Mama Told Me There'd Be Days Like This

You've probably heard my story about the cardinal on my deck.

No?

Okay. Here it is in a cupful of words.

I was still in my pajamas at almost noon. Where was everyone else in my life that day? Work, school? I'd been watching morning television programs absently, my mind sunk in the hollow of my heart. Thinking maybe coffee would shock me into action, I stood at the kitchen sink rinsing the pot, looking onto the barren deck, a weathered gray slab stacked with empty planters. A crust of spring snow whitened the rails and corners, but in this landscape, there was nothing to relieve my spirit. Yeah, mama told me there'd be days like this.

And then!--a plump cardinal perched on my brick windowsill, his peppercorn eyes searching mine through the glass, his lush red an invitation to beauty. In that moment, I breathed more fully than I had for a long time. Here's what he told me:  "There is beauty all around you."

And so there is.

Here is some beauty from my day:

 

Gary found this fashionably-striped caterpillar while turning over our kitchen garden.

Our new friend appears to be at home in the spectacular lantana I've just planted. Dear CP, please wear your black and green stripes when you come back as a butterfly.

 

Purple frills and an orange nasturtium just may cause a flower riot.

 

My husband has planted enough pepper plants---banana (sweet and hot), jalepeno, chili--to open a cannery, and my lone zucchini plant was cast out of our small garden. "You're going to keep the pot on the deck?" Mr. Pepper asked incredulously. "You'll have zucchini runners all over the floor!" Does anyone see a problem with that?

An old Easter basket holds zinnias at my front door. When Rachel and I bought this old kitchen chair at a local found-items shop, the saleswoman told us "Now, remember, this chair isn't for sitting!" I didn't tell the zinnias.  

Scarlet trumpet vine berries burst into coral bells, its tendrils digging into the mortar of our brick house, every year, performing a Wallenda-esque feat of balance and courage. One of my poems about despair and hope and beauty-in-the-moment was inspired by the massive trumpet vine shadowing a gray stone Mary who sits in a little garden just off of our deck. "Trumpet Vine" found a lovely home in the Anthology of Appalachian Writers. Here's a few lines:

 

                                   I carry water in a plastic blue pitcher to the potted plants,

                                   whispering in cool aqua tones, their flowering days numbered.

                                   Delicate buttons of lantana wave as I work near Mary,

                                   branches jousting playfully with the wind.

                                   Hard purple berries erupt into tiny pink and yellow circles,

                                   running round and round, spinning to a sunny center.

                                   I shield my eyes from the sight, pinching dead blossoms

                                   between my fingernails. Tiny jade hummingbirds hover,

                                   wings whirling furiously in direct defiance of gravity,
                                   hanging on a puff of blue air, chancing all to dip beaks

                                   into lavender cups, wings wet and heavy with hope.

 



 

 

Yeah, mama said there'd be days like that, my mama said. She also taught me the comfort to be found in a cold glass of sweet tea, which is in itself a beautiful thing.

 

To brew my version of Mama's Sweet Tea, here's what you'll need:

 

 8 Luzianne Tea Bags, tags removed

2 gallons hot water

2 cups (Okay, okay...but this is sweet tea!) Splenda

Steep until dark red.

 

Serve in tall glasses with crushed ice and lots of lemon slices. If you've had a gray kind of day, the kind your mama warned you about, you might want to add a splash of Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka. Take your glass out to your deck or your porch or your front stoop. Maybe you'll see the first of summer's lightning bugs. Remember what my cardinal told me: "There's beauty all around you."

 

 

 

 

Jilliebeanery #1 (Including Panko-Crusted Goat Cheese and Sweet Lemon Vinaigrette)

 

I've been hitting the blogger circuit lately, stepping into other people's lives for a spell. After visiting, I always leave comments (please write back!), which I like to think of as the 2013 version of the 19th-century calling card. Blog posts are just like old-fashioned paper invitations: "Come on in and take the armchair by the fire. The tea's almost ready."

 

Most of my new bloggy friends share their favorite things now and then, lovely pictures and words of and about French homes and blue farmhouses, antiques and repurposed castoffs, mouthwatering concoctions cooling on countertops, and glimpses of family love--near perfect and almost dysfunctional, all waving me in, making me comfortable in their separate worlds.

 

So here's my invitation to you: Step in, and I'll show you around my place a little. Maybe we'll have a bite to eat when we're finished.

  

 

Matthew, my oldest son, brought this dear wooden elephant family back from a trip to Ghana, where he'd gone to take photographs. The carver sold them in sets, but not in graduated families of six, big to little.  Matty can be very convincing, and somehow the seller was made to understand that this gift had to contain a father, mother, biggest brother, big brother, little big sister, and baby sister. The elephant family rode home in a backpack, along with some Canon equipment, slung over the shoulder of a 6'4" traveler.

