The Kitchen Garden Novice Shops

Ah, New Year's Eve, that day of paradox. We look forward to a new year, and we reflect on the one past. We glut ourselves on party food, knowing full well our conscience will dictate tomorrow's fast.
"Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we diet."  We enjoy the last day of holiday decorations, reluctant to give up that tinsel and glitter for a whole year. Yet we concede that New Years Day, those decorations become a bit like half deflated balloons the day after a celebration. Post-party depression sets in.

If you're like me, the after Christmas sales are more than overstock clearance--they're a tradition! I have always eagerly participated in this rite of consumer bone-picking. And so, this past week, funded by a bit of Christmas bonus, I perused the aisles for after holiday mark-downs, too good to pass up.

Only a funny thing happened. I didn't buy a thing. Nothing. Zip. Nada. It's not that I'd received so much for Christmas. Our gift-giving this year was limited to grandchildren and a very low dollar limit on the adults. But for some reason, as I browsed the clearance racks, I couldn't find a thing I needed. What's worse, I couldn't find a thing I wanted. Huh. Who'da thunk it? Could it be that all of my postcon-sumerism indoctrination has finally sunk in? Naw. I doubt it.

I came home to reflect. If I couldn't find anything I wanted to purchase, why was I still feeling unfulfilled? An empty nagging hole remained. Perhaps meditation would help. I visualized the "hole in my soul," a cavernous ravine near the pit of my stomach. What could fill this gnawing chasm? What was it I really, really wanted?

Softly, slowly it came to me. I wanted--dare I say even needed--an outlet for my creativity. And where does one look for such a commodity? I thought of all the things I love to tangibly create. I'm happiest when I'm writing or scrapping. There's something about the tactile sensation of paper textures, the scent of inks and glues, the splash of colors and text that ignites that creative spark in me. Yet, simply creating has not been enough it seems. I have always crafted scrap pieces and cards for friends and family. And what has been my reward? Probably the gratification that someone appreciates my work. Hardly a purely altruistic motivation. No, simply creating was not enough. I needed to give that gift to someone, a stranger, without the certain knowledge of appreciation.

So I desired an outlet for anonymous, creative giving. Now I ask you--is that a tall order or what? Turns out--not so much. I googled "card making" and "donating" and one of the first sites to pop up on my search list was an organization called Operation Write Home. This is a grass roots group that crafts homemade, blank greeting cards and distributes them to service men and women to keep in touch with their families while they are deployed. Score!

Isn't it funny the way the God comes through for you when you simply ask? And isn't it lucky that this postconsumer convert still knows where to shop?

So, my friends, I'm off to craft my first batch of cards for the worthiest of strangers. Now if that Christmas tree would only take itself down. Sigh...

Season's Greetings

It's official. I am a season's greetings slacker. That's right. I have unabashedly exited the postal list off-ramp and merged onto the cyber on-ramp. Every Thanksgiving I start out with good intentions: to write personal Christmas notes, to craft individual cards. And then by the second week of December I have fallen hopelessly behind schedule. By the week of Christmas I'm so snowed under, a Troy-bilt Blower couldn't dig me out.

So I admit defeat, and I resort to emailing my holiday missives. Sigh...

And I've actually reached the age where I send those obnoxious pictures...not of my kids...not even of my grandkids...but of...well...my dog. I know it's insufferable, but...she's just so darn cute! Okay so we had to take the pictures fast and the hat only lasted as long as the chew stick did. But you've got to admit she's very photogenic.

So here in no particular order is a list of CoCo's Canine Christmas Carols:

 

"Up On The Woof Top"

"Happy Howlidays!"

                        

"Bark the Herald

       Angels Sing"

                      

"Fleas Navidad"   

"I Saw Mommy Lickin' Santa's Paws"  

and:   (drumroll please)

"I'll Have a Blue Christmas Without Chew"

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

CoCo Chanel

 



The Kitchen Garden Novice Decks the Halls

Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.

Buddha



My nephew posted this quote to his FB page recently. Seems like a sound aspiration. (And something to which I try to adhere.) But Christmas is one of those times of year when staying in the present becomes a quest of Quixotic proportions. Take for instance yesterday morning, when I decided to decorate the Christmas tree. Immersed in holiday happiness, I pulled the first ornament from the bin. In the blink of St. Nick's eye, I was transported back in time.

I know what you're thinking: rosy cheeked cherubs, carols, nativity scenes, and holidays past. But that's at somebody else's house. That's not how we roll. For years, hubby and I choose to find Christmas ornaments on each of our summer vacation trips to here and yon. We don't buy T-shirts, hats, or teaspoons. We buy Christmas ornaments. And so, at Christmas time we remember those far-away ports of call.

As I decorated. I reminisced. There was the bulb we picked up at hubby's pilgrimage to Graceland, a visit I almost ruined for him with my snooty, snarky attitude. (I was not very enlightened then.)

       I unwrapped the little mouse

       with the wine rack

       we'd picked up in

       California wine country.

       (She was, I confess,

        accompanied home

        by several bottles of

        Pinot and Chardonnay.)

There was the hand-painted

sand dollar we picked up

at a boutique in

Myrtle Beach on a trip
when we pulled into town

in the wake of

Hurricane Charlie.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you, but not from you...

Kahill Gibran

Have I conveyed to you how proud I am of my daughter?  Baby Girl was born an old soul, a child of God who has been around for eons. She's much more enlightened than I am.

Take for example this evening. I checked in with her as usual on my cell while driving home from work. (Before you jump to conclusions, let me just say that my cell conversations while driving are always "hands free.") I don't know what we did before the days of "family plan" calling contracts. Rarely a day goes by when the daughter figure and I don't reach out and touch each other via cell waves. Our daily conferences began years ago when she moved to the big city--sort of a soothing pacifier for mother/daughter separation anxiety. As the years fly by, the calls continue, although, I suspect, I am more dependent upon them than she. But I digress...

Anyway, Baby Girl proceeded to tell me about her week at work. She had scored a major victory in the office dynamics department with a boss who is beginning to value her opinions and suggestions. Did she do this by subterfuge and back-stabbing office politics? No. She quietly waited for her boss to seek her out and request her input. Then she gave her pragmatic observations on building a practice in a down economy and allowed her boss to digest and evaluate her ideas.

I signed off, thinking how lucky I am to know such a Zen master-in-the-making. I marvel at her wisdom and insight at such a young age. It occurs to me that she is just like her grandmother. My mother served for decades as a church secretary--the key word here is "served." Do you know what it's like to have 300 people who all think they're your boss? She became a master of diplomacy, a model of humility. Did those whom she served honor and value her? Absolutely.

The wonder of it all is that Baby Girl's grandmother died when BG was only twelve. In those twelve years, they were largely separated by 1400 miles. I have to deduce that the traits my daughter inherited from her grandmother are hard-wired into her genes. I'd like to take full credit for the amazing young woman my daughter has become, but...if the debate arises over whether Nature or Nurture most influenced her growth, Nature surely wins. Grandmother and granddaughter share the same intuitive grace and freedom from ego. I can claim little of the honor for Baby Girl's amazing growth. I merely stand in awe at what Nature so exquisitely designed.

And I ask you--how does your garden grow?

And Justice For All

It is in justice that the ordering of society is centered. 

