between sets you sneak across the street to the place that serves southern food, open at ten to ten with a single waitress; you share a pile of fried okra as big as a basketball, and blackened catfish, and mac n cheese.
You hurry back in time to catch the headliner’s second song, and the room is more full now and vibrating, but still so small that you are reading the insignia on the lead singer’s t-shirt, admiring the bass’s crooked smile. Between songs the keyboardist chats with the audience like it’s a dinner party. He asks someone to look up a fact on her cell phone, and she does.
Before I moved here from Eugene I had this Portland fantasy, and the fantasy went something like this: Portland will be what I love about Oregon, plus what I miss about New York. It will have things to do on a Tuesday after dark, but these things will not require reservations and the right outfit and copious amounts of cash. And here I am dancing around in my blue sneakers with stars, and once in a while my boyfriend slips his hand into my back pocket like we’re teenagers, and I can’t believe my fortune.
4.21.2009
draft
On our first night in the desert we slept in the front of a convertible that the lonely Enterprise late-night countergirl had upsold us in the Palm Springs airport parking lot. We had landed late, and then gone grocery shopping, and then stopped for food n’ drinks at a candlelit patio bar. So by the time we rolled into Joshua Tree, past the darkened ranger station and the shuttered guardhouse, it seemed like the sleep of least resistance.
We pulled over by the side of the road and left the top down. The stars were out but the back was full of bags and the seats didn’t fully recline, so for at least two hours I curled up in the passenger footwell. It was perfect.
In the morning the ranger caught me leaning over the trunk in my slippers, and she should have given us a ticket but didn’t. After that we hardly saw a soul. We parked the car by a trailhead and scrambled over rocks for three days straight, sleeping out without a tent and heating soupcans on a sterno. There were a lot of lizards. The cacti and dry little wildflowers were in bloom.
We crouched in the shade in the late afternoons, waiting for the sun to sink behind mountains after a long day of heat. We drank our heavy water. We talked. The AD read to me chapter after chapter of the book we brought along. This I could do for a long, long time, I thought.
On our last day in the desert we packed it out, passing a palm grove and a tortoise in the path who watched us watch him eat a flower. Like him I feel dried out and delivered, ready and in no rush at all.
We pulled over by the side of the road and left the top down. The stars were out but the back was full of bags and the seats didn’t fully recline, so for at least two hours I curled up in the passenger footwell. It was perfect.
In the morning the ranger caught me leaning over the trunk in my slippers, and she should have given us a ticket but didn’t. After that we hardly saw a soul. We parked the car by a trailhead and scrambled over rocks for three days straight, sleeping out without a tent and heating soupcans on a sterno. There were a lot of lizards. The cacti and dry little wildflowers were in bloom.
We crouched in the shade in the late afternoons, waiting for the sun to sink behind mountains after a long day of heat. We drank our heavy water. We talked. The AD read to me chapter after chapter of the book we brought along. This I could do for a long, long time, I thought.
On our last day in the desert we packed it out, passing a palm grove and a tortoise in the path who watched us watch him eat a flower. Like him I feel dried out and delivered, ready and in no rush at all.
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