I had a hard time finding just the right spot for this sweet gift, the elephants' dark roundness blending too easily into tables and shelves.

Their current home is a repurposed planting box that held six small clay pots of portulaca for years, until the bottom fell out! Here, the repurposed box is turned on its side, allowing a private room for each of them.

 

 

 

 

 If you come to visit me, you'll find this ceramic heart hanging in my entryway. I found it in a little shop outside of Boston, where we'd traveled to watch my oldest daughter play lacrosse with her college team. Allowed some rare time away from her team, we walked the hilly streets linked by small shops, stopping first for red velvet cupcakes crowned with fat pink icing roses and then for creamy, white chowder spooned up at a table in front of an old stone fireplace.

I did indeed buy the little heart as a memento, but look closely at its message. "Expect miracles."

 

I always do. 

 

 

Okay, I'll admit it. I have a glass problem. I'm attracted (especially to dishes) to things made from glass, so if you need to borrow platters, plates, bowls, cups, or glasses, you know where to come. Once my husband asked me to stop buying dishes, but I think I've convinced him that one can never have enough (I just keep cooking!), especially when they are as lovely as this one. We bought this thin curve of a platter at the Three Rivers Arts Festival, where I stood mesmerized by the tablets of colors crafted by the vendor's glass alchemy.

 

"We'll take the big one," my husband told him.

 

 

And so we did. In the summer, this platter holds greens lightly tossed with a sweet lemon vinaigrette (mix the juice of 1/2 lemon with 1/3 cup olive oil, about 2 tablespoons of Splenda, and salt and pepper--this is a to-taste vinaigrette, so don't be shy---lick your finger and then adjust to your liking), often topped with panko-crusted goat cheese (the secret here is to partially freeze the cheese,  cut into 2-inch slices which are then pressed into a plate of panko crumbs and browned quickly in about an inch of olive oil), thin red onion, and chunks of pear,

just like this:

 

 

 

When the salad's all gone, and we've licked the lemony bits from our fingers, I wash the gem-studded platter gently, holding it up to catch the light streaming through the window.

 

 

 



On Blessings: Strawberries and Flying Children

 

 

 

You know that sweet saying about giving your child wings? I used to think it was cute, too, when I was still zipping my babies into footie pajamas. Back then, I fueled myself with aphorisms, imagining myself slam-dunking the parenting thing (imagine a very nice pat on the back here--"Oh, yes, I'm raising my children so that they will ffffllllllyyyyyyyyy!"). People who write darling little embroidery-worthy witticisms like this obviously haven't had children who are born in flight mode. My third child emerged in take-off position, landing gear raised and flight plan plotted. At first, she wanted to fly out of her high chair, and then across the ice, and then down the field. When her plan took her out of our nest,  being her mother morphed into a bittersweet combination of wonder and angst.

Once I wrote this:
 

My body does not forget. Missing her wells in me, rough waters threatening to pull me under. At the sound of my morning alarm, I imagine her still asleep, curled on her side, three hours behind me. We are connected by phone lines, divided by time differences. She calls me while riding her bike home, my mind tangled in the three lanes of traffic she has to cross with a phone held to one ear. Sometimes she calls me while in line at Starbucks, saying "Bye...love you" as she reaches the register.

If I had one of those big world maps, I could track her with push pins. Sacramento, Tokyo, Chicago, Florence, Cinque Terre, Rome, Paris, Washington, D.C., Pittsburgh. Last week, she took off again, this time for Helena, Arkansas where she'll spend two years teaching chemistry in a modular classroom.

Guess who bought the luggage tag?

A little of mom goes with her by way of a teacher's box, including the same kind of book I've used to plan my classes for years.

  

Meet Momma Bear, who had to ride for 14 hours wedged between the front seats. Excuse her ragged looks, please--she's been on the road quite a bit over the last 24 years.

 

 

 

This may be one of those you-had-to-be-there kind of pics. Here's a play-by-play in case you missed it. I'm standing on the front steps yelling mother-love kinds of things (drink your orange juice, call me any time, park in well-lit spaces, the first days will be really hard--but it will get better, let me know when you get in!), and Gary is driving along side of Laura. Yes, you are seeing correctly. He drives down the street with her, forcing her to take up the on-coming traffic lane. He follows her down the hill to our plan exit, where he honks like a mad goose to send her off.

 



And where do the strawberries come in?