Aristotle

It's hard to argue with someone who has the articulate staying power of Aristotle.  I get that. But when I am compelled to be part of the justice system, I'll be the first to confess that I drag my heals.  I'd much prefer to leave karma to take care of said justice.

For the past few years, as a student of Unity, I've worked very hard to control the ego-based urge to judge--other people, events, relationships. It's not easy, but I'm learning. This past week the Universe delivered a practical exam on the subject. 

First an incident ocurred where I was required to file a report with Animal Control over an attack by a neighbor's dog. I was torn about it. The dog certainly couldn't be blamed because the owners hadn't trained her well or assured that the gate was locked. But it was the second time the same dog had charged us as we walked down the street.  If I didn't take the initiative the dog might hurt a child.  No sooner had I made that call when the dog attacked a meter reader. Still...it was a curiously sick feeling that accompanied my interview with the AC officer.

Then, on Tuesday I was summoned for jury duty in district court. I'd never before been called to be a juror. I would be quite content to go the rest of my life without repeating the experience. It was...shall we say...a revealing exposure to some of the seedier elements of humanity and the flawed judicial process. Long story short, we, the jury were lead to convict a mother whose son threw her under the bus, even though he was as complicit in the crime as she. And his girlfriend also testified against her (although she was a worthless, whacked-out witness.) There were no innocents here. Deliberation took less than a half hour.

 Sounds pretty judgemental, doesn't it? That's what bothers me. It took one week of immersion in "judgedom" to awaken my inner Judge Judy. Errrrgghhhh. I felt...well...icky. Out of curiosity I polled the rest of the jury. "How did everyone sleep last night," I asked.

"I slept fine," stated several.

"I didn't sleep at all," related a few.

And I found myself appraising--judging each jury member by how they coped with their assignment, and how many of them felt sick like me. I had worked for two years at suppressing what some would say is a natural instinct--that ego based need to weigh, evaluate, appraise, and assess according to my own perceptions. In one short week, all my positive control had come unravelled like an old sweater. It will take weeks of prayer and meditation to repair it. Cue heavy sighing here.

Perhaps I'm being too hard on myself with these two incidents. Life is, after all, an on-the-job training course. I'm sure this won't be the last time I'm tested. Maybe that's why the Universe placed me on this path this past week--advanced life lesson learned. Check.

From My Patio: A Fire-Red Dawn

We've already established that I'm not a morning person.  So anytime I'm obligated by appointment or duty to arise before I'm ready, it's accompanied by great growling and grumbling. So it was that I arose at 6:15 this morning, in order to breakfast, shower and awaken enough for an 8:00 am doctor's visit. I begrudgingly kicked the covers off, rolled out of bed, and stumbled to the kitchen for coffee, followed by an even sleepier puppy. But as I opened the sliders to the patio, it "dawned" on me that this was not to be the average morning.
No chirping of birds and crickets. The usual critters' chorus had been replaced by a slow, soothing drip of raindrops. What a treat! Rain is such an infrequent gift in the desert, it is an occasion to be savored. I curled up under the patio eves, coffee cup in hand, content to postpone my morning rush.

It had been a stressful week, marked by a dog attack on my sweet puppy, the third such vicious encounter in eight months. It seemed that humanity's malcontent and unease had spilled over into the animal kingdom. The world looked very much out of control.

But as I sat in the stillness of hushed sprinkles and distant rumbles of thunder, a profound peace fell over me. Low clouds raced across an ever lightening sky. Misty gray patches gave way to growing holes of brighter blue. Suddenly, the sky ignited, ablaze with fire.

What was that old nautical adage? Red sky at morning--sailors take warning!  I smiled. A lifetime ago, this superstitious individual would have taken the red sky as an omen. But this morning...for the first time this week I felt completely and utterly at peace. No worries, no bad joo joo. Our fleeting storm passed on, leaving everything fresh and new, washing over me like an early morning baptism.

Had the Universe orchestrated this pageant for my personal enlightenment?  Perhaps.  God is in control, and I don't have to be. I don't even need to understand it. And all I can say is, "Thank you, God...thank you, God...thank you, God, for this most perfect day."

Confessions of a Delinquent Blogger

Bless me readers, for I have sinned. It's been 12 days since my last blog entry and these are my excuses:

• 1. I've been studying for my state licensing.
• 2. I've been studying for my state licensing.
• 3. I've been studying for my state licensing.

You get the picture.

This morning as I meditated, it occurred to me that I hadn't made a brain dump in quite a while. That's how I like to think of these little journaling sessions--brain dumps. Sometimes they're intellectual musings, sometimes pure babble whimsy. But I'm rather committed to them. They started as a discipline with my gardening project. But they evolved into something more complex, less tangible.

And today it hit me.  I'm feeling GUILT because I've let my blogging slide. Oh, I've had very good reasons, but still, there's that sense of remorse. What started as a spiritual, existential exercise has now become a "task," one more thing to check off my "to do" list. When did my big ego attachment to accomplishment, morph my joy of writing into...well...work? There I go again, forgetting that I'm a human being--not a human doing.

And yet, I've missed this time at my blog, the assertive stroke of fingers against keys, pouring forth words of creative joy and angst. So as my penance/privilege, I vow to visit as often as I possibly can, not because of any sense of obligation, but because I can think of no place I'd rather be. It's the same activity, but the motivation makes all the difference. And...I surrender to the task.

"...when God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work--this is a gift of God. That man seldom reflects on the days of his life, because God keeps him occupied with gladness of heart."   Ecclesiastes 5:19

And Now for Something Totally Different: The Signs of the Season

Ah, September! The turning leaves, the smell of wood smoke, the chill in the air. Okay, so that’s someplace else. Here in the desert, the shift in seasons is a bit more subtle. I can always tell when autumn is "in the air." I'm serenaded at 7:00 am by the cadence of drums and horns from marching band practice at the high school. When you can tolerate drinking a morning cup of hot coffee, sitting on your patio (without accompanying hot flashes,) it's a good indicator that summer is waning.

We in Havasu observe a sure heralding of the change in season, more predictable than geese flying south for the winter, more certain than critters growing a heavy coat. It’s the invasion of the campaign sign. No sooner does Labor Day dictate the return of kids to school and the packing away of white sandals, than election banners pop up on every corner like Scorpion Weed after a spring rain.

In a community which prides itself on tight control of advertising banners, campaign signs seem oddly incongruous. They sprout overnight like teenage acne the day before the prom, first one, then another until an entire lot is covered. Since vacant lots in Lake Havasu have become increasingly scarce, what lots there are become literally (and litterly) overrun with bigger and brighter signs. Can anyone driving by even distinguish among the names? And please explain to me the need for more than one of the same banners posted on the same lot. Does the possibility of monsoon winds mandate more than one sign be placed just in case one blows away? And what intellectual proposed the notion a candidate's name on a piece of cardboard will guarantee voters will vote for said individual? Obviously not an environmentalist. How many trees died to stake that elective hopeful's claim?

For the sake of investigative honesty, I Googled "campaign signs" to learn how they're made. Most are not manufactured solely from wood pulp, but from a combination of poster board coated with plastic. One manufacturer boasted their signs would survive a nuclear winter! Yikes!

The same website proposed you only need five things to get elected, and I quote: "Name recognition, a couple of good issues, name recognition, name recognition, and name recognition." Some of our local candidates appear to have been drinking the Koolaid. I take offense to the assertion that the average voter makes his/her decisions in the ballot booth based on how many times they've encountered someone's name while driving down the highway. Yesterday I counted 28 campaign banners on the way to work. (I stopped counting at 28 when an exasperated driver cut me off, honking.) 

