Mitered Corners

For many years, I have made napkins for friends and family members when occasions such as weddings or birthdays called for a gift. When we were first married and I had considerably more time than money, I regularly sifted through the remnant table at fabric stores looking for suitable material. Generally, I chose remnants that would produce at least two nice sized napkins to be part of a set of six or eight. If possible, this collection would be related by color or pattern. That someone might prefer a set of napkins that all looked alike never crossed my mind.

Through the years things changed including fabric. The advent of polyester in the seventies made finding nice 100% cotton cloth difficult. It also seemed that an emphasis in color over thread count came along as part of the craft movement. On my end, there was a realignment of resources. I now had more funds in my checking account than time on my clock. As a result, a soup pot frequently replaced a set of mismatched napkins as my standard wedding gift.

A few years ago I got back into the napkin making business. This shift was inspired by the discovery of a great fabric store in Saint Maries, the closest metropolis to our cabin in Idaho. Whether I am making curtains or mending jeans, the cabin is my favorite place to sew. My mother’s wonderful Bernina is there and the fact that when I am at the cabin, there aren’t really many other claims on my time, makes sewing over there a real delight.

Every summer I make a pilgrimage into Mrs. Sew and Sew in Saint Maries looking for fabric. Most of her customers are quilters and her inventory of high quality cloth is amazing. I get excited when I come upon a bolt that seems to have a friend’s name written on it. One such find featured a pattern of black berries that were nearly identical to my friend Coke’s china pattern.

Making napkins is not a particularly challenging undertaking. It pretty much requires cutting, pressing, and sewing in a straight line. At least, that is all it required until my friend Julie – and the word friend is used advisedly as you will see as this unfolds – told me about someone she knew who always mitered the corners on the napkins she made. Mitered corners – incredible! I could only imagine how impressive they might be.

Contemplating it, however, sent me into a tailspin. On the one hand, napkins with mitered corners would be something to really crow about. On the other hand, now that I knew better, what should I do about all of those “fold over corner” napkins I had blithely gifted in the past. Should I send out a recall notice? Maybe sneak into friends’ linen closets while their backs were turned and take them back? Suddenly, my little hobby had become a knotty moral quandary.

Even though I had never actually mitered anything before, I knew what a mitered corner should look like and felt confident that I could figure it out. Still, I found that visualizing the end product and sorting out how to get there was an exercise that taxed my spatial reasoning skills to the max. The most difficult part was calculating the angle and the number of stitches required to produce a folded corner that would lay flat once it was sewn. Folding - pressing-clipping – stitching – cursing! The results improved as I went along so that the final two or three were something I could actually be proud of. Still, it was a Sisyphean exercise every time I started on a new batch.

Everything changed for the better this summer when I engaged in a bit of “strategic whining” in the presence of a professional seamstress. After I explained my frustration to Loraine, she tore off a square of paper from a post it note pad and folded down two of the sides a quarter of an inch. Then she opened the paper back up and folded the corner of the square toward the middle, producing an isosceles triangle with side angles of 45 degrees. This triangle was clipped off along the base, and then folded toward the center one quarter of an inch. She refolded the sides along the original crease and then folded the paper a second time. Have I lost you? Very possibly as this is truly a case of pictures surpassing words. Trust me. The napkins produced using the pattern are the ones I have been dreaming about for years. It should come as no surprise that when not in use, I keep this pattern in my safety deposit box!

I experienced another one of these “mitered moments” the day before Thanksgiving when I was preparing to make the pies. The crusts, which I had mixed up the day before, were waiting to be rolled out in the fridge, four plump discs wrapped in waxed paper. As I placed the can of pumpkin and the two cans of evaporated milk next to the mixer, I glanced at Cook’s Illustrated which was open on the counter. Recklessly, I wondered if they had anything to say about pumpkin pie. Of course they did. If you have ever consulted Cook’s Illustrated you know that have something to say about just about everything culinary.

For starters they nattered on about the fact that the traditional method of preparing pumpkin pie invariably resulted in a soggy crust. Of course, I had to agree but since I’d never known anything different – my mother and grandmother and I all followed the directions on the Libby can – I didn’t consider it an issue. Well, it doesn’t have to be soggy and if you are willing to add the few extra steps required for prebaking the pie shell, you can serve up pumpkin pie with a crisp and flaky bottom.

Though it adds a little more time, this step isn’t all that complicated. It requires lining the crust with foil and weighting it to keep the crust from shrinking, then baking it for about fifteen minutes, then removing the foil and weights and baking the crust another ten minutes or so. Fussy as all this sounds, I was willing to go the extra mile because from my perspective, the crust is the pie. The filling is secondary at best. I have unapologetically served any number of runny berry or peach pies through the years, confident that the crust would carry the day.

Nonetheless, convinced as I was that the true test of the pie, or let’s be honest here, the pie maker, was the crust, I plunged ahead and considered their suggestions for the filling. Under their tutelage I heated the pumpkin puree in a sauce pan with brown sugar, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and salt. Once that concoction bubbled, I removed it from the heat and added the dairy. When I say “dairy” please note that we are now talking about heavy cream and whole milk. (Just take those cans of evaporated milk to the food bank.)Well beaten eggs are added last. Since I was more or less doubling the recipe, I ended up with seven large eggs!

Try as I might to follow their directions to the letter, I fell down when it came to “making sure to pour the filling into the pie shell while it is still hot!” My shell had cooled for about fifteen minutes before I got around to filling it. Obviously, those “laboratory cooks” don’t ever have to go to the bathroom, or answer the phone or throw the ball for a dog!

When I did pour the filling into the shell, there was considerably more pumpkin than the shells would accommodate. The directions contemplated this and calmly assured me this was nothing to worry about. Once the pies had baked for a “few” minutes in a 425 degree oven and the filling had begun to set up, I was directed to open the oven door, stick my head into that 425 degree oven (think Hansel and Gretel) and add the surplus to the partially baked pie. Well, as it turns out, I could also add it to the floor, the bottom of the oven, and my apron! Fortunately, I had put off doing the floors until after the pie preparation.

Of course, the seminal question floating out there is, does all this produce a better pie. Well, yes, damn it, it does! The crust is better – crisp and flaky and frankly, the filling tastes better as well. Of course, with whipping cream, whole milk and twice as many eggs, it should taste better – we are talking calories after all! Will I do it again next year? Need you ask? Of course I will. The obvious lessons that a more reasonable person might take away from all this, are lost on me. I am defenseless against the siren song that merely suggests that harder might be better; any assurance in black and white that it is so , and I’m a goner. Once you’ve mitered a corner, there is no turning back!

Talking My Walk

It is with no small degree of trepidation that I launch myself into this topic, knowing full well that it might come back and bite me in the future as “Exhibit A” in a commitment proceeding brought by Fred and Kate as a last but necessary resort in dealing with the old lady. Still, it is what is currently in my craw, so I will foolishly rush in, quivering angels be damned.

