Figs Again

This past week has been all about figs here in the 'burbs.

Fresh figs have a very short shelf life. Once plucked from the tree, they cease ripening; daily harvesting is desirable to capture them at prime goodness. The luscious fruits maintain freshness for but a few days, even refrigerated. Timing is everything with fresh figs.

My mind always turns to my grandparents during fig season. From my grandfather, I learned how to determine ripeness, pick them gently, and appreciate the delight of eating them right off the tree. And while I never saw my grandmother "put up" figs, I devoured my fair share of her output. My sister preferred the squished variety while I was drawn to the whole fig preserves.

Whole figs. Preserved in sweet, sweet syrup. Smashed on buttered toast. Or, omg, on a soft biscuit! Or gripped by the hint of stem and dangled right from the jar over my mouth, the sweet syrup dripping on my tongue (and sometimes my chin and, yeah okay, my shirt) just before my teeth sank into the plump rich figgy goodness.

Such are my thoughts during fig season. This year, however, those thoughts were accompanied by an irresistible wild hair to "put up" some figs of my own, Grandmommy style.

Yeah, I know. WTF?

A problem immediately arose. I had never "put up" anything. Sure I understand the basic premise, but canning is serious business. Do it wrong and people get sick. Plus it requires implements. I didn't know exactly what implements, but I was pretty sure I didn't own them. More urgently, it requires knowledge and experience. Knowledge I can get from the OGAPI but experience requires doing. I needed a teacher!

Fortunately I knew just the person. An old friend, a woman who knows about many things I don't, such as the ins and outs of the art of canning. An email exchange later, enthusiasm abounded. While having never canned figs, plenty of other fruits and vegetables met their fate in jars by her hand. She was willing to try something new and had the tools. A date was made, details discussed, duties assigned. Bonus? Canning takes time. Extended boiling is involved, followed by more boiling. We would be hanging out for hours. The perfect script wrote itself. The performance brought a standing ovation.
























I did it just now. Dangled a juicy, dripping preserved fig over my mouth and devoured it. Memory Lane is an awesome road to wander.

Thanks, Kerry!

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My Afternoon Snack

My grandfather on my mother's side introduced me on to eating fresh figs this way. They had several trees in their yard and I used to help him pick the fruit. Breakfast during those visits often included this very dish in this very dish. Yup, we still use my grandparent's everyday dishes.

In a rare stroke of good fortune, we learned after buying this house that our neighbor has a large fig tree. We neighbors step up each year to help her devour the bountiful crop. Such a sacrifice. Today she even hooked me up with some half-n-half. Hence my trip down memory lane. Good times. Great neighbor.

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Time. Marching On.

My first post in nine months will be about my hair, which seems appropriate after all the whining I've done here on the subject.

I had it all cut off a couple weeks ago. That's right, it's back to the same short style I've worn most of my life. Did you know me then? I feel free.

There is tree stump a few yards from our screened porch door. The tree that once grew there has been gone for years. A proud holly she was, quite beautiful, with the unfortunate habit of blanketing her surrounds with sharp prickly leaves. A minefield 10 yards in circumference brought woe to the careless person who dared draw near with bare feet. Even the squirrels kept their distance.

The stump doesn't drop prickly leaves. It's a low and flat, not too troublesome while mowing. What passes for grass snuggles up to the edge. We call it Hal's Stump. Felling that tree was the last home project he helped us with before he died. Just a month or so before, actually. I hate surprises.

I began growing my hair out after his death. In hindsight I believe it was part of my grieving process, something I could pretend to control during a time when so much was spinning beyond me. I will say the pony tail was kinda fun. But as I sat in the salon chair, my long-time stylist Katie snipping off my long crazy curly gray locks, an almost physical sensation of lightness washed over me.

Hal will always be in my heart, but the ache has finally dissipated. I am giddy.

One Day Last Summer

I greet her saying, "Sherab Khandro, you look fabulous!" She smiles and strikes a pose which only enhances her fabulousness.

"And you, sister!" she croons as we embrace. "You are three times as beautiful as I remember!"

I smile and try to believe. She makes it easy.

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Youthful Photography

One of our nieces, four-year-old Alice, came to visit over the Thanksgiving holiday. She entertained herself with our digital camera while the adults chatted.

"Excuse me," I heard her softly say, "May I take a picture of your face, please?"


Dudley was happy to oblige.

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Does Anyone...