This fixation with campaign signs got me to thinking--someone should put a stop to this madness. Perhaps we need a candidate who is willing to run on one issue--a ban on campaign signage. I'm not volunteering for the job--I'm no martyr. After all, how would I get my message out there? But as long as campaign signs continue to sprout on the horizon I shall mount the charge in search of a suicidal champion who might agree with me. Anyone out there? I'm waiting for the Universe to send me a sign.

And Now for Something Totally Different: Zippedy Do-Dah!

My hubby thinks I'm trying to kill him. You see, several years ago, we started trying some extreme recreation while on vacation.  It began with a hot-air balloon ride one year over Lake Tahoe. Once I realized that my fear of heights was highly exaggerated, I had an epiphany. The adrenaline rush from trying something new and daring was worth every moment of anxiety I conjured up in my imagination. I was hooked.

Having conquered hot-air ballooning, we progressed on to wilder, even more exciting adventures.  We tried white water rafting on the Truckee River. On that particular odyssey, I was the only member of our family to be thrown into the raging river (and, might I add--it was my daughter who rescued me--not hubby.) Then we swam with stingrays and snorkeled in Grand Cayman. Actually we snorkeled there more than once. During the second occasion hubby almost drowned in a stormy sea on a day that no human had any business in the water. That might have been the tipping point--my hubby's enthusiasm for adventure had dampened in direct correlation with his soggy demeanor.

Still, he was a willing participant when we signed up for zip-lining in the rainforest of Jamaica. And what a blast! So much so, that on our most recent trip to Mexico, it took nothing to persuade him to sign on for the same sort of excursion.

But on this trip, as we scrambled our way up to the first platform, we realized the limitations of two geezers who could see "60" at the top of the hill.

"I'm getting too old for this s*%t!" hubby growled, stopping to catch his breath. Each zip was preceded by an ever more strenuous ascent. We started at the front of our fellow zippers. By the fourth platform, we were bringing up the rear. Only sheer determination, the fear of humiliation, and the absence of any other way down kept us moving. Two hours, fourteen platforms and 1500 feet altitude later, we rode the last zipline down to the homebase. I've never felt so whupped! We walked away with a harrowing story to tell and an "I Survived" T-shirt.

The next Sunday I went to church, eager to share my adventure. But before I could even get to coffee fellowship and deliver my tall tale, our pastor shared this video: http://www.noob.us/miscellaneous/kids-ride-a-zip-line-to-go-to-school/.
What my husband and I experienced as a feat comparable to climbing Mt Everest, one family of mini-zippers made look like child's play. Hubby and I had been seriously one-upped. And never again will I complain about the kids who shortcut across our yard on the way to school.

As for next year...wonder how my beloved feels about bungee jumping. Hmm....

The Kitchen Garden Novice Follows Her Family Branches

The Zellers

My great-grandmother, Ella Dieckmann, married Oscar Zeller who lived on the corner, across the street in Wheatland, Iowa. I haven't discovered a great deal about my great-grandfather, Oscar. The Zeller family came to Wheatland from the Oxford Junction area. The 1880 US Census lists Oscar's father, Joseph Zeller as 48 years old at that time and having emigrated from Bavaria. Joseph's wife, Lena, age 39 at the time of that census, had also been born in Bavaria. Ellis Island records reveal that Joseph arrived on a ship named Jenny on July 22, 1865, manifest ID#00010492. His occupation was listed as a barber.

Joseph and Lena had four children, Theodore, Lillie, Joseph, and my great-grandfather, Oscar Zeller.

Grandmother Ruth Zeller Van Kirk recalled that her father owned a farm. When he and Ella's children were still at home, Oscar began to go blind. In those days, medical care was scarce and Oscar was travelling all over Eastern Iowa, looking for a cure. University of Iowa Medical Center actually pulled all of his teeth! Then at the age of 42 he developed appendicitis and died of a blood clot following surgery. He left Ella with four children to raise, Harold (Uncle Jones,) who was graduating from high school that year, Ethel (Aunt Midge,) Grandma Ruth, who was 8 years old at the time, and Darrell, (Uncle Darry,) who was only 18 months old.

I cannot imagine the grief for Oscar's young family. And after the funeral the unthinkable occurred. It had rained heavily the week of the burial. As the hearse turned up the dirt road to St. Paul's Cemetery in Wheatland, it became stuck in the rutted mud. The family watched in horror as the undertaker and funeral attendees struggled to push the hearse out of the ditch. In the months after that debacle, the entire Wheatland community underwent a fundraising campaign to pave the road out to St. Paul's Cemetery.

Great-Grandmother Ella sold the farm Oscar owned on a contract and raised her four children on the income from that sale. Those funds, combined with the food they raised in her vegetable garden, kept the family (and half of the depression burdened neighborhood) fed.

Ella Zeller set the example for strong women in my family. Although we never met, I know her through the stoicism of my grandmother, the grace of my mother, the resilience of my sister, and the steadfast pragmatism of my daughter.

The Kitchen Garden Novice: On Picking

I have a confession to make. I am a closet fan of the History Channel's American Pickers. I can veg out and watch that show mindlessly for an hour. (Actually, if you throw in a Mexican take-out dinner, I'll watch for several. Follow it with an episode of Pawn Stars, and I can be in front of the tube for days.) 

For those of you who haven't enjoyed this guilty pleasure, American Pickers is a docu-reality show that follows two antique dealers, Mike and Frank, as they scour the rural landscape in search of resellable...well...junk.  Let's just call it what it is. Most of their acquisitions lay untouched, unnoticed for decades in someone's yard, basement, or barn, just waiting to be uncovered and possibly, possibly restored.  Some of their finds they resell "as is." The value of those items is enhanced by the patina of their age and decay. Patina--that's a euphemism for "rust," isn't it?

I cannot tell you why I have become a Pickers junkie. We've already established the fact that I get a kick out of recycling old vintage clothing--(see my previous post on Skirting the Issue.) Perhaps I identify with Mike and Frank's sense of adventure in the hunt. But that's about where my empathy ends. Once they uncover a stash of "treasure" it's a bit like viewing scavengers rip apart a carcass. As they zero in on what they really want, let the games begin. Mike and Frank are masters at haggling over trash.

The most recent episode centered around a hot tip they received from their homebase about a man named Hobo Jack. They followed this lead down the railroad tracks and into the woods to a dump site of landfill proportions. In the timber they met one wily picker who had been collecting ''stuff" for decades. They spent hours sifting through piles of junk, superficially covered under tarps and inside dilapidated shacks. I'm not even sure the property belonged to Hobo Jack. Mike and Frank were like two kids on Christmas morning.

Now what struck me about this episode was not that these two pickers were so enthralled by their discovery. What blew me away was Hobo Jack.  He spent decades acquiring stuff and squirreling it away. For what? He wasn't even aware anymore what he had or where it was. He had attended no careful maintenance to any of his cache. But when offered cash for some of his horde, you would have thought he was in possession of museum objets d'art. He immediately recognized the Gollum-like gleam of greed in the two pickers' eyes. And he drove the hard bargain. After much dickering, Jack accepted several thousand dollars for a few of his treasures. And I had to wonder...what will a hobo do with that kind of money?

