One of the happy consequences of diarrhea lettuce is that I’m shopping my town’s Farmers’ Markets. Salad above features radish sprouts, a spicy addition to already tasty salad. I tossed in some pumpkin seeds for extra crunch.
We also had melt-in-your-mouth corn on the cob. Local. It was so tender Ken said that I could’ve risked it, referring to the fact that ever since my front crown fell out of my mouth twice, I shave my cobs.
Sounds like a guilty admission: I shave my cobs.
TODAY? I plan to finish piecing this with a simple edict: when solving a dimension issue, GO SMALLER NOT BIGGER.
Jeez.
Legs knit w/yarn I dyed with indigo. This was in hospital waiting for Dan’s arm surgery to be done. He was 14. It was the second break.
I ordered some indigo powder from Dharma Trading Company yesterday. I don’t have the bandwidth for leaf processing and who knows, I may not have what it takes to make up a batch with powder either. I’d like to though. It’s been a minute. In cleaning out the basement, I found piles of white t-shirts, rubber bands, resist plates of glass, a thermometer. All kinds of dye supplies, in other words.
In October I will be spending a day with an African dye master, Gasali Adeyemo. More about this another time. A writing friend is hosting him in New Mexico.
What do you do when time behaves like a rascal, defiant and disobedient? What day is it? What month? How long has Danny been dead?
Time always slips around some, but in acute grief it stretches and compresses like an unruly adversary — another aspect of loss.
Today is the four-month anniversary of Danny’s death. Ken and I find ourselves flummoxed. We seesaw from wondering how it can be only four months to wondering how it’s already been a quarter of a year.
I didn’t think this was a significant anniversary, but the amount of weeping I’ve done today tells a different story.
Last night, I tossed and turned and dreamt about Mick Jagger. Nonsense, really. I was in the kitchen and something frustrated me and I pushed some objects violently aside. Mick Jagger said, “You’ll never be president.”
Why would I want to be president and why is Mick Jagger in my kitchen, judging me?
We saw him in the stands of the England/Argentina game, of course.
I don’t know enough about soccer to have an opinion, but boy are people mad on Threads. Many think that Argentina was afforded every advantage in ways both obvious and unfair. I don’t know. I just know that when the games end, there will be a space that needs filling.
Hand-wringing returned. Yesterday I kept imagining calling 911 that final night. I hear myself whispering that they shouldn’t use their siren and that they should approach the apartment quietly. And then I imagine announcing to a furious Danny that I couldn’t let him throw his life away.
You don’t have to chime in about culpability or whether such an intervention would’ve worked, even for the short term.
I know. I know. I think I know?
Last week, I met with a friend whose child has made more than five attempts on their life. This mother, my friend, shared that both times they institutionalized her daughter, it made things worse.
There’s so much suffering in the world.
The rabbits eat at a furious clip this summer. It’s hard to watch my ferns drying up in the heat and the hosta being devoured by those cute little fuckers. More death.
Our corrupt dipshit of a president plans to address the nation tonight. I’ll admit to being on edge, even though sane commentators say, Calm down. The federal government doesn’t control elections. He can say whatever he wants and it doesn’t mean he has the power to do what he says.
There are many things that I wish I believed.
Meanwhile, the upside of this diarrhea lettuce outbreak is that we have twice recently shopped for local produce.
I got some gorgeous onions that the bagger said you could bite right into they’re so sweet. And look at these beauties below!
For dinner, we’re gonna have an onion, goat cheese, burrata, ham, and asparagus tart.
I planted some of my morning glory seedlings under this planter. Two days ago, we discovered that the rabbits had eaten half of them. It’s not a loss I take lightly — hence the chicken wire.
Any morning glories that I planted in pots are now elevated. Others remain vulnerable.
Rabbits ate half of these seedlings
Sometimes the rabbits’ destruction doesn’t appear to have anything to do with eating. The strewn plant matter gives the feel of a murder scene.
Stupid me. I didn’t put this geranium up on a side table after noticing the decapitation of a big blossom yesterday and this morning all the flowers were gone. Scattered about on the stone as if by a psycho killer.
New bowl from Swap Shop
After last summer when not a single iris bloomed, I’m happy to report there are flowers this year! Over by the black walnut tree too.