The thing is that Laura loves strawberries. Once, at a graduation party for one of her brother's friends, she stood by a silver tray of plump strawberries dressed in white and dark chocolate tuxedos, plopping them into her mouth until the hostess lifted the tray and placed it on another table. Laura really, really loves frozen strawberries mixed with Jello and layered on top of baked and buttered pretzel crumbs, the whole sweet thing slathered with cream cheese, Cool Whip, and sugar. The making of Strawberry Pretzel Salad annoys me with its mashing of pretzels and sloshing of Jello, So, when we went to a family gathering just two days before she left for Arkansas, I decided to try a more grown-up berry recipe, a Pinterest-proclaimed marvel: the Strawberry Blessing.

 

Here's how I conjured up a Strawberry Blessing:

You'll need to gather a few goodies.
 

1 cup strawberry jam (I had only enough strawberry to fill 3/4 of the cup, so I filled it up with a lovely mixed berry jam I'd picked up at a local farm market.)

 

1/2 cup warm water

 

1/3 cup orange juice

 

1/4 cup Cointreau (divided in half), plus one extra tablespoon

 

1-1/4 pounds mascarpone, at room temperature

 

1-1/3 cups whipping cream

 

3 tablespoons sugar

 

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

 

Savoiardi--also known as ladyfingers!  (You'll need three packages of Savoiardi. Twenty-four come in a pack, and I used exactly 52 in my 9 x 13 pan. You might be more Savoiardi-savvy than I, but, after a hunt through the bakery and cookie section in my grocery store, I finally found these in the specialty Italian aisle. Just a note: the bakery lady did not a) remember the bakery ever carrying ladyfingers and b) know that the furtive Savoiardi could be found in her store.)

 

1-1/2 to 2 pounds strawberries, washed, dried and sliced (And, oh!, it is strawberry season!)

 

2 tablespoons lemon zest (Use one plump lemon for this amount of zest. Naked lemons can be used for all kinds of other lovely, lemony things.)

 

 

Fourteen Steps to a Strawberry Blessing: 



 (None of which involve the annoying pretzel crunching or Jello sloshing!)

 

1. Mix the jam, water, orange juice, and 1/8 cup of the Cointreau.

 

2. In another bowl, whip together the mascarpone and the second 1/8 cup of Cointreau. 

 

  

3. Beat the whipping cream, sugar, vanilla extract and remaining 1 tablespoon of Cointreau until stiff peaks form. 

  

4. Stir 1/4 of the whipped cream mixture into the mascarpone to soften the mixture. Then, carefully fold in the remaining whipped cream mixture.

 

5. Spread 1/2 of the jam mixture in the bottom of a 9 x 13 dish. The Savoiardi will absorb all of this lovely liquid.

  

 

6. Behold the naked lemon! Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of the lemon zest over the jam mixture. (I've learned that a little of the bitter makes the sweet so much more delicious.)  

 

 

7. Line the bottom of the dish with Savoiardi, covering the entire pan. You may have to break the ladyfingers into smaller pieces to fill small spaces.
 

8. Spread half of the mascarpone mixture evenly over the Savoiardi.

9. Layer half of the sliced strawberries over the mascarpone.

10. Spread the second half of the jam mixture over the strawberries. (You might want to lick the bowl.)
 

 

11. Sprinkle the remaining tablespoon of lemon zest over the strawberries and jam.

 

12. Repeat the process with the remaining ingredients, laying a second row of Savoiardi over the  strawberries and jam, then spreading the mascarpone mixture over those, and last,  covering with the  sliced strawberries and lemon zest.

 

13. Refrigerate for at least 12 hours. (I suspect this is when the blessing happens.)

  

14. Enjoy your blessings: strawberry and otherwise. 

 

 

You can find the recipe I adapted at Cream Puffs in Venice. Here's the Pinterest description that made me think Laura might like it:

"It was glorious. Angels sang. I think there were even harps. As far as I’m concerned you can call it whatever you like. I call it good."  

 

And we did think it was glorious, all of us--my sister's family and mine, from the oldest cousin (my son) to my nephew's baby boy (blessing number five for Jeff and Heather, and, well, okay, he's a little young to eat cake). What did Laura think? I'm pretty sure she still likes the Strawberry Pretzel Salad more, but, then, again, you'll have to ask her. I'll let you know when she's back in town.

 

 

 

Oysters and Hot Sauce: Who Knew?

Usually, we drove all night, so our four kids would sleep for at least part of the nine-hour drive. Around midnight, quiet finally nestled around us, although my children swear they never slept for even one second on any of our many drives to North Carolina. Gary and I looked forward to those late-night drives, our low voices creating a cocoon, our faces cool in the night air, our journey seemingly guided by the luminous stars suspended above. 

"Did you see it? The falling star?" Gary asked, though I never did. He's always been luckier than I in the star gazing department. Still, together we seemed to have more than most, sailing through the night in our red Astro van, holding hands between our seats, our elbows resting on the small tv/vcr combination Gary jerry-rigged for the kids' movies and Nintendo system.