I'm left to marvel at the irony of it all. One man's trash is indeed another man's treasure. We value that which we want. Those things are only valuable because we assign their worth to them. Centuries from now, if the same items remain and have not gone to dust, will they be of value to everyone or to just a select few--those born to be pickers?

Waiting on Orlando

During every cruise there are one or two individuals who simply "make" your trip. On our recent cruise to Mexico, this person came in the form of our head waiter, Orlando. The first night at dinner he introduced himself to our table with a shy smile, and quickly beguiled us all with his humble manner and gracious service. "Something for dessert, Misses Soosahn?" "How is your steak, Meester Reechard?"  We were charmed.

Over the week, he told us of his family back in Manila. This was his fifth contract with the cruise line. He worked for seven months on board and then spent two months back in Manila in between stints. His wife in Manila kept the home fires burning in his absence, raising their three children ages 13, 10, and 8.

"My son ees now tirteen. It ees harder every year," he said, teary eyed.

Then it was time for the wait-staff entertainment, and we discovered a different side of Orlando.  This sweet little Filipino busted moves that would make a Chippendale Dancer blush! He shimmied and gyrated like a pro, and we were laughing so hard, I feared we might have to use the Heimlich Maneuver on someone at our table. (Whoever said that "laughter is good for the digestion" clearly never took into account the consumption of Molten Chocolate Cake after a meal of Roasted Duck.) "Does your thirteen-year-old know you can dance like that?" we teased him.

"Oh, no!" he said gasping in horror. "What happens on cruise ship, stays on cruise ship."

One night after dinner he entertained us with table tricks, involving silverware and water glasses. The next evening it was sleight-of-hand magic. Was there anything this shy little waiter couldn't do? We soon found out. One night he tried out a joke he'd heard on a transpacific flight. The punch line got totally lost in translation, but we all laughed anyway. We simply warned him not to quit his day job.

Late in the week, after a day when we'd all been in port, the unthinkable happened. Our table of eight sat down to dinner, only to be greeted by two total strangers. Two different waiters handed us our menus and served our bread. I glanced around the table and met several questioning gazes. Finally one of my fellow diners voiced what we were all thinking. "Where's Orlando?"

"Oh, they put him off the ship in port," cracked the substitute waiter. I swear, he actually sneered when he said it.

Someone cleared his throat. No one spoke. No one made eye contact.  In silence, we perused the menu options of entrees. It was as if we were all holding our breath in subdued anxiety. 

Then, by the magic of pure intention, Orlando appeared. And everyone exhaled. The tension at the table evaporated. Stories of what we'd done that day were traded back and forth, an easy banter of good will and joking.

And suddenly I saw the irony of it. For a week, Orlando had been waiting on us, attending to our every desire, our slightest need. But for one brief moment, we were the ones who had been waiting...waiting on Orlando.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Plays

Dear Sis,

It has been a long, ugly, crappy, trying week. Work challenges, compounded with conflict from one particular colleague have spiraled and sucked me up into a big, black funnel cloud of discontent. To top it all off, I haven't been sleeping well (due to the aforementioned,) and the puppy got me up at 5:00 am today because she's feeling neglected. Bad Mommy!

So after a cup of coffee and a half-hearted attempt to do some meditation, I threw a leash on her and let her drag me down the street for a walk. Maybe a little exercise and fresh air could restore my Zen, eh?

I still couldn't let go of all the drama rolling around in my little pea-brain. In my comatose stupor, I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. No, I didn't do an endo, but it snapped me out of my delirium long enough to make me look down. You know how you look for the affronting obstacle that audaciously tripped you? Nothing there but that crack in the sidewalk, but something I spied "cracked" me up. There, on the concrete, one of the neighborhood kids had scrawled "Go!" with a big arrow.

As soon as I read the , I was transported back to when we were kids. Do you remember those summer nights we played "Go Sheepie, Go"? I don't recall any actual rules for the game--just two teams, one hiding, one searching. The "hiders" ran, armed with chalk to draw directional arrows for the second team. Some of the arrows were in plain sight. Others were drawn in less obvious spots or as total red herrings, leading the second team down a blind alley. I think that was about as much fun as a group of kids could have on a warm summer night.

I ventured a bit farther on my quest to regain balance, still thinking about those summer games so many years ago, and I spotted this:

followed by this:

and then this:

And all the arrows led directly down to the school.  The last entry before the street that circles the school read, "Look both ways before crossing."  This was no game of "Go Sheepie, Go!" This was the work of a pint-sized Tony Robbins, motivating the neighborhood kids on their first day back to school.  I suspect that the sidewalk pep rally was NOT applied with something as benign as chalk. So in the interest of maintaining this little neighborhood tagger's cheerleader's anonymity, I'll refrain from posting a picture of the list of the names involved. But I owe them all a personal thank-you. On a week when I was feeling particularly lost, those children restored my sense of direction and pointed me back to where life was simple, carefree and fun.

And, knowing that you're a harried and tired teacher (who should be REtired,) I thought you might like to join me on the journey down Memory Lane.

Go Sheepie! Go!

Sis

The Kitchen Garden Novice At Sea

Can anything rival a morning at sea?
The sound of the ship, gliding through cobalt glassy waves,
A paradox of simultaneous "hush" and "roar."

No sound exists

but the thrum of engines,
the rhythmic soughing of swell against hull.

No other ships on the horizon.
No land. No bird.

Nothing but sky and sea.

A solitary moment in a day,

soon to be bustling with fellow passengers.

The sheer power of water stuns the senses.
One drop quenches the thirst
of parched leaf, dry tongue.
United with many,
the same drop carries an oceanliner.

Water returns to water.
Rain falls to earth.
Streams trickle to rivers.
Rivers flow to oceans, and evaporate to mist.
And the process begins again,
Returning, recycling, renewing.
Water, reborn.

Can anything rival a morning at sea?

The Kitchen Garden Novice : Schlepping Excess Baggage

I once flew to southern California for a week's vacation outfitted with nothing more than an overnight bag. Back then, I knew how to travel light. Not so much, anymore.

Today, hubby and I headed for the coast to take a week-long cruise with a trunk-load of luggage to rival Cleopatra's on her barge down the Nile. Two days of whirlwind packing prefaced our departure, and that included careful consideration as to what pieces I could combine to eliminate others. Two huge pullmans, one overnight, and two garment bags later we were loaded and headed out of town. Oh, and don't forget the carry-on tote I schlep just for jewelry, passports, and all our geezer meds.

Now I ask you, when did I morph into this up-tight traveler who has to drag half her life along on the journey? It kind of bugs me, this dependence I've developed to "stuff." I can rationalize and justify just about everything I've packed. But really, why do I "need" it? Will someone point and snicker if my shoes don't match my skirt for dinner? And if they do, why should I care? I'm not going to see these people again, anyway!

Yes it's downright annoying--my compulsion to drag all this excess baggage with me. My fragile little ego feeds on my identification with all that excess cargo I cannot leave behind. That's not who I am!
I am the girl who flew to Los Angeles with two changes of clothing, my toothbrush, and a bathing suit and had a ball--because she packed her sense of adventure.

Next trip, I vow to do better. I will get by on two sets of shoes. I will be satisfied with one formal outfit. I will rent snorkeling equipment at my destination. But, I will pack my sense of wonder, my patience, excitement, and spontaneity.