.... ever like being told they are acting like their mother?

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It Always Rings in the Evening

Sometimes we answer it.

Yesterday, it was my mother. "Suzanne, do you know much about Lotus spreadsheets?"

The last time I touched Lotus was in the 1990s. But one spreadsheet program is much like any other and I use Excel daily. My spreadsheet confidence knows no bounds. "Sure, what's up?"

If you've ever tried to walk my mother anyone through using a software program over the phone, you'll relate to how challenging it can be. If you've ever tried to walk my mother anyone through using a software program you haven't touched in over a decade, you'll relate to how EXTRA challenging it can be.

Success came after a few fumbles.

We chatted.
Call waiting beeped in.
I peeked.
It was The Boy.

"I'll call you right back, Mom."

"Hi!" I said.
"Hi!" The Boy said. "Did you get the message I left on your cell this morning?"

"No, I forgot to charge it. What's up?"

"I lost my driver's license yesterday."

That's the second time I've received a call like that from him. The first was years ago and I can't recall the circumstance. This time it had something to do with his wallet, a toilet, and a two-mile walk with his cast mates to get ice cream in Janesville, Wisconsin.

At times it is best not to ask for too many details.
This is one of those times.

The efficiency of the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles will now be tested. Will the replacement arrive in time to be forwarded to Nashville by October 21 when he will need it to board the plane home?

Your guess is as good as mine.

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Channeling SK

We've lived in our house now for almost four years. Every time my sister visits, she says the same thing at one point or another during her stay: "You need art on the walls." Sometimes she says it with an exclamation point, other times introspectively as she gazes at one blank space or another.

Okay, so we're artistically challenged. That's no secret. I prefer to imply we enjoy a stark decor. But we don't actually prefer it stark. We just need guidance. (We also need curtains, but that's a subject for a different post.) Much of what we do have adorning our walls is my sister's work. She generously provides assistance in many ways.

Following her visit last Thanksgiving, a suggestion, complete with diagram and descriptive narrative concept, appeared in my inbox. My sister, my dear sweet sister. From that seed bloomed the project that came to fruition just this past Saturday. I'd share the story but it's a long and twisted tale, the telling of which is better suited to porch-sitting with cocktails than blogging. Art evidently can be that way.

Plus I'm too tired to tell it anyway. See, one thing led to another. After we hung our new art, I looked around at the rest of the living room. My sister's voice niggled at the back of my mind. Next thing I know, we're moving furniture and I'm scrubbing walls. My caulk gun is locked and loaded. Then the paint can is open, I'm dipping my brush, and boom! There is no looking back.

Art makes me dangerous.
I'm certain my sister will approve.

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This Was Then

I'm starting to get all emo about The Boy's upcoming graduation, a mere month from today.

I can't help but think back to his high school graduation. We had a horde of family in for that event. I get a bit neurotic when family visits. Wendy and I hosted a party following the graduation, quite a large party by our standards. I get a bit neurotic when we host a party; the neuroses multiply when it's a major event.

Well. Let's say I used to get neurotic. I've changed since then. Really. I'm far less neurotic. Ask Wendy. She'll vouch for me. Maybe The Boy will too.

But I'm still sentimental. I was back then too, I just wasn't aware of it as acutely as I am now.

So! Flashback to when The Boy was a senior in high school, graduation imminent. It was June 15, 2003, a glorious bright Sunday afternoon, Father's Day, at Tim's Rivershore Restaurant, a charismatic crab house on the Potomac. Gathered around the table were Pop, Grandma Wanda, sister SK, sister Cathy and her daughter Maia, James our temporary son, Wendy, me and The Boy.

I snapped this pic of The Boy and his grandfather, my father, that day. It's a favorite of mine for reasons that don't need words.

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Usually Between 5 & 6 PM

My mother and I have frequent meandering phone conversations. She's been quite chatty of late, cheerful and busy. We cover a range of topics, slipping from one to another easily as some mothers and daughters can do.

Some highlights!

Recent oncology checkup: Everything is fine. Tamoxophin makes her feet cramp. That's gotta suck. "Well," I said, "You only have to take it for another four and a half years." We laughed.

Trader Joe's: "Have you ever tried their mango with chili?!" Further conversation determined she was so anxious to taste it, she opened the package while driving home. It lived up to her expectations in all the right ways. She loves her snacks, the spicier the better.

