Rainy Monday Musings

I'm writing this on the screened porch. It's just started to rain. We've had a lot of clouds lately, and several late afternoon/early evening thunderstorms, but very little rain of the gentle morning variety. You can hear the garden applauding.

Just finished Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year in Food. I actually started reading it last May, but it got me too excited about gardening at a time when it was too late to put in a good vegetable garden (we'd just moved into this house and hadn't had a chance to get digging), so I had to stop reading. But now I've got a vegetable garden in the backyard, thanks to my husband, and all that excitement generated by reading about locally grown food has a place to land.

I love the idea of growing and making as much of our own food as possible. For one thing, home grown and homemade just taste better. But also, I think making and growing your own food is good work. It's satisfying, it's creative, and it serves a purpose.

That's what I've been thinking a lot about lately. Wendell Berry, one of my heroes and favorite writers, posed the question succinctly: What are people for? To be honest, I think we don't know any more. Surely we weren't made to spend our lives in front of screens, were we?

Most of us--including me--are divorced from the things that sustain us. We don't grow our own food; we don't even know where it comes from. We don't make much of anything. A lot of us make our living doing things that aren't particularly meaningful to us. No wonder everyone's depressed. Our lives are arbitrary in so many ways.

And what are children for? Sometimes the answer seems to be that children are for being kept entertained and amused at all times so they don't bug us too much. Or for being sent to school, so that they can learn the skills they'll need to get jobs they don't much care about so they can make enough money to consume lots of products that will satisfy them so little that they'll have to run out and buy some more.

More and more, I'm thinking about what kind of good work I want to do and what kind of good work I want my children to do. This weekend at the farmers' market I met a man who quit his job to raise goats. His two sons (9 and 11) were there selling the goat cheese their family makes on their farm. They were quiet, competent kids, wrapping up logs of fresh cheese, taking money, making change. According to their dad, who I had a nice chat with, they help raise the goats and make the cheese. They are a part of their family's economy. They contribute. The work they do is actually meaningful.

I don't know if my husband and I will ever chuck it all and move to ten acres somewhere. We dream about it from time to time. My husband would be a great farmer. He loves being outdoors, loves growing things, loves having projects. I would love having chickens. And mostly I'd love to see my sons learning how to build things and take care of animals. I would love for them to have good work to do, work that means something to our family.

In the meantime, I'll continue to try to find work here that they can do and that will benefit our little home economy. I want to teach Jack how to make bread. I think the science of bread-making will interest him. I may get Will to make our Christmas cards. I suppose teaching them to sew their own clothes is out of the question (since, for one thing, I myself don't know how to sew clothes), but I bet I could teach them how to wash their own clothes. Oh, the possibilities are endless.

And important. I want my children to live lives that don't feel arbitrary. Hell, I want to live a life that doesn't feel arbitrary. That's the problem for those us raised in the suburbs and who are raising our children in the suburbs--you can feel like your life is weightless. You eat, sleep, go to work or school, find some way to keep yourself entertained while the household machines do their (your) work, the dishwashers and dryers humming along. You look for stuff to do, you look for stuff for your kids to do--and to what end? Where is the meaning?

Of course, I'm a believer in God, so I believe meaning is afoot in all our actions. But belief in God brings us back around to the question What are people for? What have we been created to do? I'm not sure of all the answers, but it's got to be more than keeping ourselves amused.

And I really, truly think the answer has something to do with growing our own tomatoes.

A Failure of Ravioli

This is the second post today, but I just have to write. The boys are downstairs playing on the Wii; my husband is doing the dishes. I am in mourning. My homemade ravioli was a failure.

I've had such good cooking zen lately. I even stopped myself in the nick of time before trying out a shrimp recipe that was doomed to die on the plate. It was a cold shrimp and rice salad, made with zucchini and rice wine vinegar. I've fallen for a version of this over and over again, forgetting every time that I don't like the taste of cold pickled zucchini--and who eats zucchini with shrimp anyway? This time, I bought all the ingredients, and then the morning of the planned dinner, I snapped out of it. I read over the recipe and thought, No! No! Don't do this to yourself and your family and all those innocent little shrimp! I quickly switched gears, bought a little chorizo sausage, and made a great shrimp and sausage dish. I felt like freakin' Julia Child.

Pride goeth before a fall, isn't what they say? Yes, I was feeling cocky today when I thought, 'I'll make ravioli. Didn't I make wonderful fettuccine last week? Am I not the diva of freshly made pasta?'