Did I mention that one hour out of town I remembered the "St. Thomas" straw hat I take on every trip?

"There are tons of places at the piers to buy hats," hubby scoffed.

Best not to mention that I also neglected to bring our SoCal road atlas. Hope we don't get lost.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Skirts the Issue

Never trust a generic, off-brand sewing pattern called "So Easy."  What a misnomer!  It should have been called "So NOT Easy." 

This all started when I tried to find a skirt for my upcoming cruise. I've had a gold, beaded shell hanging in my closet for two years (purchased at a consignment store--I am nothing if not frugal about my formal wear.) But I had nothing to go with that piece. I'd looked everywhere for a chiffony, cocktail skirt to wear with said shell. No go. And it wasn't like I wanted to invest a small fortune in a skirt I might wear once a year.

That's when I got the bright idea to sew a skirt. Genius! The second obstacle occurred when I couldn't find any sheer, shiny fabric. Not to worry! Taking a cue from my boss as work, an avid, cheap  thrifty seamstress, I perused the clearance racks of window coverings at the store. There I found a gold, silk curtain panel--a perfect match. If Scarlett O'Hara could do it, so could I.

I already had a pattern (or so I thought.) But upon cutting out the tissue pieces I began to have my doubts. I rechecked the measurements the pattern listed for a size 8. Yep, a size 8 should fit fine. So I proceeded to stitch the skirt together. Just to make sure, (before I went to the effort of putting a zipper in,) I tried to fit the skirt around my waist/ hips.  "Tried" being the operative word. As I pulled the fabric around my middle, it became clear. Not since the Middle East Peace talks had two sides been so far apart of meeting in the middle. Errrgggghhh!

"Maybe you can just add another panel," hubby suggested.

"I'm not sure I have enough fabric left in the curtain to cut another panel," I replied.  But it was worth a shot. So I managed to eek out one more panel from the curtain length and attach it to the rest of the skirt. Since the facing pattern for the top of the skirt was no longer going to fit, I decided to fold the top of the skirt over into an elastic casing. Now my six-gore skirt had become a seven-gore skirt.

It was time to try it on again.  I slipped the skirt/cylinder over my head and tugged it down to my hips. And...it fit, like a glove (and not OJ Simpson's glove.)  The only problem was getting back out of it which proved a bit like getting out of a wetsuit.

"I think you're going to have to put the zipper in," commented hubby.

When had I married Tim Gunn, the fashion critic? And why had I started this project on a day when he was home? "I don't know if the fabric will hold up to me pulling out a seam," I snarled.

"Well, there's always Velcro," hubby quipped.

The seam ripper is my friend...the seam ripper is my friend.  I gingerly removed about seven inches on the back seam and rebasted it. I laid the zipper along the the seam edge and stitched down the first placket. And...the needle hit a straight-pin and snapped. I swear, if I hadn't had a spare needle in my sewing box, the entire project would have ended up in the trash.

I can't even begin to explain how I Macgyvered the waist casing together. Let's just say--it ain't pretty. But I didn't use Velcro. In the end I created a skirt which I may only wear one time. But since I only have $7 (and a whole lot of aggravation) invested in the finished product, who cares? Scarlett O'Hara--eat your heart out!

No, But If You Hum a Few Bars...

"Listen...the puppy is singing herself to sleep again."

"Mmmm," hubby mumbled, half asleep. "She'll quit in a minute."

It is a strange phenomenon, this "singing" our little girl does at bedtime. Every night when we put her in her kennel and turn off the lights we can hear her, adjusting to darkness, quiet. Now I know what some of you are thinking, but...before we go into the debate over animal cruelty and locking a puppy into  a "cage" let me just say this: we have kenneled our baby since she was eight weeks old. Her crate is her safe place--her den. When she needs a nap or just quiet time, it is her favorite spot. But I doth protest too much, me thinks...

Anyway back to her singing. CoCo has "sung" for the past several months. It's not a whine. It's not a whimper. It's not a mewling, a keening, or howl. It's more like the sound Gizmo, the Mogwai made in the movie, Gremlins. She starts as soon as the lights are out and the house is quiet. I guess you could say we have Ferberized her and she is self-soothing. I'm not really sure how long she sings. Most evenings, I fall asleep to her melody.

And...I admit that I find her singing remarkable. I'm in awe of her ability to calm and quiet herself. It's as if her singing helps her connect to the Source.  Me and my big ego--I have to constantly, consciously shew away my inner drama--that mental cacophony running non-stop inside my little mind. CoCo seems to know exactly what she needs. Like a baby sucking her thumb, she sings her way to her happy place and drifts off to sleep. Hers is a lullaby that soothes and comforts me, as well.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure why I haven't tried this myself. As we've already established, I come from a long line of singers, and we've all used music to connect us to our God. I often sing/chant during meditation and prayer. Why not try this at night to calm my spirit and return my biorhythms to their Source?  Maybe hubby would like to sing harmony...or not...

Actually this plan might land me in the dog house--or at least the spare bedroom. Anyone know "The Lullaby of Dog Way"?

Send In The Clowns

I heard her the minute I walked into the store. That laugh--it came from all the way back in the offices--an infectious, rolling harbinger of joy. It percolated…bubbled…resounded throughout the building, bouncing off the marble tiles. Acoustically engineered ceiling panels did little to muffle its approach.


The manager who had unlocked the door to admit me grinned. “Dorrie’s back!” we said in unison.

Doris, or “Dorrie” as she’s affectionately called, is a bit of an institution at the store. She had been gone for over six months on medical leave, nursing a knee injury she’d acquired on the job. It’s hard to measure what her absence meant to store morale, but I’m sure we all felt the void. Like a balloon that had deflated long after the party was over, we’d become so accustomed to its limp existence, no one thought to reinflate or discard it. And now with, Dorrie’s return, that balloon was floating, waving, bouncing again.

“Welcome back!” I cried as she rounded the aisle.

“Did you miss me?!” she cackled, wrapping me in a bear hug.

“You’ll never know how much.”

I retreated to my department, leaving the rest of the staff to the morning associates’ meeting. But I could hear the hoots, hollers, and hilarity that accompany Dorrie wherever she goes.

My day brought its share of heat-related crabbies and crackpots—when it gets to be 110 degrees everyone resents having to leave the comfort of air-conditioning. Tempers become shorter as the mercury rises higher. But somehow, none of it affected my mood. I smiled a bit more. My step was a bit lighter. Laughter came easily. Dorrie was back, and all the world loves a clown.

And Now for Something Totally Different: Beyond the Gate

Beyond the gate, a feather drifts,
     and caught, by breeze, joins leaves and dust.
A whirlwind dance of earth and sky
     swirls just beyond the gate.

Beyond the gate, the children ride
     on skateboards, scooters, bicycles.
A caravan of wheels and youth
     glides just beyond the gate

A ground squirrel darts across the yard.
He stops to listen, cocks his head,
Then waves a bushy tail at me
     as if to say, “Come play!”

But I can only contemplate
the joys and wonders that await.
For now, I only speculate,
     "What lies beyond the gate?"