Even though we all may not embrace the concept with equal dedication, we all know that exercise is good for us. It is a difficult bit of information to avoid knowing since the message is ubiquitous – on line, in print, and long ago replaced astrological signs as an ice breaker at parties. Often after a numbing comparative analysis of the aerobic benefits of one form of exercise or another, the author concedes that walking is the best choice for most people. It is easy and doesn’t require a lot of fancy equipment or a membership in gym. People can walk in all sorts of places and in all kinds of weather, provided they have the right clothing. Where I live, gortex is de rigueur about six months of the year.

Dr. Fay tells me that walking is good for my heart and my blood pressure. My jeans tell me that it is good for my fanny as well. Not surprisingly perhaps, it turns out that walking is also good for dogs. Cesar Milan, the “dog whisperer,” observes that to be healthy, happy, and well behaved, dogs need three things: exercise, discipline, and affection. When I read that, I concluded that his prescription for dogs pretty much covered my needs as well and I embraced his admonition with the obsession of a zealot. Dogs not only add companionship to the daily slog, they bring guilt to the equation, which goes a long way to making sure I hit the road every day.

As a consequence, I now look upon these daily dog walks as my job, something that must be done, rather than a choice I make if there isn’t anything else going on. All things considered it is “nice work if you can get it!” Where else might I find employment that I can wrap up in a couple of hours spent out of doors in the company of pleasant co-workers. This walking time also is prime talking time and the dogs provide a nice foil for this. If a passerby catches me gesticulating to emphasize a point, I simply point to the dog. None of the locals would assume I was schizophrenic. In my neighborhood, you are suspect if you don’t have a dog and I am pretty sure most of my friends enjoy similar canine conversations. For sure, they are missing out if they don’t.

After a couple hours of chatting myself up, I can’t help but marvel at my brilliance. How insightful, how witty, how amazingly astute! From time to time I break this scintillating silence to confer with the dogs in order to discern their opinion. Invariably, they signal their concurrence with a wag while fixing me with an expectant look. That is my cue to turn the conversation to something they particularly enjoy with a remark like – “Aren’t you the best dogs in the world? Don’t you think you have a treat coming?” On cue, they sit and look at me, and I dig a little something out of my pocket, once again confirming that we are in total accord.

Then we set off again. Walk. Talk. Talk. Walk. By the time we get back to the house, the dogs are ready for a nap and I have the tough choice of deciding whether to sit by the fire and read, or clean up the kitchen. We are relaxed from the exercise and rejuvenated from our long mutually satisfying conversation. Is it any wonder that it never occurs to me to pick up the phone and call someone for a chat let alone drop by for visit? Some of my friends have suggested that my failure to do so indicates that I am becoming a reclusive, antisocial crank – well, no one has used those exact terms, but I can read between the lines. “I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, what have you been up to?” “Has your phone been out of order?” “I swear we saw more of you when you were working!”

I was starting to think that there might be some truth to that reclusive crank assessment until I realized that after spending a couple of hours every day talking to myself, I didn’t really need to talk to anyone else. Been there. Done that. Besides having experienced the joy of talking to myself, conversing with another person would surely tax me. First of all, I’d have to let them talk at least some of the time. I can’t think of a single friend who wouldn’t demand equal air time. Then there is the very real possibility that they might not agree with me on all points, resulting in some inevitable relationship angst. Finally, as if all of this isn’t enough, there is the certainty that they will want to talk about something other than me – themselves or their children or their own dogs, for crying out loud. Who needs that?

We are pretty happy with things the way they are, so for now we are sticking to our present regimen. Provided, that is that I quit being a slacker and get a move on. Indeed, at this very moment, if I am interpreting their wags and wiggles correctly, they are admonishing me to turn off the computer, get off my fanny, and, in a word, walk my talk!

On A Roll

I made a trip to the cabin the last week in September. Fred wasn’t able to go so I invited a couple of girl friends to join me. Bonnie and Linda were promised several days of rest and relaxation, punctuated with long walks along the river or on forested logging roads, ample quiet time to sit and read by the woodstove, along with food and beverage in abundance, though not gourmet. You can tell that I got my marketing ideas straight out of the Personal Ads. Well, they bought it and realized too late that all of this was just code language for come on over and I will put you to work and maybe if you are lucky offer you a cold beer at the end of the day.

Buoyed by my recent triumph behind the dryer and the piano, I added the cabin to my cleanup agenda. The cabin purge began with a large storage area which is accessed by a ladder going up to the second story from a deck on the back side of the cabin. Next to the door is a large wooden sign placed there by my father, which reads “Odds End.” I smile whenever I think of it as it is so quintessentially my parents. More than anything else, they enjoyed a play on words, and “Odds End” qualifies on many levels.
The cabin itself is pretty much a collection of odds and ends, from the initial structure to the recycled cupboards and furniture. Just as it was the end of the line for much of what comprises the structure as well as the furnishings of the cabin, so it was the final place of fun for a pair of “odd ducks” like my parents. (Their self description, not mine.) As it turned out, it is also the final resting place for their ashes, and though I doubt that they considered it at the time, I am confident that the cabin is where they would most like to be.

The “Odds End” storage area is a place that I had never really ventured into before. Of course I knew it was there and I recall climbing up and taking a quick peek upon occasion but I know for certain, I never before garnered the courage to go face to face with the spiders and wasps that I assumed had claimed it for their own. Whatever was up there could simply stay as far as I was concerned. After all, “out of sight, out of mind” had worked pretty well so far.

What prompted me in September to abandon this laissez- faire attitude and embark on an unprecedented foray into the unknown, was the vague belief that an extra screen door might be lurking somewhere in the detritus of flotation devices, extra plywood, and discarded mattresses. The new closed in sleeping porch that was under construction needed a screen door and the options I had checked out in town the day before were a little too upscale for the cabin. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer – no screen door emerged. No real surprise there. But in the course of confirming this, I decided a purge was called for.

My parents weren’t exactly pack rats or “hoarders,” at least not in the pathological sense that we hear about these days and that I often witnessed among my clients as well as a few relatives that will remain nameless for the time being. Since we share a common gene pool, I prefer to think of them as pioneer recyclers. Dad never encountered a piece of wood that he didn’t think he might use in some fashion or other later on and mother could never let go of a piece of fabric that might prove useful in a quilt or a rug. Mom didn’t stop at making rugs from fabric as I discovered when I opened a large black garbage bag and found a collection of colored plastic bread bags and a two foot oval rug that was a work in progress.
Having competent and energetic help at the ready, I started pitching things out of the door at a feverish pace. My friends, waiting below, hauled and sorted stuff into two piles - one destined for the burn pile and the other for the dumpster. Richard the resident handy man was then deployed to dispose of the collection, which he did with admirable dispatch. Before you let yourself feel too sorry for my friends who I readily admit I hookwinked into this project, you should know that they are both closet “neatniks” and I suspect felt as if they were saving a soul by doing the heavy lifting for this undertaking. Two “treasures” Bonnie and Linda insisted had to be salvaged from this purging included a “bathinette” and a wooden shipping box for Black & White Scotch whiskey.