A new slaw recipe went well with pork chops and mashed potatoes last night. Toasted walnuts and crisp apples for variety.
These were thick chops, but I still could have overcooked them. It happens more than I care to admit. The magic method? Searing each side for two minutes stovetop, then sticking skillet in a hot oven (400 degrees) for 12 minutes. They were perfect. (Notably, I cut my chop up right away — had I let it rest as recommended it might have lost some juicy tenderness).
One sultry afternoon driving past the lake this week, I was flooded with the felt sense of Danny as a toddler. The days when “excavators” were “ekabators” and “snacks” were “nacks.” It wasn’t a memory per se, but rather a sensory experience of sharing the muggy heat and slight fear that sometimes preceded a thunderstorm. Holding him close.
One woman in our Parent Suicide Loss support group has been writing letters to her son for seven years. She has twenty notebooks full of them. I thought I’d give it a go and this week penned three letters to Danny. In the first two, every sentence began, “I’m sorry…”
Blistered string beans, mango salsa, and spiced salmon. Doesn’t get much better than this, especially when you don’t have to cook it!
(Finn’s wondering if I want that second slice of French bread?)
That was Thursday. Last night a neighbor dropped off lasagne and the most delicious chop salad ever. Oh, and a crunchy walnut-covered pastry filled with chocolate ganache. Let me say it was so rich and tasty that I’m glad we split it three ways.
Tonight I’m gonna try one of Jamie Oliver’s quick recipes. These tubers will get chopped on a cutting board drizzled with olive oil along with feta cheese and cilantro. Thirteen minutes in the microwave was his “cheat.” Also, I might mix in some couscous from a meal dropped off on Wednesday.
KNOWING
Here are two things I’ve recently learned about grief. One I’m glad to know, the other, not so much.
I’m glad to know that loss can and often does cause intense heaviness in the chest. My father died of a heart attack at the age of 54 and I know two people who have had “broken heart” heart attacks. Knowing the commonality of this physical symptom eases my mind.
What I’m less psyched to learn is that many folks observe that Year Two of grieving is much harder than Year One.
To that I say, great. Just great.
Yes, yes, the kind neighbors will move on, the meals will stop, but more what seems to get people is how the aching permanence of the loved one’s absence becomes more real.
I’m not seeking out depressing notions or dwelling on them (well, maybe a little), but things cross my screen and I notice them and sometimes I find myself telling you about them.
MEDIUMS
Just read another book about a local medium. For a person who can barely get through six paragraphs of a Booker Prize-winning novel, it’s very noticeable that I devoured this book in three sittings.
It wasn’t particularly well written but it didn’t matter. The point about the permeability between life and death was made over and over and that’s something I need to believe right now.
I’ve never managed to overwinter a rosemary plant, so I’ve been harvesting the branches for a week or so. Tonight it’s supposed to go down to 32, so I finished up this afternoon.
After drying the branches on parchment paper for a couple days, it’s easy to peel most of the herb off. I don’t worry about getting every single blade of rosemary off because I’ll throw the stalks into stock pots.
Today I made potato leek soup. Good for a raw, rainy day like today.
We’re at the point in our shopping cycle when we’re “eating down the fridge.” Like to see it get fairly empty before stocking up again. It becomes a little bit of a game
Scene from Costco this weekend
This salad from last week was good, unusual for us. Butternut, chic peas, and cauliflower gave it a hearty, main course feel. There’s feta cheese and lots of escarole too. Obviously I used the ingredient list below as inspiration but not gospel.
Here it is served with salmon, rice, leftover coleslaw and peas, but really the salad could’ve been the main course.
Also last week, I tried out a new recipe for a root veggie gratin. Parsnips, rutabaga, turnips, and potatoes mashed up and then baked with Gruyère, Parmesan and some cream. I didn’t really like it maybe because of the texture. A little ick. Unfortunately, we have a ton leftover.
The best part of making that dish, honestly, was the comical grocery store scene. “Charlie! What’s this?” (holding the bulb aloft). Charlie: “Rutabaga! Code ####.” “Charlie! What’s this?” “Turnip! Code ####.” Of course I was naming them too but Charlie could supply the codes.
I often buy vegetables the clerks can’t identify. Endive. Ancho peppers. Broccoli rabe. Not sure if that says more about me or them.