And Now for Something Totally Different: The Canine United Nations

I just came back from an hour at the local dog park with my BFF, CoCo Chanel. It occurred to me during our romp at “The Bark” that we humans could learn a few things from our canine counterparts about how to get along. As I watched the pack of Chinese Cresteds, Irish Setters, and French Poodles, I began to understand what a Canine UN might look like. Images of dogs playing poker morphed in my mind into visions of terriers and labs and boxers politely seated around the UN president, a Mastiff—(no offense to President Ali Abdussalam Treki, but you have to admit, the resemblance is there. Just saying…)

Here is what I observed at the Canine United Nations:

Just because you’re the biggest dog in the park, doesn’t mean that you have to be the “Big Dog.” Canines give just as much respect to a Pomeranian with pluck as they do a Bull Mastiff who’s a bully. In fact, dogs seem to regard each other as equals no matter the breed, size, or upbringing. CoCo shows the same interest in an Afghan Hound as she does a Mexican Chihuahua. She sniffs everyone’s butt. It’s the accepted howdy-do of the dog park social mixer, and every dog knows that secret handshake.

At the Canine United Nations there is no conflict that cannot be overcome by a communal roll in the grass. There is always room at the water dish for one more tongue, and water shared in the common water dish always tastes better than the foo-foo bottled stuff carried by the two-leggers.

At the Canine UN there are never any disputes about water rights—the puppy pool is big enough for everyone to take his/her turn. If the wait gets too long, you can count on the fire plug to go off eventually for a quick soak. And there’s always some gracious Lab or Retriever willing to shake out her coat to share the cool-down.

There may only be one ball to chase at the Canine UN, but no matter. Taking part in the race is just as fulfilling as scoring the prize. And anyone can get in the game. No waiting for an invitation. No choosing sides. No winners. No losers.

And at the Canine UN everyone knows his/her place. If it needs herding, that’s the Border Collie’s job. If you need a spokesperson, go ask the Beagle. And if you need crowd control, the German Shepherd can be counted on to patrol the perimeter. Now that’s what I call a Security Council.

But the most important lesson to be learned at the Canine UN is that everyone gets to be the alpha dog at some time. If the big, dopey Weimaraner thinks he has a lock on "leader of the pack," just wait until that little Napoleon Min Pin gets there to show him who's boss. And that Weimaraner will relinquish his position graciously, without so much as a fleeting thought to holding a grudge. If only we two-leggers could be so civil.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Looks At Her Roots

Ella had never been so cold.  her feet crunched through knee high drifts, iced over by the bitter wind.  The shawl Mama had wrapped around her head did little to stop the biting, stinging ice that pelted her face. She could see no more than two feet in front of her.  It would have been easy to lie down and sleep, bet every time she stopped even for a moment, she was tugged forward by the rope around her waist. Just when she was sure she couldn't make it one step further, strong arms lifted her off her feet and carried her into light and warmth.

As she huddled with her sisters around the wood stove she heard her grandmother's scolding voice from the next room.  "Albert! What were you thinking, taking those children out in such weather?!"

Her father's baritone voice laughed in response. "We couldn't miss choir practice, now could we?"

"But you could have all frozen to death!" Grandma Dieckmann insisted.

"Ah Mama, don't be silly.  God has plans for many grandchildren for you, and all will sing to His glory."

This bit of family folklore was handed down from Great Grandmother Ella Dieckmann Zeller.  Albert Dieckmann, her father, loved to sing. He thought nothing of packing up his four daughters and trudging through a blizzard to get to choir practice.

Anna Dieckmann, Ella's mother, was born Anna Riedesel in 1867, in Galion, Ohio.  Her father, George Riedesel and her uncle, Henry Riedesel walked 1000 miles from Ohio to the present day town of Wheatland, Iowa. These were hardy German immigrants from Westphalia, Germany.  In 1850, George and Henry paid $5 an acre to buy the land where the Ott family farm stands today in Wheatland. They had money left from their land purchase, so after their "walk-about," they returned to Galion by boat and train to fetch their families.

Grandma Anna emigrated west with her father, George, in 1852 by covered wagon. The wagons were ferried across the Mississippi. The first winter in Wheatland the weather was mild, but the second winter the settlers nearly starved to death.  Grandma spoke of Indians coming to the door of their log-and-sod cabins, begging for food.

Albert Dieckmann was one of five children of the Reverend Frederick and Fredericka Leyer Dieckmann. The Dieckmanns emigrated from Hanover, Germany to Galion, Ohio and later to Omaha, Nebraska.  When the settlers in Wheatland decided to establish a German Reformed church in Wheatland, (St. Paul's,) they called Reverend Dieckmann as their fourth pastor.  He and Fredericka brought along their five grown children.  All five of the Dieckmann children married and raised their families in Clinton County, Iowa.

Albert and Anna Riedesel married and had four daughters: Ruby, born June 12, 1887, Ella born June 10, 1889, Mabel, born Dec. 8, 1891, and Clara, born Feb. 5, 1894.  Ella Dieckmann was my great grandmother.

And Now For Something Totally Different: "Say Cheese!"

I've been doing some genealogy scrap booking the last few weeks. It's been fun to flip through the old photographs of ancestors long gone and chronicle their stories. It sets my imagination in flight to wonder what they were like and how they lived. But one thing has really been bothering me. Why do all my ancestors look so serious? I've never seen such a group of sober, sad-sacks. Were they all that stoically solemn?

My curiosity got the better of me, so I googled "smiling" and "photography" to uncover the secret of this mystery. It seems that during the early years of daguerreotype and tintype photography the accepted cultural norm was to never smile for a portrait. There were a lot of reasons, but here are just a few.

Apparently the earliest photography equipment operated on such a slow exposure speed that victims subjects were required to sit very still for a long period of time to ensure a sharp image. That's why so many early photographs were so blurry.  In fact, some traveling portrait photographers actually ran a pipe up the back of their subjects' clothing to assure that they didn't move. Can you say human popsicle? I give you exhibit A, a photograph of my great great grandfather, Albert Dieckmann, circa 1860's Iowa. Not a very comfortable looking man. Poor Grandpa Dieckmann does indeed look as if he's been skewered. And they say it takes a whole lot more facial effort to maintain a smile than it does an enigmatic stare. (This is a speculation I personally disagree with, but that's another story.)

There is also the theory that women especially did not smile in photographs before the 1930's because photo cards of smiling women were sold as porn. Hence, to display an open-mouthed, teeth baring smile was considered a vulgarity, especially in women.  Smiling head-shots didn't come into acceptance until the 1930's when movie stars made them glamorous. And then again, maybe some of these ancestors of mine just had really crumby teeth. Oral hygiene was probably not a huge priority on the open prairies of the 1800's.  They didn't have access to dentists nor thousands of dollars to throw around on orthodontics (thanks Mom and Dad.)

You have to also consider the possibility that these pioneers probably had a photograph taken of them only once in a lifetime. That would make such an occasion formal, to say the least. And truthfully, I've never seen any other photos of Grandpa Dieckmann, which points to that possibility.

I conferred with my friend, Angela, a professional portrait photographer, and her philosophy of why these pioneers didn't smile in portraits makes the most sense to me. She said, "It was the 1860's. Men were photographed in starched collars and wool suits. Women in twenty layers of clothing and hooped skirts. For God's sake, if you hadn't gone to the outhouse before your sitting, you'd be pretty miserable! What was there to smile about?"

I like Angela's expert opinion. I don't know if it's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but...that's my theory and I'm stickin' to it.

The Kitchen Garden Lies Fallow

"There is a time for everything
and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to
     uproot..."