 

 

Our first stop was the Duck Deli, a tiny breakfast/sandwich/barbecue place, for big white plates of bacon, eggs, and the greatest home fries in Currituck County. In the very old days before Corolla grew big enough to have its own grocery stores, we would have stopped at the Piggly Wiggly or the Food Lion in Kill Devil Hills before we turned left on Highway 21. Balancing a bag on each of our laps, others wedged between our feet, we made our way to Atlantic Avenue, where our family owned a house.

My heart sensed the left turn on Atlantic towards the water. Sometimes we couldn't yet see the ocean, but we could always hear it. In that second, when I heard the push and pull of the waves, life sweetened. But, oh my, in the early days when the girls were toddlers and the boys still so young, the next few hours were full of up-and-down-the-stairs work for my husband and me. Schlepping the suitcases and groceries...unpacking both...making beds...guiding legs and arms into swim suits...coating wiggling bodies with sunscreen...and then...AND THEN! the beach.

We'd run down the dune, the dry sand so hot that our feet propelled forward on their own. We moved in tandem toward the green and grey marbleized sea, our toes on the frothy wave line, waiting for the first rush of cold water. All I'd carried on my back the past year slid from me, crumbling into the fine beige sand.



Between the three of us sitting in the booth at Mitchell's Fish Market today, two are headed to North Carolina and one to Vermont, two of us for a fleeting seven days and the other for a lovely collection of weeks at her family home in New England. While we talked about our upcoming fall classes and our children, our minds turned toward the promise of the sea.

"I convinced Jamie to try oysters the last time we were here," our friend Marilyn said, as we looked over the menu. "I'm going to order some, and we can share them."

Shaking my head, I admitted I'd never eaten oysters, describing the tipping of a cold, slippery oyster from the shell to the back of my throat as outside of my culinary comfort zone.

"Actually, I liked them," Jamie interrupted. I'd been imagining her just getting through the experience, holding her nose, puckering her lips in distaste.

Almost convinced, I nearly changed my mind when our waiter confided that he can't manage tossing back a raw oyster. His suggestion of sandwiching the oyster between Saltines put me off even more.

"Wouldn't that involve chewing?" I asked.

Last night,  I discovered I'm not as old as I thought I was. For the past ten months, I've been telling people I'm a year older than I actually am. This time, Gary happened to hear me. Wearing a sideways grin, he pointed out my mistake.

"Really?" I asked.

"Really."

Hmmm. So, I guess I've got a do-over. Perhaps I should live this one a little more daringly? I decided to jumpstart my extra year by trying oysters.

Marilyn and Jamie already had some on their plates. Squeezing lemon over the white flesh, they discussed which of the three sauces to use. The jagged shell between my thumb and finger, I moved my oyster from the bed of crushed ice to my plate. A squeeze of citrus and a smear of hot sauce, and I was ready.

Here's what I learned: eating an oyster is almost like doing a shot. Bring it to your mouth, tilt your head back, close your eyes if you want, swallow hard, and wait for the bang.

Oh, my!  I wasn't prepared for the clean, fresh taste of the oyster, heighted by the sharpness of the hot sauce. The oyster tasted like Corolla felt.

And then I had another.

 

.

Not Quite Done With Clairhaven Street



 





"You can't go back home to your family, 

 back home to your childhood ... back home to ...dreams of glory

 

 and of fame ... back home to the escapes of time and memory.”

 

--from Thomas Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again

 

 

 

I try to write myself home. I'm not sure what I want to do if the ink on the page creates some kind of magic portal, allowing me to open a secret door, to lift the lid off of a rabbit hole, to bend time and space.

 

Would I change how we lived on Clairhaven Street, if I could?

 

I guess I would mostly like to be seated around our kitchen table on one of the good nights, like those when my father came through the kitchen door carrying a bag of fried shrimp from Young's Tavern, greasy circles dotting the brown paper. On such a night, though it was 10:00 or 11:00 or midnight, we marveled at our good fortune, at the beauty of  plump white shrimp inside hot, crisp breading, at the snapshot of a family sitting happily together.

 

 

 

 

 

This week, I've been lost in the past, reworking my essay about Clairhaven Street. While I can't find the word spell that will take me home again, I have learned that I can time travel on the whiff of a lilac. Today, peonies took me there. 

 

 This morning, I cut white and pink peonies from my side yard. Heavy rain bent their stalks, and the cabbage blooms pooled together into a carpet of blossoms. I cut only those broken stems, the collection of these damaged flowers combining to make something quite lovely.

 

 

 

 

Today, Rachel told me: "I want these flowers in my wedding bouquet." I smile to think of her finely-boned fingers carrying peonies bound by ribbons at the stems. 

 

 



 

She has my mother's hands.