The “bathinette” is a baby bathing device undoubtedly acquired in 1940, in anticipation of my brother Peter’s arrival. A pink tag was still attached which read: “The BATHINETTE of course! Your friends will look for the name like sterling on silver.” The rubber bathtub, which by the way is more than “hospital” rubber attaches by a hose to the sink water supply as well as the drain. Once the baby has been bathed, the tub converts to a changing table. By simply by stepping on a foot pedal a sturdy cotton cloth stretched between two dowels comes up and locks into place over the tub. The freshly bathed infant is placed on the changing table and for added security, a strip of fabric about five inches wide with holes for his arms can be fastened over the child, so that there is no chance the wee one will fly off the table while the changer is looking for a safety pin. Disposable diapers were as remote at the time of the “bathinette” as a landing on the moon.

I had seen the Scotch box before and was delighted to find it still intact. Frankly, I have a bit of a thing for boxes myself and confess to having trouble parting with them, especially if they are made of wood. The fact that scotch had originally made its way across the Atlantic in the box coupled with an inherited fondness for the stuff, moved this treasure into the keeper category. It is now screwed onto the wall in the kitchen, next to the old wooden telephone, where is serves as a mini bar. There are wooden dividers at both ends that accommodate and secure six bottles. In the center, there are removable slats with rounds cut out the size of the neck of a bottle that slide into the middle of the box to hold them in place.

While I was occupied cleaning out “Odds End” at the cabin, Fred was busying himself at home cleaning out the garage. Now this is a task that I have been talking about for a good part of the 43 years we have lived here. And though he has never outright denied that a good cleaning might be called for, whenever I brought it up as a possible activity for the weekend, he chose instead to characterize it as a “rainy day” project thereby putting it off for some yet to be identified time in the future. Given that we live in “rainy day country” you might suppose that the rainy day list, no matter how extensive, would be completed in any one season. In Fred’s case, he manages to be gone during a great deal of the rainy season, so what appears on the surface to be a legitimate effort to prioritize work, has evolved into a great avoidance technique. Oh gosh, fooled me!

Though at 6:00 a.m. on a very rainy Sunday when I left for the cabin I didn’t know of his plan to tackle the garage, I did learn about it during the day, somewhere east of Ephrata. While I was stopped in a wheat field to give the dogs a run my cell phone rang. Fred was calling from the land fill to advise me that he had just dropped off 600 pounds of stuff that up until that morning, one of us at least didn’t think we couldn’t part with. He confessed that he was motivated more by the fact that he had decided to jump start a weight loss resolve by fasting and drinking only water that day than by the encroaching clutter at the work bench. Staying out of the kitchen and staying busy made this resolution easier to keep.

With those inroads made in the garage area, I came home and threw myself into the potting shed and greenhouse. What a pig sty! The potting shed was a virtual maze of buckets and wire, cluttered with countless discarded plant pots and overlaid with a patina of filth! You will be spared the details largely because I have some embarrassment about publicly acknowledging them. Suffice it to say that it is a project that I am still working on; despite the fact that I keep moving the “finish” date back, great strides have been made. So far, in addition to sorting and cleaning and culling the pot collection down to a manageable number, I have scrubbed the greenhouse with a bleach solution, tackled the fly nests and spider eggs, and placed a moratorium on Fred’s penchant for stopping at garage sales on the lookout for something that he might use as a planter or a tray.

We are on a roll around here that I am determined to keep the momentum going. Really all this getting rid of stuff is pretty heady. Fred managed to lose some weight in the process and I feel lighter, just knowing I have gotten rid of a lot of crap. Still, don’t expect to see a photo montage of either the garage or the potting shed with the Christmas letter. Nor should you anticipate being entertained there any time soon. These areas may be clean and tidy by “Gentry standards” but that is several notches below anything that might pass inspection with the health department let alone meet the hospitality level worthy of our friends.

Blind Luck

Monday, Barley and I spent the better part of the morning in the offices of Penni Cooley, DVM who specializes in pet ophthalmology. She didn’t have an eye chart for him to read, but otherwise the lights and lenses that she used to examine his eyes were similar to what my eye doctor relies upon. After she finished examining him with her sophisticated equipment, she threw cotton balls in front of his face to test his response. Finally, she had her assistant create a maze between the examining room and her office out of a series of waste baskets and other plastic containers. I stood at the far end and called him. This exercise was repeated with the lights off. With the lights on, he was able to knock over the waste basket that was directly in front of him and wind his way to where I stood. In the dark, he didn’t even try.

No use beating around the bush. Barley is going blind. There – I have said it. His condition is known as “progressive retinal atrophy” or, PRA, and is a result of a defect in an enzyme in the photoreceptors of the retina that prevent damage from light. In case you don’t have an anatomy book in front of you, the retina is the cup like structure that forms the back of the eye. The photoreceptors die over time, with the rod cells that are responsible for dim light vision or night vision the first to go followed by the cone cells leading to complete blindness. The cells simply atrophy or shrink. It is classified as a recessive gene disorder for which there is no therapy or treatment.

I don’t know exactly when we first noticed that he didn’t seem to see as well as he should but I’d bet that it first became evident when someone threw a ball and he missed it. As in any condition that is finally ‘out of the closet’ and given a name, I have been thinking back to when the last time was that he could catch a ball on the fly. Did he ever do that? I think so but now I’m not so sure. Certainly, last summer he could be counted on to chase the ball to earth no matter how far down the driveway it was lobbed. From time to time, he would have to spend extra time running it to ground, but he always found it. When did the exception become the rule? Certainly, this summer no fly balls have made their way into his glove. He often runs in circles around the ball before locating it. “Silly dog – it’s right there!” we say, not comprehending his condition. When he does locate it, I suspect he has “sees” it first with his nose.

With shorter days, our first and last walk of the day is now in the dark and that has brought about several noticeable changes. For starters, he doesn’t charge down the driveway full bore as he does during day light hours; instead he stays close to me, proceeding with a tentative gate. Also, he bumps into or stumbles over structures that are well known to him. A couple of weeks ago, he walked right into the neighbor’s pile of beauty bark. Since it had only been delivered the day before I tried to dismiss it as something out of the ordinary. The next night, he collided with the curb by the garage that has been there forever. Denial was no longer an option.