So it turns out the author of Ecclesiastes had it right. Who'da thunk it?

I was vaguely aware of the planting seasons and zones indicated on the back of all of the seed packets I've purchased since January.  But surely that did not apply to my little herb garden project. After all, I started my garden indoors, where seasons and climate have no consequence--right?

Wrong! With the pots of my little kitchen garden either flourishing or withering, I thought I'd make one last attempt to germinate some cilantro and some thyme. You just can't make a good summer salsa without lots of cilantro. And I'd always had success sprouting thyme. (That success simply didn't translate to keeping it alive after the first week.) So I prepared some seed pods and planted...again. Only a funny thing happened. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Zilch. Not one single sprout poked its head through the soil this time.

Apparently it isn't the "season" for cilantro. Neither is it the "time" for thyme. And...I stand in absolute wonder at the miracle of nature to know that. Each tiny seed holds all that mysterious potential within, waiting for exactly the right time and season to begin its journey through life. And no amount of nurture can force nature.

I know what you're thinking. There must be much more gifted horticulturalists who know ways around this germinating conundrum. But I accept my limitations. My garden fields (pots) shall remain fallow for the summer months. Except, of course, for my basil and oregano which continue to thrive despite my brown thumb. I foresee a summer of Italian menus. Let there be pesto!

The Kitchen Garden Novice Reflects

To Catch a Gentler Breeze

A cactus wren flew overhead
     with loud and raucous cries.
I watched her soar and dip and dive
     beneath the azure skies.

Then, in an instant, gusty winds
     assaulted her mid-flight
And stopped her forward motion
     like a tightly tethered kite.

For one brief moment, wren and wind
     engaged in willful dance.
Suspended there, the little bird
     had ceased her brave advance.

Then quickly she reversed her course
     and swooped beneath the gale
To find a kinder, gentler breeze
     on which her wings could sail.

I marveled at her carefree flight,
     her brave, decisive shift.
It dawned on me how many times
     I’d found myself adrift,
How many times a violent blast
     had knocked me to my knees,
But holy grace had carried me
     to catch a gentler breeze.

Requiem

Its energy draws me in,

a network of vibrating honeycomb.

Old, weathered, brittle, porous, charred...

yet strong by design.

What isn't has much energy as what is.

The voids give structure to the whole,

its chambers a holey...and holy perfection--

a catacomb of life.

How many creatures did it

house during this one life?

How many forms did it take before becoming...

a cactus?

I wonder at its age.

When did it begin to decay?

It is timeless, eons old.

What was, still is

in another form, another dimension--

molecules rearranged,

its energy retained.

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

Do you remember Christmas when I was about two or three? The church held a Christmas pageant for all of the Sunday school kids. I was too young to participate, and being a born ham, I was quite inconsolable. It was one of my first memories of the unfairness of life. I remember sitting on your lap in the back pew of the old church, sobbing. You cooed and soothed and rocked me. If grace had a lap, it was surely yours. In that hour you taught me the meaning of grace.

Do you recall when my little brother was born? The day you brought him home from the hospital, I brought an entourage of kindergartners home from school to see my new baby brother. You met me at the door with a firm "No!" That afternoon you taught me the meaning of boundaries.

And do you remember all of the dresses you made for Sis and me? I can't count the times I stood on a kitchen chair while you pinned hems into new skirts and jumpers. And when I rebelled at wearing another dress that matched my older sister's, you encouraged me to develop my own set of style. When I refused to wear starchy, stiff fabrics, you persevered through second trips to the fabric store. And you taught me the difference between "couture" and just plain "pricey."

Do you remember those winter days when I was in Junior high? We spent the afternoons ice skating, and you would welcome us home with hot chocolate. Then you set us to work, pulling taffy for Christmas candy boxes. You scraped hardened candy off the kitchen countertops and once, even the ceiling. Those winter days you taught me that tolerance is a virtue and not to sweat the petty stuff.

And do you remember my first love? Of course you do. He was so wrong for me. But I was in love with the boy, and so, you accepted him into our home as a member of the family. I never once suspected that you had such doubts about our relationship. You must have been in pain from biting your tongue. In those days, you taught me that parenting means allowing your chicks to learn from their own mistakes.

Do you remember my wedding day? It was hotter than Hades, and we had planned a wedding reception in the backyard. In those days, wedding coordinators were unheard of, so you served as wedding planner, caterer, florist, and even bridal gown seamstress. I don't know how I would have made it through the day without you. When I discovered that I had forgotten the clips for my electric rollers, and worked myself into hysteria worthy of Chicken Little, it was you who talked me off the ledge. You made a quick call to one of your friends to borrow some clips. That day you taught me the meaning of "grace under fire."

And six years later, when Daddy died...you taught me how to live with courage and say goodbye. Then it came your turn to transition from your earthly body. You held on much longer than you needed, allowing me to care for you, let go, and say my farewell. You taught me how to mourn.

Yesterday I was missing you a bit more--as I always do around this time of year. Driving to work I pulled into the mall and made a huge blunder. Where the mall entrance divides into a medianed boulevard, I turned down the first pavement into the oncoming traffic lane. Fortunately, no one was trying to exit the mall. But...I immediately flashed back to your last visit. I had been returning you to the airport in Vegas to catch your plane home when I turned into the same kind of divided boulevard--right into two cars trying to exit a shopping center. Forced to stop, those drivers had no choice but to back up into the parking lot to allow us to proceed. The entire time you howled with laughter.

Yesterday, as I caught myself turning down that one-way the wrong way, I distinctly heard your hoots and howls. And I realized...you've never really left me at all. And you've taught me that life is no fun if you cannot laugh at yourself.

Just wanted you to know.

Missing you a little less,

Me

The Kitchen Garden Novice Croaks

The other day during a worship service we were watching a video of Esther Abraham-Hicks, and to say the least, I became distracted. (We've already established that I have the attention span of my puppy, so let's just leave it at that.) It wasn't that she didn't have a powerful insight to share. But she kept using the word "croak," for dying. She was making light of death, pointing out that "croaking" is not a bad thing in that it returns our essential selves to the Source from which we came. But all I could think of was all of the outlandish euphemisms we resort to when we speak of death.

My mind wandered off to an old Monty Python sketch called "The Dead Parrot." For those of you who've never seen this comedy, you can still catch it on YouTube. The skit still holds up today. In it, John Cleese goes on a rant, listing every euphemism he can think of to describe a dead parrot, sold to him by a disreputable pet store owner.  He lists quite a few. But it seems to me, there are a number he overlooked. Here in no particular order are some that popped to the top of my wandering imagination.

For the pirate lovers we have:
     "He took a long walk off a short plank." Rather self-explanatory, wouldn't you agree?
     "He sleeps with the fishes," (also used by Mario Puzo in The Godfather to describe Luca Brasi,) and
      "They rest in Davy Jones' Locker." (Did you know that the name Davy Jones comes from the term Devil Jonah--a reference to the dark angel God sicced on Jonah until his shipmates threw him overboard?) Arrrggghhh! Where was I?

Of the recently deceased archeologist we might say:
     "She lies entombed." or
     "He's become extinct."

For the belly-up bulldozer driver we could say:
     "He's taking a dirt nap."

Might we not refer to a mortified motorcross racer as having
    "bit the dust?" (Okay. Yes, I know that was a Wild West shoot-out term.) But we might also say:
    "He made the big jump."