The answer to that, Dear Reader, is a resounding No. The ravioli came out thick and flabby. It wasn't pretty. The only thing to do with is was cut away the pasta around the very center and eat what was left of the prosciutto-wrapped mozzarella that didn't leak out during the cooking process. To add insult to injury, it took an awfully long time to make it. I used five very expensive organic farmer's market eggs, and the whole process left the kitchen a wreck.

The sauce I made to serve with it, zucchini fresh from the garden sauteed with garlic, olive oil, salt, pepper and basil, was very nice. The bread was pretty and freshly baked. My husband was complimentary (believe me, he was being kind), and Jack said he actually sort of liked it, and he really liked the salad I made. That's when you know you've really blown it--when even your nine-year-old realizes you could use a little cheering up .

So now I'm exhausted and my clothes are covered in pasta dough and flour. I'm mad at all those books I read at the beach about life in Tuscany and Provence, books that make you feel the whole purpose of life is making your own pasta and eating lots of cheese, books in which there are no children and the adults sit out in the garden drinking wine for hours. What was I thinking about? Ravioli? Moi? Not in this lifetime, girls.

The Week in Review

First: Another Beach Insight. In years past, you'd go to the beach and most of the women who didn't fit in size 12 or below suits covered up in extra-large tee shirts. Some of them just wore tee shirts and shorts didn't bother with suits at all. They'd go into the water and emerge with their tee shirts plastered to their chests, their bras glowing whitely beneath.

This year almost everybody, regardless of size, wore a bikini.

Oh, not me. I wore a bikini in third grade. It was not particularly revealing. My dad still made fun of me. 'Nuff said.

Anyway, at the beginning of my beach week, noting the glut of bikinis on all sizes and shapes of gals, I wondered what cultural shift had caused for this sudden baring of skin. I decided it had to be one of two things: Denial or defiance. Because I personally can gain twenty pounds in a few months and be in complete denial about it, I wondered if was possible to be a size 20 and still put on a bikini and see a size 8 in the mirror.

But I preferred my defiance theory. I liked the idea that these women had decided that whatever size they were, they wanted to wear a cute suit. And maybe they weren't a size 8, but that didn't mean that their curves were unattractive. And to be honest, I saw a lot of women who looked lovely and rubenesque. I was happy they were enjoying themselves in the sun.

It took til the end of the week to occur to me that the reason I was seeing so many larger women in cute suits was quite simple: manufacturers have started making cute suits for larger women. In years past, if you were size 16 or up, you didn't have much of a choice. Now you do. And I'm glad women are choosing to toss the tee shirts and don the the bikinis. Just as long as they remember their sunscreen.

***

So this week I've been working harder on working harder on my children. Lately, I've been more conscious of how spoiled they are. Because they are generally well-behaved in public, and pretty okay at home when they're not at each other throats, they get cut a lot of slack. We've not made them do a ton of chores. It's easier for me to cook and clean and get the job done right than to take the time to make them do chores and teach them how to do them correctly, and because they protest so loudly and longly it doesn't even seem worth it. What it comes down to is, I've been a slack mom.

But the good times, boys, they are over.

It started with making Jack make chocolate chip cookies (which is not a bad place to start, as these things go). I got out the hard-to-find-when-you're-a-clueless-nine-year-old-boy ingredients, got out the Joy of Cooking and turned it to the right page, and then I told Jack to get going. And he did it. We've done a lot of baking together over the years, so it wasn't difficult for him. He made a fine batch of cookie dough.

He's been less happy about having to make his bed every morning and put his clothes in the hamper and pick up the books he leaves around everywhere and raking up the leaves under the magnolia tree and writing his birthday thank you notes (two months late) and clearing the table and training the dog, etc. etc.

I, on the other hand, have been very happy. And not just because it means less work for me. I'm happy because I think kids need to do chores and work hard, but as often happens with me, I don't always follow through on what I know is right. I am lazy. I avoid stressed out situations like the plague. By making Jack do what he should be doing around the house, I'm actually doing what I should be doing around the house.

***

I'm still waiting for the summer to settle into a routine. The weather can't decide to be cloudy or rainy. One of my best friends is moving. Appointments pop up here and there and throw the day out of whack. Sometimes I find myself standing in the middle of the kitchen feeling sad without knowing why, and I think it's because I'm not sure what's coming next.

And then I eat some chocolate, and it's all good.