Over the past five months, Kate and Micaiah’s dog Malbec, has stayed with us off and on, often for two to three weeks at a time. Initially, he wasn’t much interested in chasing a ball. After all, he considers himself primarily a guard dog and a lover. But once he saw that it was a fun game with the anticipated rewards of praise and petting, he threw himself into it. He is powerful runner, so at first he often overran the ball, necessitating doubling back to pick it up thereby giving Barley a second chance at getting the ball in his mouth first. Unfortunately, Barley was rarely able to take advantage of Malbec’s fumble. As the game wore on, Barley’s expression changed from eager anticipation to one of decided frustration – after all, he was the retriever! Didn’t he own this game? Malbec, the Boxer/Ridgeback meritage was an interloper of the first order!

Frequently once Malbec had the ball in his mouth, he dropped it, often right in front of Barley. One likely explanation of this behavior is that Malbec is either intimidated by Barley or that he simply lost interest in the ball once he had it in his mouth; however, I prefer to think that he dropped it intentionally to give Barley another chance. Malbec is smart and sensitive and fully capable of recognizing Barley’s limitations as well as his psychological need to be first. Despite the fact that Malbec could clean Barley’s clock if he were so inclined, he accepts Barley as the pack leader and defers to him. Besides, for better or worse they are family now and family looks out for one another.

So where do we go from here. For starters, I have to get over feeling sad about it. Barley is his same cheerful hardy self and doesn’t need a maudlin mistress for company. Invariably he “comes to play” with an enviable energetic focus at the mere hint of a ball game or the mention of the beach. Being congenitally inclined to live in the future rather than the present I can learn a lot from him about living in the moment. Heaven knows I will need a mentor to navigate the maze of compromised skills and abilities, which will require adaptation and acceptance.

I don’t consider myself a total control freak but in all honesty the hardest part of all of this is recognizing that there is nothing I can do about it. I can’t even justify a good guilty wallow. No “if only” or “why didn’t I?” in this scenario. I really have no option but to buck up, act like an adult and as AA teaches, accept what is, correct those things I can correct and accept those I cannot.

So there you have it. Blind luck. Not the unexpected good fortune often associated with that phrase but on the other hand, luck is just that - luck. This morning on our long walk, we talked about it and decided that all things considered, when it came right down to it, mainly we had good luck and we had it in abundance. After all, we did have each other!

Zucchini Season

Fall is upon us - the season known for longer nights, cooler mornings, and garden bounty. This time of year, if the motion light goes off in the wee hours it is more likely my neighbor, Peter, than a would be prowler. He dashes around at dawn in his striped bathrobe, leaving grocery bags of zucchini at the door, like May baskets. Our own garden history with zucchini is decidedly mixed. This year, we seem to have just about the right amount though I am reluctant to publish that information, because, well if the word gets out to Peter and he shows up in his bathrobe, I will have more than enough.

With the advent of my new planter boxes that run the along the back of the deck next to the house, I turned the raised bed over to Fred to grow dahlias, with the request that he plant squash around the perimeter. Winter squash seems to benefit from running out along the warm river rocks between the raised bed and the deck. Fred and I are not of one mind when it comes to squash – I love it, especially winter varieties, like Butternut and Delicata. He tolerates it but prefers the summer types, like spaghetti squash, which in past years has been the dominant crop. I have little patience with spaghetti squash, so most of it ends up in the compost pile.

This summer, only four squash plants made it into production mode – all of them zucchini. One produces the slim green variety routinely sold in the grocery store and the others are bulbous and variegated. They are extremely fast growers; what at first light is about the size of my fist morphs into garden clogs by dinner time.

I didn’t grow up with zucchini. My parents, particularly my father who was in charge of planting, didn’t believe in growing something that had to be “doctored up” in order to be “gotten down.” In later years, once they no longer had a garden of their own but relied on the bounty of their neighbors, they discovered that zucchini could be used to make “watermelon pickles,” and they preserved great quantities of the stuff despite the fact that the only time a jar made it off the shelf was at Thanksgiving.

I suspect that there are more recipes for what to do with zucchini than just about any other vegetable. For one thing, if you have any you generally have a lot. Further, no matter how dedicated one might be to eating their veggies, there is a limit to how much a family can consume in one sitting, raw or otherwise. A favorite recipe of mine, Pasticcio di Zucchini, was given to me by my friend, Diane, who is equally gifted in the kitchen and the garden. Thinly sliced squash and tomato are layered in a dish with mozzarella cheese, fresh herbs, and bread crumbs and then bound together with a few beaten eggs. One week in August, I prepared this a half a dozen times, for home consumption as well as sharing at neighborhood potlucks. It is versatile; equally good hot or cold, it can be served as the entry or as an hors’doeuvre.

Rainy days are often baking days for me and since we have had quite a bit of rain lately, the bread pans and muffin tins have been in constant use. In the past couple of weeks, I have produced several loaves of zucchini/carrot bread with whole wheat flour and bran, at least four dozen zucchini/pineapple muffins, and three loaves of zucchini/chocolate bread. I confess that I had to overcome some bias no doubt acquired in my childhood to try out that recipe. Chocolate is something to be found in cookies, pudding and cake but not in bread! Well, I am glad that I finally loosened up on this as the results are great. I confess that I am not all the way cured of my bias as the other day I served some to my neighbor and called it ‘cake.’

My all time favorite zucchini recipe, however, is for zucchini patties, found in Volume II of Joan Moody’s cookbook, Pantry Patter, published in 1978. For many years, Joan wrote a weekly column in the Daily Olympian called “Joan’s Pantry Patter.” The hallmark of most of her recipes is that they are easy to follow and rely upon ingredients that are readily available. If she did include something exotic, like “slivered almonds” she always suggested a low cost substitute or gave permission to leave it out entirely. Her cookie recipes routinely produce 8 – 10 dozen while her casseroles are hearty and flavorful, and come with an admonition to make two - one to bake now and one to freeze for later.

Joan died a few years ago, after what is often referred to in the obituaries to as a valiant battle with cancer. Certainly if cancer could be driven off by sheer force of will, Joan would be here today. As it was, she experienced many periods of remission during which time she seemingly bounced back to her characteristic high level of performance. When I contemplate the legacies that a person might leave for family and friends, a series of great recipes is pretty hard to beat.

Zucchini Patties

The following proportions make four patties about three inches in diameter. I generally cook these in a small electric frying pan, but any frying pan would work equally well.

Ingredients:

1 cup grated zucchini

1 cup coarsely crumbled crackers. (Use crumbled saltines, not prepared bread or cracker crumbs.)