Something about the future: "I figure I'll just move into a nursing home near wherever y'all are then." That's a direct quote. I'm documenting it for future reference.

Innovations in litter boxes: We discussed in detail the features of a new litterbox system she considered buying. She decided against it for fear it would upset Princess, who would then refuse to use it. Princess lives up to her name.

Record winnings: She finished a recent mahjong session up $3.92. The table concurred: no one had ever before won that much in one day. Her hot streak continued the next day when she finished up $1.84. She's a shark and there is blood in the water.

Bathroom wallpaper: Despite shopping for months, she still hasn't found one she likes. My mother, she knows what she likes. Eventually it will find her, and Wendy and I will joyfully hang it. I selfishly hope it remains elusive until at least June. Odds are in our favor.

Happy Test: She twittered about the Happy Test over at Oprah.com. In the spirit of comaraderie, I took it too. I passed, meaning I did not fall into the unhappy range. I was also not in the extremely satisfied range.

Like I needed a test to tell me that.
She'll pass, too.
Happy is as happy does, or something like that.

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In the Genes

It's official and I may as well admit it: I am in a Royal Funk. The women among us will understand exactly what I mean. No one does Royal Funk quite like a woman.

I snapped at my mother on the phone today for asking yet again if my father will be attending The Boy's graduation next month. Then I took a deep breath and apologized.

The problem is that I don't know if he and his wife are planning to attend. Due to circumstances I will not detail herein, our communication has been less than stellar since November. Yes, November. That's a long time. It niggles at me, sharp little teeth nipping randomly. I'd like to think it niggles at him too.

Stubbornness is the root of my problem. Pride may also be involved. Encased in my Royal Funk, what I should do is obvious. I am driven deeper into Funkitude because I know if I do what I should do, what I've always done, it's giving in to the same old same old. I need something different. I drew a line in the sand. My line matters.

I think of those ducks in my neighbor's yard. I think of my neighbor's certainty about the bread they like to eat. What if she didn't feed them white bread? Would the ducks turn their noses up at rye? Would they spit it out if she offered whole wheat? Would they eventually stop gracing her with their presence because what she serves tastes bad over time?

No one does a Royal Funk quite like a woman.
And for the record, I'm a fool for pumpernickel.

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Taking the Plunge

I brought up the subject of poo with my friend eb. She remarked that we had discussed poo not that long ago. There we were talking about it again! But this was different poo and a different story.

My mother told me a bizarre tale. My version will spare you the convoluted who-was-where-doing-what-when backstory and hop right to the poo part.

She had a group of friends over to play Mahjong. They play regularly, rotating hostesses. That particular day one of those little old ladies took a big enough poo in my mother's upstairs bathroom to cause the toilet to clog and overflow.

That event unto itself is not bizarre. I mean really. Who hasn't had a toilet clog on them at one time or another? It's the nature of a toilet. And bowels. The question becomes, just what does one do when it happens?

In spring 2001, we hosted a French foreign exchange student. His name was Alex. He spoke limited English. For six weeks, he lived with our family and attended high school with The Boy. He had been with us for about two weeks when one evening he raced into the kitchen, gesturing wildly, a panicked look on his face.

Our toilet had clogged when he flushed. It was full of shit and almost overflowing. Alex knew what to do: get help! The Boy quickly plunged it. Problem solved, tragedy averted.

My mother keeps a plunger behind both her toilets. We keep ours handy in the closet just outside the bathroom door. When a plunger is needed, it is of great benefit to have one close at hand.

But that little old lady did not use the handy plunger. Nor did she mention to anyone at all that the upstairs toilet had overflowed. She just took her seat at the table and resumed playing Mahjong, saying nothing of the craptacular mess she had made upstairs. My mother discovered it shortly after the game ended and all had departed.

I'd like the give that little old lady the benefit of the doubt. I'd like to think she didn't realize the toilet was overflowing. But given the detail of events, it doesn't take Perry Mason to connect the dots. There is just no way she didn't know.

So I asked eb, "What would you have done given those circumstances?"

"I so would have plunged!" she stated vehemently.

Of course. I would have too.

And if that didn't work, I'd have hollered for help despite unavoidable personal mortification over the situation. It's embarrassing to clog a toilet. There's often poo involved. Real poo, not just talked-about poo. Real poo is private, to be shared with only the most intimate of loved ones and then only when it cannot reasonably be avoided. Or is it just me?