I'm Back

I've actually been back for a week, and I meant to post right away. Honest, I did. But there was the unpacking, and the decluttering after the unpacking, and then there was the headache that started Wednesday morning and didn't let up until Friday afternoon. I get one of those suckers every three months or so, when my back and shoulders get out of whack and all the muscles clench up and it's like a vise tightening around my forehead. Sometimes they last a day, sometimes longer. And they're certainly not conducive to writing or any other creative production.

It's frustrating when you have a load of plans and then get knocked on your rear end. I came back from the beach full of ideas about life and how to live it. Bake more bread! Make my own pasta! Organize the house! Paint the walls!

And I did actually bake some bread, the sort that takes about twenty-four hours from sponge to finished loaves, and I'm very proud to report I made my first batch of homemade fettuccine and it was marvelous! I've had Amy's sister's pasta machine for about two years now and have lived in fear of it the whole time. Turns out, there's nothing to it, even for an old left-hander like me. I'd wondered if the end product would be worth the time and effort, given that you can get good dried pasta at the grocery store pretty cheaply. I'm here to say there really is a difference, and that homemade pasta is worth it. I don't know that I'll make pasta for every pasta dish I serve--it is a time-consuming process--but I'll definitely make it when I can.

So I did accomplish something last week, but then the headache hit, and all I could manage was basic house maintenance. Then, as my headache faded, we got hit by a huge storm and lost power for twenty-four hours. It wasn't so bad--the weather wasn't too hot, so the downstairs stayed moderately cool. But by the time the power came back on, I was too behind on the basics--laundry, grocery shopping, etc.--to get my Big Project Groove back on.

Anyway, I had lots of important insights from the beach to post, and maybe I'll get around to posting them this week. Here's the one I'll leave you with: At the pool, people seem happy or at least content (except for the mean moms and the terrified toddlers who won't get near the water). At the beach, people seem filled with joy. There is a kind of beach ecstasy. I think it's all that beauty and majesty right in front of you. Everything smells good, the water and sun feel good, and the ocean is so much bigger than us that all you can do is surrender to it, and then you are free.

More soon.

Friday Frenzy

I have ten minutes to write this before it's time to pick up the boys from Summer Faith Adventure. It's been that sort of day, ten minutes to do this before it's time to do the next thing. Here's the deal: we're leaving for the beach tomorrow. We're going to the same beach we go to every year, staying at the same house we've stayed at for three years now. So you'd think I'd remember whether or not the kitchen has a cheese grater ...

But I don't. So I'll pack one. And I'll pack a sieve and a cutting board and measuring cups and spoons. Just in case. I'm pretty sure the kitchen is stocked with all this stuff, but just to be safe I'm bringing mine. I know there's not one decent frying pan, so that's definitely hitting the road with us. And I always bring my own knives.

Because of Jack's nut allergies, we don't eat out much, though now that we know he's not allergic to peanuts, we're freed up a little. But it's cheaper to cook, and I like it. We'll eat seafood a couple of nights, and that'll be nice. Other nights I'll cook two-night meals, so it's not like I'll be slaving over the stove the whole time.

The big beach treat: pimento cheese (go here for recipe) and crackers. Pimento cheese is my favorite southern delicacy (yep, I love it even more than pigs feet), and because I like to keep special things special, I only make it twice a year, at the beach and at Christmas. The beach is the only place I drink real Coke, too. I love real Coke, but neither my waistline or my dental insurance can tolerate a steady intake.

I'm in the process of packing, which is to say I'm in the process of overpacking. It would take me three months at a monastery to read all the books I've packed, but I can't help it. I live in fear of running out of good books to read. What if some of the books I've packed are bad, boring, or just not right for the mood I'm in? To be safe, I'll bring around twenty, five or six of which I'll read.

The boys will bring more books than they can read and more games than they'll have time to play, and my husband will complain as he loads and unloads the car, and threaten to take over the packing next year, but it's all a bluff. The beach is a place for dreams and excess.

My ten minutes are about up. I'll be back week after next with sand in my shoes and a head full of literature. Oh, and a soul full of pimento cheese crackers and real Coke. Ah, bliss.

Wednesday Rebellions

For some reason, I had a hard time with Blogger yesterday and couldn't post. This ruined my clever plan of posting every day this week, each post with its own alliterative Day-of-the-Week title. Although come to think of it, I'm not sure what I would have done with Tuesday ... Tuesday Tidbits? I don't think so.

I'm sorry I couldn't log on, because I wanted to direct you to Our Red House . Kate hosted a Make it From Scratch Blog Carnival yesterday, and I participated. You can still go and check out all the very cool stuff that people contributed. I sent in my banana pudding recipe, as it is officially Banana Pudding season.