2 tablespoons chopped onion

1 beaten egg

½ teas salt

Garlic to taste

½ cup parmesan cheese

Oil for skillet (2 tablespoons)

Directions: Heat skillet with oil on medium heat. Combine all ingredients in bowl. Spoon into the hot oil and pat out flat. After 2 -3 minutes, check to see if underside is brown. If so, turn patties and cook until brown. Sometimes I turn these a couple of times, particularly if I have the skillet at a lower temperature. We think these go well with just about anything. Last night I served them with pork medallions and mushrooms to rave reviews.

There you have it. Next time the motion light goes off, just relax and go back to sleep, knowing that you can fix Zucchini patties for supper!

A Scary Place

A couple of days ago, I went where no man has dared to go before, at least no man in this house. Well, to be honest, no woman either. I got behind the clothes dryer!

For several weeks, months actually, I had noticed that whenever I had the dryer on, the temperature in the room rose to levels required for an egg incubator. It occurred to me that I might do well to get some fertilized eggs and hatch out a clutch of chicks in on the washing machine. Well, it was a passing thought; off the table before it really got traction.

Of course, I had peered over the back of the dryer to see if it was venting to the outside and it looked okay. I even asked “Mr. Fixit” if he would check it out, explaining that sometimes it got so hot in the room that the smoke alarm came on. “Looks fine to me.” He pronounced following his inspection. With this cursory investigation behind me, I felt justified in mentioning it to an electrician who had come out to give me an estimate on a small rewiring project in the living room. He promised to thoroughly examine it when he came back in a few days and I began to fantasize about a new dryer.

Barley eats in the laundry room. A week ago, after I fed him, I turned the dryer on, shut the door, and then wandered outside where I became engaged in a conversation with my neighbor Kim. By the time I made it back into the house, Barley was barking frantically while the smoke alarm did its thing – emitting an insistent cacophony, at once irritating and frightening.

Having stressed out the dog, I was now galvanized to get serious with this dryer situation. I explored some more exotic explanations for what might be ailing my dryer – a faulty thermostat as an example. Finally, I concluded that the most obvious explanation was that the machine wasn’t properly venting. First I tackled cleaning out the vent from the outside and replaced the existing trap with a piece of panty hose. Then I moved inside. I pulled the dryer all the way out from the wall and discovered that the duct tape was not doing its job. Appearances are so unreliable.

What a scary place the backside of a clothes dryer is, particularly one that has been the final resting place for bleach bottle lids, clothes pins, gum wrappers and old tooth brushes, all cocooned in enough dryer lint to fill an ottoman. This odd collection of detritus can be understood only if one accepts that my laundry room/pantry is the place of last refuge for many items that originally lived someplace else in the house. We don’t brush our teeth in the laundry room but I never throw away a used tooth brush because they are the perfect tool for reaming out crud filled crevices. Of course, as long as they are hanging out under the dryer, the crud continues to accumulate. Regrettably, none of the mates to the solo socks that I am holding onto made an appearance.

Once I shimmied under the utility sink, cleaned off the floor and the back of the dryer, it was clear that there was a gaping wound in the duct tape, allowing heat and lint to escape into the room at large. I cleaned it out, found a wire spring loop to put over the pipe and the outside vent, and then wrapped new duct tape around the connection. I moved the dryer back in place, put in a load of towels, set the dial for “heavy duty/all cotton” and watched with some trepidation to see if my “fix” would hold.

Well it did and the accomplishment made me giddy! Buoyed by my success, the next day I moved the piano away from the wall in the living room. It was so dark back there that I needed a flash light to really appreciate the collective horror the move revealed. What kind of slob lives here, I asked myself as I probed with the vacuum cleaner, sucking up dead Christmas cactus blossoms, fly carcasses, tooth picks, and other stuff I didn’t bother to catalogue. Now I peek behind the piano whenever I go into the living room and, when I sit down to play, I am convinced that it even sounds better, though that may be the product of an over active imagination coupled with my “exceptional hearing.”

There are other scary places just waiting for my attack, I am on a roll now and plan to tackle a few more before the winter lethargy sets in and the motivation is lost. I have to watch myself, however, as cleaning behind the piano is the very sort of task I tend to take on when I know that guests are on the way and what I really should be doing is plumping up the sofa pillows and clearing off the coffee table. Still, I live by the motto to “do it now” because even though the mess will be there tomorrow, I know that the impetus is ephemeral.

Be advised. If you come to see me, don’t take offense if I entertain you in the pantry or seat you behind the piano. Right now, they just happen to be the most pristine places in the house. On the other hand, if you show up and can’t find me, try looking under the sink. It’s next on the list for reconnaissance.

Pulling weeds or pulling words - a summer conundrum

Summer is at last upon us and as a consequence, my writing has taken an unintended sabbatical. Every time I sit down at the computer, I can hear the weeds in my perennial bed snickering and chortling about getting the better of me. (I did tell you about my perfect hearing, didn’t I?) Of course, the matter of what gets done and what doesn’t is complicated by the fact that I want to do absolutely everything I love in the morning because, well I am a morning person and that is when morning people do their stuff!

Walking the dogs is high on the morning list and a chore that can easily eat up one to two hours. I confess to being compulsive about this as, well when I walk the dogs, I walk myself and we are all better off because of it. It also helps justify some of the other favorite morning tasks, such as sitting and reading the paper and drinking tea. Morning is the time of day I like to start any baking project as well as the best time for me to pay bills and scrub the floor. Obviously, bill paying and floor scrubbing are not “fun favorite” things to do, but the euphoric feeling that follows their completion keeps them vying for my attention, to say nothing of my energy, on a regular basis.

Finally and most importantly, morning is the time I like to write, but I somehow need to have the house to myself in order to do that. So, that enterprise must of necessity take place between the time that Fred leaves for work and before anyone else shows up. On any given day, the “anyone else” could be a gardener, carpenter, plumber, or heaven forbid, some friend who just wants to chat!

In the summer, this ever shrinking sacred time is also the best time to work in the garden. Even non morning people know that the early part of the day is the best time to be weeding and watering before things heat up and dry out. In our climate, our best summer weather is often characterized by cool overcast mornings that burn off sometime between eleven and two. In the two or three hours before the sun breaks through, I can generally get a lot of weeding and dead heading done, assuming I get out there and get after it.

Of course, since I am the one who “makes the rules” on how I spend my day, if I would just lighten up and decide to tackle some of these tasks in the afternoon, I might not feel so pressed for time. On the other hand, I am in the downhill slide by 3:00 and, my competency as well as my motivation responds to the gravitational pull downward. By this time of day, if I haven’t figured out dinner, I need to be thinking about that and there is just an outside possibility that in all my scooting around to deal with the morning, I have neglected to clean off the kitchen counters. You know, I have friends whose kitchen counters are always clean and I am baffled at how they manage that. Maybe they cook in the basement behind a locked door!