Can you plunge a toilet?
If not, I suggest you learn.
It's a skill everyone should master.

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Comment Comment

A comment my friend Liz from I Speak of Dreams left on this post hasn't sat well with me since I read it:

"... The deal is, though, people who switch teams after having kids... it is hard on the kids, as the team-switching implies the death of the family of origin."

Team-switching implies the death of the family of origin? With all due respect, I couldn't disagree more.

Such could be implied in any instance when parents split up and change is wrought to an existing family structure. Team-switching as a component adds but another wrinkle to the whole process, just one among many.

Or am I just talking out of my ass to cover my own guilt at the merest implication my own life caused something as tragic-sounding as the demise of The Boy's family of origin?

I know better. How a family--an entire family--handles such an issue determines the experience a child has. Implications aside, reality counts. Family can be fluid and strong as steel. I'm happy to say ours is.

On a completely unrelated note, our crocuses bloomed last week. It's only February. I'll miss seeing them when Spring really arrives.

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Go Ask Alice

Trees glorious trees! Their awakening in Spring is a sign of renewal, their plummage splendiferously shady in Summer and a riot of delicious color in Fall, the barren dark branches reaching toward the sky setting just the right mood in Winter. Who could ask for anything lovelier to decorate the horizon?

Right about now, I could. It's a passing fancy. See we haven't yet gotten around to tidying up Mother Nature's leafy detritus. My father always proclaimed, "What God put down, God will take away!" or something of the sort. I have no childhood memories of raking leaves. Who knew then how lucky I was to be spared such labor?

Now is not a good time to romp in our backyard. The thick brown coat of leaves obscuring the grass masks all signs of whatever dangers may be hiding beneath the crunchy layer.

And yes, there is danger. Grave danger. We have two dogs, dontcha know. Said dogs take care of all their worldly business in our backyard. It's nigh on impossible to scoop in the Fall. Even with my glasses.

Alice visited us the day after Thanksgiving. It was a warm sunny day here in the Nation's Capital. She thought of better things to do than to sit around chatting in the living room with the old folks. We romped in the yard. The backyard. Three year olds have their own special brand of romp. Alice loved the dogs and the dogs loved her. Pixie had never been up close and personal with a miniature human before; she was greatly intrigued. Dudley was, as always, a gentleman.

Alice made the rounds of our yard several times. Pixie spreads her toys far and wide. Alice insisted on tracking down each and every one. She would carefully pick them up, give a brief sniff and test the texture gently against her cheek while squeezing to discern density and squeakability.

Somewhere in our travels, she picked up dog shit on her shoe. Those cute little saddle shoes. I snatched it off her foot in the nick of time just before she stepped back into the house.

Wendy washed Alice's hands. I cleaned and polished her shoe. That cute little dog shit-covered saddle shoe.

We like it when mini-people come to visit. Even when they insist on wandering through the minefield.

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Just a Little Pinprick

*tap tap*
Is this thing on?
The cobwebs concern me.

I wonder if I seem as different as everything I see around me. Like the burning bushes in our front yard. Each morning when I roll down the driveway, the brilliant blotches of red catch my eye. This time next week, the leaves will be brown and on the ground.

I've been home for five days. The show was amazing, The Boy's voice pure honey. There's more I'd like to share about the trip, but other circumstances have me paralyzed. I screwed up, and in the process learned who has my back, or, more precisely, who doesn't. I wonder at times how I can be so obtuse.

The first anniversary of my stepfather's death is approaching. Aware only of the numbness, I've not delved deeply into my feelings. Not much anyway. In that regard, I'm grateful to have my mom to look after. Playing caretaker leaves little opportunity to examine oneself.

I poke at the numbness, prodding it gently. My eyes flood with tears and my body feels like lead. I can even get a rhythm going: poke, tears, stop poking, breathe deeply. What a cool party trick. I'm doing it right now. Can you tell?

It's almost been a year. I wonder if he knows how much I miss him.

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Father of Mine

A daughter's relationship with her father has got to be one of the most complex--outside of her mother perhaps--she will experience. That is, if she knows her father. I am lucky enough to know mine.

Oh wait. That's just stupid. Why would any daughter consider herself lucky to know her father? I mean, isn't it a father's job to allow their children to know them? I guess it's like any other job. Some dads are good at it, others suck, and there are many levels of competence and/or incompetence in between.

Parenthood is like that. It's all fly by the seat of the pants, hard work and hope. Daughterhood, once one reaches adulthood, is pretty much the same.