Heather blogged the other day at Pneuma about participating in the World Wide Knit in Public day on Saturday, and how she's usually not a joiner, but she was going go head and get on the public knitting bandwagon, committed knitter that she is. I completely related. I am all for community efforts and parades and Maypole wrappings and other group events, but for most of my life, I've been content to watch. I'm by nature an observer, a little shy, a little worried about appearing goofy in public.

As I get older, though, the fear of public goofiness appears to be fading somewhat. I guess after you've given birth in front of a team of doctors, all your private loveliness exposed to complete strangers, what's left to fear?

Plus, when you have kids, the gig is up. You're waving your hands around in Mommy 'n' Me classes pretending to be a goose flying south for the winter, you're hopping up and down to the Wiggles just like Dorothy the Dinosaur, you're chasing naked toddlers across the playground pleading with them to come back to mommy. In short, for the sake of the children, you forget about personal dignity.

One thing I used to never do? Clap along in public to music. I'd go see bands and dance around like crazy, but stand at a show or a concert and clap in rhythm with everyone else? For some reason, I just couldn't do it. I do not come from a family of public clap-alongers. We are a reserved people.

But when I had children, that changed, and for one reason: I want my children to be people who can have fun in public, clapping, wrapping the Maypole in ribbons, waving their hands in the air, whatever the spirit moves them to do. So now I clap along. I wave my hands in the air. When the singer on the stage yells out, "Everybody sing!" I sing.

And when Kate over at Our Red House hosts a Blog Along, I blog along. I participate. It's possible that people will make fun of my banana pudding. They will read my banana pudding post and think I'm goofy and too dumb for words. That's okay. I've given birth without an epidural and there's nothing anyone can do to hurt me now.

Monday Miscellany

There are two kinds of moms that stand out for me at the pool. There is the Good Sport Mom, who plays happily in the water with her kids for hours on end. She looks genuinely delighted to be tossing sopping nerf balls and playing Marco Polo and participating in contests to see who can hold their breath under water the longest. She seems fun and sweet, like somebody you'd like to be friends with, except for the fact that she makes you feel so guilty for not frolicking with your own brood that you can barely bring yourself to look her in the eye ...

Then there is the Mean Mom. Mean moms fascinate me, because they deviate so sharply from the suburban pool ethos which stresses Smiles and Niceness at all times. Occasional stern looks and sharp commands are allowed, but they must be followed by jokes and hugs. But the Mean Moms, they don't play that game. They don't care if you think they're nice or not. They are happy to harangue and yell and threaten for extended periods of time. They seem unaware that everyone around them is wildly uncomfortable and slowly edging to the other side of the pool while they reprimand their children.

At our pool, we actually have a hybrid Good Sport-Mean Mom. She plays in the water with her kids, encouraging them and pushing them around in their little floaty devices ... and then something makes her mad and she is Serious Mean Mom. She's like the General Patton of the Mean Moms. She starts yelling and everybody cringes. Everybody, the kids, the adults, the lifeguards, waits to get into trouble.

Interestingly, she's actually quite pleasant to have a conversation with.

What am I, you wonder? I am the Sitting at the Side of the Pool Making a Slight Attempt Not to Appear Criminally Negligent Mom.

***

Today we had to get up and dressed and take the dog to the vet for an 8:45 appointment. Only two weeks into summer vacation and this seems like a violation to me. What was I thinking of, way back in mid-May, making an appointment for 8:45? These days 8:45 means a cup of coffee and blog surfing. Jack's in his room reading, half the time Will's not even awake. Madness to actually have to be somewhere!

***

Why is it so hilarious to see a dog walking around completely unaware that something is stuck to his rump?

***

Tonight is the beginning of Vacation Bible School, though at our church it's called Summer Faith Adventure, which has a slightly zingier ring to it. We'll see how Will does. Two friends of his will be there, including one of his very best friends, Matthew. But Will's such an odd kid, he may rebel and refuse to participate. He loves singing, he loves games, he loves coloring and storytelling and arts and crafts. What he doesn't love: Crossing the threshold from here to there, from life at home with the family to life elsewhere. Once he crosses over, he's fine. He's actually very social and quite often a leader. But it's hard to get him to take the necessary steps. He's a psychologically interesting kid. Which may be another way of saying that he's weird. But we're all weird here, so why should Will be any different?

***

There are three baskets of laundry on the floor of my bedroom waiting to be folded and put away. Where is the laundry fairy when you need her?