Yesterday someone asked me which season was my favorite. With the nearly perfect summer weather we have had of late, I was tempted to give summer two thumbs up. But then, when I thought about my “to do” list and the fact that before I even get around to checking something off, three or four “must do’s, asap” have elbowed their way on to the list, those long grey days of winter that cry out for a fire and a book and of course a pot of tea sounded pretty inviting. Of course, the long days of summer complicate the matter. Those days we yearn for around Thanksgiving when daylight is but a faint memory by the time the turkey is served.

Years ago I somehow internalized the maxim to “make hay while the sun shines.” Well, I can tell you – I am about ready for haying season to be over!

Barley and Malbec

“Barley and Malbec” sounds like the title of an article extolling the virtues of grains and grapes. Indeed, without much pushing, I could wax eloquent on the topic - well, if not eloquent at least effusive. When it comes to red wine – something that I come to most every evening, Malbec is near at the top. I didn’t know about it until I met Micaiah, my son in law, and now I don’t know how I ever lived without it. I feel much the same way about Micaiah.

Barley is hands down my favorite grain. I like it in soup, as a side dish sautéed with onions and herbs, or for breakfast with a little brown sugar. But the Malbec and Barley of this particular piece refers to the two dogs who are presently my constant companions. As I write, Barley is sharing the ottoman with my feet and Malbec is on a large pillow beside my chair. We have just returned from a couple hour slog in the rain and the boys will be out for a good hour before they rouse me for a round of “three ball.”

It would difficult to find two dogs more different in appearance and temperament. Malbec has short hair the color of buttered toast. His face is classic boxer – big sad eyes, wrinkled brow and black muzzle. He may look intimidating but in truth he is pretty much a scaredy cat until he gets to know you and then watch out for his tail – it can raise welts when he really gets excited. A formidable looking muscle dog, he has been Kate’s regular running companion in Albuquerque the past four years and anyone who might have considered doing her harm would have dropped the idea, once he got a good look at Malbec.

Barley is a golden retriever and small for his breed, with honey colored coat and lots of platinum feathers on his legs and tail. While one look at Malbec sitting on the front porch will keep most door to door salesmen at bay, Barley has the kind of sweet good looks that prompt folks to rush up, kneel down, and scratch his ear. I am not alone in thinking he is one of the cutest dogs around, one who could probably finance a post graduate degree by posing for calendars. When he and Fred travel together, he is a proven “chick magnet” inspiring attractive women to bend over, throw their arms around him, and mutter sweet nothings while he pokes his nose into their perfumed cleavage.

Both dogs are great people dogs which makes them easy to hang out with. They both like parties – both the socialization and the clean up. Nonetheless, as we all know, looks can be deceiving. For though Barley is well behaved with people of all ages and infirmities, when it comes to other dogs, his social skills are decidedly lacking. He can move from naughty to nice and back again in a tail wag. Though various professionals as well as other dog owners have told me that they don’t think he is truly aggressive, just a little full of himself, I am baffled. Maybe he has a split personality - Barley and Snarly.

Malbec is temporarily living with us until Kate and Micaiah finish their residencies in Albuquerque and move to Seattle. Selling a house with a dog in it poses challenges, not least of which is keeping the floor clean. I have known that Malbec would be moving in with us for the past couple of years and the prospect of how Barley would react to this has had me on the verge of cardiac arrest whenever I thought about it. I have devoured just about every book written on dog training, specifically those chapters devoted to “dog on dog aggression”; I have watched countless segments of “The Dog Whisper” and even engaged the services of a “dog shrink.” Together, Barley and I have participated in multiple training classes, with provocative titles like, “Reactive Rover” and “Just Cool It.” Finally, we worked with a trainer who specializes in training German shepherds as protection dogs. From him I learned two very important things – the value of the command “down” and the reality that I might be able to control Barley’s behavior but I probably wasn’t going to cure him.

When I started on this piece a couple of days ago I intended to tell you at this point that all of my sleepless nights and fretting had been for naught. After a rather tense initial 24 hours where Fred and I kept Barley on leash and under “strict surveillance” things had really mellowed out quite nicely. The dogs walked side by side every day on leash for an hour or more, they rode in the backseat of my car with their heads next to each other. They played ball, ran on the beach and took turns with treats. In general they co-existed without incident. Regrettably, as is often the case, my smugness settled in a little too soon. On Monday night, when Fred arrived home from a Tacoma Rainiers game, the two dogs ran to the door to great him, taking their toys to show him and diving between his legs for attention and pets. All seemed to be proceeding normally, when out of the blue, Barley nailed Malbec on the ear.

I put Barley in a down and proceeded to mete out punishment in the way that only a mother can do when she is both angry and humiliated by the behavior of her child. Then I turned my attention to Malbec, who had not really reacted to the fracas, at least not vocally. Much to my horror, I discovered that Malbec was missing part of his ear – a small part, a sliver along the bottom corner, but still, his left ear was no longer a match for the right.

I will skip ahead and spare you the details that might only be of interest to a forensic pathologist. Suffice it to say that the computer room where Malbec spent the night looked as if it had been decorated by Jackson Pollock during a temper tantrum. Finally, I succeeded in getting enough duct tape around his ear to stanch the bleeding. Anyone who remembers the movie, Cat Balou and recalls the hired gun slinger with the silver nose played by Lee Marvin will appreciate that we dubbed Malbec, “Silver Ear” while he sported the duct tape bandage. Fred insists on calling him Evander Holyfield and Barley Mike Tyson – an appropriate but rather disconcerting reference, as far as I am concerned. He has since been to the vet and now has a much more pedestrian looking bandage, along with antibiotics and pain pills.

The clean up occupied me for a good three hours and I continue to find dark spots in the most unexpected places. Malbec appears to be unfazed by the whole thing. He is a real trooper about taking his medicine particularly since he “takes” it in a hot dog. Barley has finally “forgiven” me for punishing him. You read that right. At first I thought his chastened behavior was prompted by remorse – what a nice idea. Alas, I am a wiser woman than I wish I were.

Tomorrow, we are loading up the truck with dog crates, kibbles and the chucker and heading down to Sun River for the annual meeting of Fred’s investment club. When I thought about how complicated it would be to explain all of my house rules for the dogs to a house sitter, taking them along was by far the easiest choice. Besides, what on earth would I do with my time otherwise – sit around and read books and drink wine? Fred has golf and tennis to occupy him, but when you are a woman who “walks with dogs” well, that is what you need to do. Besides, they seem to enjoy my company and in that respect, they are unique. There is an outside possibility that this enforced socialization will have a salutary effect on Barley; that he will trade in a curled lip for friendly nudge. But as I said – I am a wiser woman now and am not holding my breath. I encourage you to exhale as well. Surely, you will be the first to know if there is a miraculous conversion.