My parents divorced when I was in fourth grade. I don't recall feeling particularly tramautized by the event. I left that to my sister. My father, an officer in the Navy, promptly was restationed from Washington, DC to Hawaii. I've tried to imagine what my life would have been had we, as originally intended, moved with him as a family unit before the Big D got in the way. I never get far. What's the point anyway? It was what it was and is what it is. Pragmatism rocks.

My dad and I seem to understand each other. Enough to respect the differences and enjoy the sameness. I'm thinking about him today because I owe him an email and can't seem to stay on task. I'm not so good at the regular communication thing. It doesn't help that we live on opposite coasts. I sit wrapped in my own little cloud, taking comfort in the familial breezes swirling in the distance yet not deigning to disrupt my personal reveries.

I think I may regret that some day.
Hell, for that matter, I think I do already.
I need a swift kick in the ass.

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A Saturday Evening Stroll with Grandma

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My Stepsisters and Their Children

I have two stepsisters. They have both adopted babies from foreign countries.

They were both single when they adopted. The eldest, Joan, is 45 and had been married twice: once to a woman and once to a man. The other, Cathy, is 43 and has never been married.

(Why is their marital status or history relevant? Well it's not. To me. Nor to the governments of the countries where they adopted. I mention it here because, as I understand the rules, if I or any other lesbian were to attempt such a thing, we would be turned down. Just chew on that a bit: who I currently sleep with determines how qualified I am to be a parent. Over here. Over there. And it's obviously not about the whole "children must be raised by a father and a mother" rhetoric. How does it make sense?)

Joan, the sister from my mother's remarriage, adopted a baby girl from Guatemala. She's being raised at the Jersey shore. Cathy, the sister from my father's remarriage, chose to adopt from Vietnam. They make their home on the gulf coast of Florida.

Maia is around seven years old. Cathy has been waiting several years for political "issues" to be resolved between Vietnam and America to adopt a sister for Maia. She and her mother and her mother's mother departed for Vietnam last week to pick up our newest family member, Kiana. Cathy is blogging the experience over at Fly Us to the Moon. It's an interesting read, yet I can't help but think how completely American she sounds. Not that that is a bad thing. It just struck me.

Her heart is in the right place.
She is a good mom.
I'm looking forward to meeting my newest niece.

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My Woman's Work

I've often considered writing about what Wendy does for a living, but the task was daunting. Now I don't have to because she did. Much better than I ever could have.

Go on. Read it.

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The Ship Has Sailed

Okay well, it's not really a ship. It's a boat. Hal's boat. His pride and joy, the Pearson 424 ketch he christened Sea Duty.

My mom found a buyer. Or rather a buyer found her. He's a younger fellow who knew Hal and is quite excited about owning the vessel that belonged to my stepfather. Hal was rather a legend in his sailing community: well respected and knowledgable, active in teaching others how to safely survive a bluewater voyage.

My mom never shared his joy of ocean sailing, but she loved puttering around in the Chesapeake Bay or the Caribbean. For many years, Hal led sailing rallies to both Bermuda and the Caribbean, sometimes sailing his own boat or hiring on to captain someone else's. My mother would hop an airplane and join him once he had arrived in the islands. They'd spend the winter months island hopping and socializing with their boating friends. Rough life, yes? Believe me, they earned it.

Just about every room in their house boasts a beautiful view of the creek, the sailboat moored at the dock creating a picture of tranquility. This morning, Sea Duty sailed from that dock heading for a shipyard to be pulled from the water for her pre-sale inspection, called a survey in the boating world. There's little doubt she will be given a clean bill of health as Hal maintained her in tiptop condition.

My mother had been dreading that moment. That moment when the boat left the creek for the final time, another captain at the helm. Interestingly, when her gay-hating neighbor saw the boat leaving, she phoned my mom to make sure she was okay. They are narrow-minded bigots, yet they can also be kind. That shit confuses me.

Now to share something that feels creepy if I overanalyze it but also feels so right in other ways. While Wendy and I were visiting last weekend, my mother asked Wendy put some of Hal's ashes into a small watertight container. We sealed it tightly and labeled it "Captain Hal." It's now stashed in the chart desk aboard Sea Duty. The young man who is purchasing the boat enthusiastically embraced the idea of having a piece of her recent Captain remain aboard.

I think Hal would also approve.

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