Of a late agriculturalist might we not say:
     "He bought the farm," ? (Actually this euphemism is thought to have originated with WWI soldiers whose death insurance benefits were used to pay off the family homestead mortgages.)

Of the departed milkmaid shouldn't we report:
     "She kicked the bucket?" (This probably alludes to hanging oneself, but everytime I hear this phrase it connects itself in my pea brain to "crying over spilled milk." Hmm...

For the resting-at-peace airline pilot might we say:
     "He bought a one-way ticket," or perhaps:
     "He's gone off to that big hangar in the sky,"?

For the deceased real estate agent we might say:
     "She's selling pine condos."

For the passed on hotel desk clerk we might say:
     "He's checked out--permanently."

Couldn't we say of the lifeless florist:
     "She's pushing up daisies."?

Of the late, great Julia Childs might we not say,
     "She's cooled to room temperature,"?

And, last but not least, for one brown-thumbed Kitchen Garden Novice, who kills off everything she plants, I'm sure they'll someday observe,
     "She's gone into the fertilizer business."

And Now for Something Totally Different: The Ghost of Curmudgeons Past

"Cheer up--things could always be worse!"

Isn't that the dumbest advice you've ever heard? It draws on your imagination to conjure up the most depraved of scenarios so that you might feel better about "what is." I know that. And yet, every once in awhile I find myself falling into that old pattern of thought.

In my line of work, we are routinely occasionally required to deal with the classic curmudgeon. (Can you tell that there have been a number of those lately?) Curmudgeon is such a good word. It even sounds so...well... curmudgeonly. Anyway, I happened to be in the office on my day off this week (first mistake), when I heard my boss setting up an appointment with "The Ghost of Curmudgeons Past." This individual had made my life miserable a year ago. She had an issue with our doctor, and since I just happened to be standing in the way, she took it out on me. She and her husband made a scene, pitched a fit, called me names and totally denigrated me to my district manager who happened to be in the office that day. He, in typical middle management mode, schmoozed them, rewarding them for behaving badly. I still get worked up just thinking about it.

Breathe...let it go...breathe in...breathe out.

Anyhow, flash forward eighteen months, and here was my boss, setting up an appointment with Lady MacBeth. I was outraged! Surely she would come back and make my life miserable once again!

And then...after several hours of personal turmoil...my inner Christ whispered to me. Have you forgotten who you are?

Almost instantly I was relieved. I realized that I was letting my false sense of ego define who I was. When I let go of ego, I could make a choice. Did I want to be a victim to another of God's children? Or did I want to be a willing servant to her? Sounds a bit the same, doesn't it? It's a subtle distinction. But oh, the difference.

The irony is that I'd bolstered myself to be the most humble, gracious individual the Ghost of Curmudgeons Past had ever encountered. And...she cancelled.

Perhaps the Universe just sent the student a practical exam. I like to think that I passed, at least this time.

The Kitchen Garden Novice's Chagrin

I am convinced the Universe is mocking me. You be the judge.

I took a weekend trip to visit my daughter, another reluctant convert to the vegetarian life choice. Our plan was for a marathon culinary session to teach her the basics of cooking. I gathered my food processor, tongs, peelers, oils, vinegars, and spices. I almost packed one of my basil plants for her, but...since I had just harvested the top layer of leaves for lasagna, I decided against it. My puny little basil was hardly an impressive gift.

Our first stop was at the local farmers' market. Lots of great produce, and in the first booth I spotted a familiar bit of greenery among the tomato plants. Let me say here, the resemblance to my puny basil buds at home extended only to the shape and color of the leaves. This fragrant plant was the size of a growing teenager next to my baby buds.

"Sweetie, would you like a basil plant?"

That was the beginning of a purchase never meant to come home with us. Five booths later at the market, I realized I had laid the basil pot at one of our stops and walked off without it. So we backtracked to retrieve the orphaned plant. There it set, four stops back. No matter. We had scored most of the produce for our cookathon and were heading home, anyway. We just needed one quick stop at Trader Joe's for whole-grain pasta.

And there in the entrance to Trader Joe's we spotted them--basil plants so large they made my daughter's little orphaned herb look like a dwarf. They were like basil on steroids. How did they do that? I eyed the tags suspiciously. Yep, they were organically grown, and...50 cents cheaper than the plant I'd picked up at the farmers' market.

"Gee, Mom, guess you should have waited, huh?" my daughter observed.

We spent the rest of the day peeling, shredding, sauteing, seasoning, and baking--a joyous celebration of cookery. Somewhere amidst all that activity we contemplated the best place for the junior basil plant. It temporarily found a spot on the floor in front of the dining-nook windows.

Sunday morning, the realtor called to say she was in the neighborhood and would be stopping by--in twenty minutes! Yikes! Frantic clean-up ensued. In the melee, my daughter kicked over Basil Jr. and had to sweep up dirt. It was an omen.

The realtor arrived with a house warming gift. Can you guess what it was? That's right. One of Trader Joe's Incredible Hulk-sized basil plants. "I'm taking Basil Jr. home with me," I sniffed.

But it never happened. In my scurry to pack up the car for the ride home, Basil Jr. was forgotten. It's probably just as well. I'd hate to give my Baby Basil an inferiority complex. Then again, it might have given him someone to look up to.

So you tell me. Is the Universe mocking me? I think the joke is on me. Ha..ha..ha.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Evaluates

It's been ninety days since this Kitchen Garden Novice began her experiment in cultivation. Perhaps it is time to review. Here, in no particular order, are ten things I've learned about kitchen herb gardening.

Gleaning is a mercy pitch from the Universe. When I was a child, I was a terrible athlete. I was the kid everyone gave four strikes when she got up to bat. Embarrassing, huh? But if you're that kid, and you manage to connect with a hit, it no longer matters that it was on the fourth strike. If you have to glean your rosemary from the cactus bed, so be it. The Universe is sending you a slow pitch.

Children are a hazard to controlled agronomy. Planting with my granddaughters might have been an inspired notion, but they taught me a bit about scattered seed and divine plans.

Thyme slips by as quickly as...time. You can never have too much thyme. It sprouts in the blink of an eye, and that tender herb is gone just as quickly. Once it is gone, you can never get it back.

Critters like plants. That includes both bugs and puppies. Guard your herbs well. You are not the only foodie in the Universe.

I still have a brown thumb. Forget all of my good intentions and lofty ideals. It kills me that I can over nurture and/or neglect my sprouts to death when Mother Nature produces better produce with no (apparent) effort at all.

Sowing is more fun than nurturing. Sowing is a bit like giving birth. We can see all the promise and hope for our babies and none of the hard work required to raise them to maturity.

Over tending is just as bad as neglect. If you handle young seedlings before they have developed their own inner strength, they will never learn to find the sun on their own.

Harvesting is worth the wait. Nothing tastes as sweet as that first sprig of basil or oregano. The flavor is made that much more savory for the wait.

Introspection is what happens while you wait. I've probably grown more in this process than any of my little plants. (Actually there are those who would say I've gone to seed.)

No one really needs cilantro. Okay, so I threw that one in just to finish with a full ten. But since I've had so little luck cultivating cilantro, let's just say, who needs it, anyway?  True--it's hard to imagine a great salsa without it, but then there's always Whole Foods, right?