Paradise

We just got home from a week in Caracau, a desert island in the Caribbean, due north of Venezuela. In my grade school geography class, it was referred to as one of the Dutch Antilles. Aruba, Bon Aire, and Caracau are popular vacation spots with Bon Aire and Caracau being the favorites for scuba divers, in large part because the many magnificent coral reefs are easily accessible from the shore. The water temperature was around 80 degrees and the ambient temperature ranged from 80 to 95 most days, with a constant and welcome breeze. The food was fine, the beer was cold and abundant and the locals were friendly and spoke English along with Dutch and several other indigenous dialects. It is the sort of place that most people in the Pacific Northwest long for about this time of year – an azure fantasy realized. In a word, “paradise.”

Except, not for me. I am one of those odd ducks who believes I have left paradise behind whenever I leave home. Like a low grade infection, I experience a little “heart sickness” whenever I am away. I know - it’s pathetic! My very favorite day of vacation is the day I pack my bag for the return trip. When the cold damp air hits me at SeaTac as I head across the sky bridge to the parking garage, I feel like doing cartwheels.

Even the unseasonably cold temperatures which had recently dumped snow in the foothills did not dampen my enthusiasm for being home. In the spring, part of the joy of being home is returning to my garden with its daily surprises and discoveries. It’s like being around a new born – you need to check on things every half hour or so, because something new is bound to appear.

In the week that I had been gone, the lilies of the valley had poked up through last fall’s layer of top dressing. There they stood stolidly at attention among the airy leaves of the native bleeding hearts. By today, the leaves have begun to unfold and the blossom buds have loosened. Trilliums have appeared that I had forgotten about. That is the great gift of the spring garden – many of my favorites that take center stage this time of year retreat into obscurity as the summer approaches. The fawn or trout lilies which were just beginning to show off their dappled foliage are now in full bloom. Their delicate yellow and white petals turn up at the ends like a bonnet, fondly reminiscent of the cheerful milkmaids that cavorted through my childhood picture books.

Home is my dog, Barley, who flies out of the chair that he is not supposed to be in, rushing the door to greet me, hedge hog in his mouth, diving back and forth between my legs in a full body wag. Home is the place where flannel sheets can feel good from Labor Day until the 4th of July. It is a fire in the woodstove, a fresh pot of tea and a mystery in my favorite chair – the one recently vacated by the dog! And, it is the sublime quiet that comes with living at the end of the road. A garden, a dog, and a fire – lucky me to live in paradise all year round with the opportunity to leave just often enough that I don’t take it for granted.

Remembering Heloise

I’ve always enjoyed the articles that appear in magazines and newspapers giving directions on how to do things: remove stains, get rid of quack grass, or extend the life of a favorite garment. As a child the magazines on the coffee table that I could chose from included Harpers, The Atlantic Monthly, and The Saturday Review along with The Ladies Home Journal and Better Homes and Gardens. If I had been more precocious, I am sure I would have found something edifying and entertaining in Harpers, or The Atlantic Monthly, but since I wasn’t even a little bit precocious, I bypassed them in favor of The Ladies Home Journal and Better Homes and Gardens.

Both of them had glossy colored pictures and not a whole lot of words. My favorite articles were the “Heloise” types, though from time to time I did take a peek at such things as “Can This Marriage Be Saved?” My comprehension of these articles was thin, to say the least. Practically speaking, every adult I knew was married and had kids so of course, they were happy? Besides, everyone knew that ‘happy’ was the provenance of children not adults.

I did know two women who weren’t married – the “Liere girls” –Gertrude and Dorothea, spinster sisters who lived together. One of them directed the choir at church and the other played the organ and with extreme patience gave piano lessons to many of the “church children,” me included. Though no one ever talked about it in my presence, I was certain I knew why they weren’t married. They were both tall and Dorothea was really tall. They were also thin and none of the married woman I knew were either, which settled the matter in my mind.

No, the articles that captivated me were not the relationship “self help” but the “how to do things” articles that regularly appeared in both publications. Even though I wasn’t really a budding chemist, cleaning formulas that called for mixing baking soda and white vinegar together were always hard to resist. After all, anything that fizzes is worth a try. I generally gave the articles explaining how to get aspic out of the mold without breaking it a wide berth; in or out of the mold, aspic was pretty low on my interest list. But, in nearly every edition, you could count on some formula for removing stains from something or other – grease from white linen table cloths, furniture polish from clothing, or rings in the tub.

I remember one occasion in particular where I was desperate to find out how to get white shoe polish out of the carpet. The rocking chair that I had strategically placed over the spot was a temporary fix at best; sooner or later, someone was bound to move it back to its usual position at the end of the sofa, letting the proverbial cat out of the bag. Once mother ferreted out the source of the stain, it was only a matter of time before the blame would land squarely on me as no one else in the household wore white shoes.

The propensity of pets to jump and bump is often boon to children looking to “share the blame” for mishaps of this nature. I suspect that I contemplated bringing Blondie, my energetic cocker spaniel, into the mix as something of a co-conspirator. Still, that wouldn’t have addressed the underlying issue that mother was certain to zero in on. “What on earth were you doing polishing your shoes in the living room on the carpet in the first place?”

Sorry to say that only the angst of this incident is still with me. I no longer remember whether or not I was successful in removing the stain or what punishment, if any, was meted out. Clearly living as I did in one state of self induced emergency and crisis or another, did establish a lifelong affinity for Heloise and her ilk and the plethora of helpful hints they disburse.

It comes as no surprise then that my ears perked up recently when a friend suggested using Efferdent – the denture cleaner – for cleaning humming bird feeders. Anna's hummingbirds begin to show up around here as early as February so getting feeders filled and consequently keeping them clean is a regular task. In the past I have used bleach – name something I haven’t used bleach for often inappropriately– and then worried that I might not have rinsed it well enough and harm the birds as a consequence.

Efferdent seemed like a great idea; after all, if it can be used clean someone’s dentures which they put back into their mouth, then it certainly ought to be safe enough for the humming birds. I tried it and it works like a charm. Last week I attended a little birthday party for my 94 year old neighbor, who was given a beautiful colored glass humming bird feeder. My attempt to show off my Efferdent discovery fell flat when I learned that everyone else had been on to this trick for years and furthermore, one person said she also used denture cleaner on the toilet bowl! That did get my attention as I have been a regular user of bleach and Pine sol (not together) for years and was eager to try something a little less toxic.

From the toilet bowl, I moved on to my bone china tea cups. I am a self proclaimed tea snob – the preparation of the tea as well as the consumption. I have a nice collection of bone china mugs that I guard assiduously. They are kept in a cupboard separate from the morning coffee mugs and woe to the family member who inadvertently fills one with java! Nonetheless, my precious china mugs do get stained and look ugly and until I tried the denture cleanser, nothing cleaned them properly other than bleach.

So, that’s the Heloise report to date. I have a couple of other ideas I am working on for removing pitch from fingers and hard wood as well as stains in the carpet – not shoe polish this time, but sick pet. Once the techniques I am working with have been thoroughly tested, I will pass them on. In the meantime, I intend to stock up on Efferdent and hope that it doesn’t become a sought after ingredient for some illegal drug cooking operation so I have to ask for it like Sudafed. I wouldn’t want the word to get out that I no longer have my own teeth, tea stained though they may be!

Thirty Things We Love About Our Daughter

March 4, 1980 Katherine Ruth Gentry arrived on the scene and in our hearts. Life as we knew it before that date was forever changed!

1. You were born – we could just stop there, as it pretty much says it all.
2. You were born on your maternal grandmother’s birthday –providing the perfect gift for years to come.
3. You are kind and thoughtful.
4. You still take trips with us.
5. You have a great dog.
6. You continue to play in an orchestra and invite your mother to come to your concerts.
7. You married Micaiah.
8. You are “coming home” to the PNW in July.
9. You know how to handle a fly rod.
10. You can keep a secret – unless it is something about your dad that you think your mom ought to know!
11. You only wrecked one car.
12. You like to go fishing “for a very long time.”
13. You can play good basket ball defense on the home court.
14. You can climb 5.7.
15. You are a good scuba diver, who dives deep and doesn’t use much air or need much weight.
16. You eat everything – except tree nuts.
17. You never whine – and don’t cut any slack to folks who do.
18. You were number one in your high school graduating class and Phi Beta Kappa at Haverford and we are humbled to be in your gene pool.
19. You started skiing before you were two and still enjoy it.
20. You’ve only had one temper tantrum “of record.”
21. You didn’t turn us in to CPS for not taking you to Disney Land.
22. You got engaged at the cabin.
23. You and Fr. George still play “Home on the Range” for gramps.
24. You always carry your share on back packing trips.
25. You like to ride your bike to work.
26. You are tough, beautiful, and funny.
27. You’re not afraid to be wrong or ask a question.
28. You are a good Candy Land player but not so hot at Monopoly. (An attribute from my perspective!mom)
29. You’re unflappable and the person everyone looks to when things go sideways.
30. YOU ARE OUR DAUGHTER!!!!

The Sentimental Gardener

Generally speaking, I like to think that most of the decisions I make in life are somehow grounded in reason. At least I give lip service to that notion. Nonetheless, despite a full shelf of gardening books and a devotion to articles and radio talk shows dealing with all things related to the garden, when it comes to choosing plants, I am a sucker for anything that I was introduced to as a child.

This time of year when I am poking around in my perennial bed my mind drifts back to the garden I grew up in. Columbine, bearded iris, Shasta daisies grew in profusion in a large bed, against a backdrop of bridal wreath. In May lilacs were the crown jewels of both the front and back yards – white, pink, purple and of course, lilac in hue, they were lush and fragrant. Lilies of the Valley carpeted their feet and bleeding hearts created a petticoat in between.

By early July, oriental poppies, orange and pink with inky black centers flourished in front of a thicket of sapphire globe thistles. I kept my distance from both of these as the poppies left tell tale spots on fingers and clothing and the thistles were prickly to the touch. Fragrant Snowball Viburnum, weigela, flowering almond provided a fragrant and varied hedge, separating the yard from the sheep pasture. Climbing roses mixed in with clematis wound their way up trellises located on either side of the front door and strategically placed by windows around the house.

A hedge row of peonies lined our driveway – a few double ruffle pink plants were mixed in with the predominately red and white stalwart varieties. A few were fragrant and I learned early on to check before I thrust my nose into the center of the blossom as more often than not a bee had beat me to the perfume. Peonies, lilacs, and bridal wreath, clematis, bleeding heart, and iris – these are the plants that I crave for my garden, irrespective of their suitability to my clay soil, wet winters, and predominantly damp shade.

I came to gardening late in life – well, later than I should if I were going to benefit from any of mother’s expertise. Forty plus years ago when we bought our home, it was enough for me to continue the former owners’ practice of planting lemon drop marigolds along the drive way and buying salmon colored geraniums for the two planters at the back door. When the one area that might have been devoted to a flower bed was usurped by Fred for his rhododendrons, I breathed a sigh of relief.

But somewhere along the way my horticultural sensibilities were aroused and I started spending more and more of my non working waking hours in the garden. The more intense my professional life became, the more I treasured the rewards the garden had to offer. Where else can you find work that fires up your creativity, galvanizes your energy and leaves you happily exhausted at the end of the day? It can take all of your free time along with an embarrassing amount of your money, and still leave you smiling. Most importantly, it is not nearly as serious as the rest of life and work tend to be. If a plant dies, well it dies and it is too bad, and maybe you kick yourself for spending too much money on something unsuited to your soil or that you forgot to water it at the right time, but so what? What’s left of the plant goes into the compost and helps a new plant to grow. We should all hope to come to such a beneficent end.

Still, my sentimental attachment to certain plants often leaves me feeling bereft when I discover that I’ve lost one. A case in point. For years a lovely flowering red currant was the focal point outside my window. It was there gracing my view whenever I looked up from the computer or my book. Pendent scarlet flowers in early spring, attractive maple like foliage in the summer and fall, and a “stopping place” on their way to the feeder for chickadees and juncos throughout the year. One hot dry summer I lost it and so I replaced it. Then last summer I lost its replacement as well.

My garden book says that currants are hardy. That they are not really fussy about soil and are considered drought resistant. So, what went wrong? Maybe it was me. I know that the sensible thing to do is to forget about it and let the salal move in. But, I already told you that sensible I am not. Spring is flirting and I miss its lovely color, the way it brightened that spot in the yard. Surely the birds share my grief. So, it’s fair to say that before the week is out, I will be nursery bound to secure yet another red currant to gaze upon.

Sometimes when I am working in my perennial bed and worrying over my plants, I feel guilty that I didn’t spend more time with my mother in her garden. I could have learned so much from her. She understood plants – the fussy ones as well as the more reliable varieties. And she knew the scientific names of everything – family, genus, and species; maybe if I had learned the names at an earlier age they would be with me now. As it is, I am often hard pressed to produce the common name let alone the botanical one.

So here I am poking around in a solitary fashion in my perennial bed lost in thought and transported by remembrance. I clear away some leaves only to discover that the clematis that I thought I killed by cutting it back too much too late, has sent up new growth. I raise my eyes - my mother smiles. I fret about the iris that I neglected to divide last fall- mother shrugs and tells me that they’ll be fine. Another year you can divide. And when I am frustrated because I can’t remember the name of a plant, she laughs and tells me that it doesn’t really matter. What matters, I guess, is simply being there, digging in the dirt, reflecting on the past and anticipating the future. A singular solace for a sentimental gardener.