abode.

“The Nearness of You” [Saturday Ongoing]

This is one of my favorite Saturdays in awhile. After our lazy morning of TV-in-pajamas, we dressed quickly, split a honey-wheat bagel and headed out the door to the Farmer’s Market. Jeremy scoured the Gardens of Babylon nursery for lavender Crape Myrtles while I headed for the vegetable tents. I love walking through the tunnel surrounded by baskets of colorful produce in bright shades of green, orange, yellow and red. My nose led me to the soap lady in the local artisan’s section and I sampled the scents of homemade eucalyptus, lemon, and peppermint soaps, soft from olive oil. I bought a tumbled-edge bar of $2 lemon soap from the bargain basket and walked to the next table to pick up a pound of fresh pasta. Lemon seemed to be the flavor of the day, so I passed up the cheese raviolis and chose a box of fresh lemon-peppercorn linguine sprinkled with a bit of cornmeal. On my stroll back to meet Jeremy I picked up some green onions, a head of garlic, and a basket of grape tomatoes. Home we went.



Jeremy was eager to make a sauce from my ingredients for the pasta tonight so I helped chop the onions and garlic while olive oil popped and sizzled in the big sauce-pot. Louis and Ella sang from the speakers, and the sun poured through our kitchen windows, splashing light all around. In went a yellow can of tomatoes and a large clump of thyme from the herb trough out back.




Next we attempted an art project (my idea) with sun-sensitive paper and clippings of fern, leaves, and bamboo from the yard. Jeremy’s two designs turned out much better than my three, but escaping the heat became more important than getting it just right.



I headed out to buy a few final organizing items for the closet, while Jeremy stirred the sauce and took a rest. I listened to the Beatles B-sides all the way home (via Deep Tracks on XM Radio) and just as I approached the house, Simon and Garfunkel had a turn. Jeremy waved from the front porch where he was checking on the status of our droopy Dawn Redwood, and I cranked up the song…

“Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile.
Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da here I am
The only living boy in New York…”

I sat in the car at the edge of the curb just listening and letting the air conditioner cool my face. I felt a wave of nostalgia for my childhood mixed with a memory from two summers ago when Jeremy surprised me with a Simon and Garfunkel concert for my birthday. For a second I wished the day was cool enough to hop into our VW bug for a drive, like we did last fall. I had to listen to the song the whole way through. I knew as soon as I turned the car key the moment would be over, and I wanted to sit in it as long as I could. Certain music does that.

Jeremy met me at the door. I feel so fortunate to have a husband who I love to spend time with, and who above all else is an amazing friend. Sure, we have our moments when things don’t seem as effortlessly in sync as they did today…but much more often than not, I’m happiest to have him nearby.

What I Love About Saturday...

Waking up at 10 AM with no alarm clock, only a sliver of sun peeking through the blinds

Morning coffee on the sofa while watching TV in our PJs – we are watching landscape design shows on HGTV and Jeremy is engrossed

A day full of project possibilities – today I will edit some photos, work on a painting, and sort a few more drawers

Sam the dog curled up against my legs, sleeping in an extra hour

Brunch

Time to roam around town--maybe a trip to the Farmer’s Market for some summer tomatoes and a jar of local honey

The sound of Jeremy playing his new piano

Skipping a shower

Strolling mindlessly through antique malls, flea markets, and the art supply shop

Piecing together a creative dinner from whatever ingredients are left from the week

Imagining my mom at her weekend beach house, walking along the humid shore, collecting shells and smooth bits of colored glass

Rest

Mother Bird.

I am nesting. Just like that crazy fat robin, who for a time, dove at our heads and made a mess of our front porch ledge with its scraps of twine and eggshell. Lately I’ve been scouring every nook and cranny of our house, searching for another drawer to organize. Even our refrigerator cannot be tidy enough to suit me. I wish I could fill the doors with entirely new jars of strawberry jam and almond butter to replace the half-filled ones. And maybe alphabetize them too.

Yesterday I poured through years of old recipes strewn sideways into a box and spilling out from the top. I found lots of contributions from my mother, written in her familiar cursive that has evolved only slightly since she scrawled into my baby book in the seventies. I found her recipe for gumbo that made me miss New Orleans, and lots of old appetizers she used to make for Superbowl parties. They all went into a well-sorted binder and I moved on to two of many junk drawers in the house.

Meanwhile, Jeremy was in our closet hanging new shelves and assembling a laundry hamper. I cannot tell you how happy this made me…a fellow-nester in my very own home. We worked on the closet until midnight, and I drifted off to sleep thinking about how much I will enjoy color-sorting all our clothes today as I hang them back up in their renovated space.

I have been thinking about some of my goals for motherhood, like creating a signature grilled cheese sandwich, and making our house a creative place where our children feel inspired. (These are among the slightly shallower goals, filed after the important ones like raising a person of integrity and faith.) But I do want to build forts in the living room and help them cut paper snowflakes to scotch-tape to the windows at Christmastime.

When I was little, I always had an endless supply of Play-doh, and if I was ever bored, my mom usually sat me down with a stack of construction paper or some magazine pages to tear apart. I can remember painting shrinky-dinks, and molding silly putty into odd animal shapes. It taught me to imagine.

At the moment, all I can really imagine is how great it would feel to line up the bottles in my medicine cabinet according to size. And once that's done, I might clear some space in our extra bedroom for a future toy box, and some shelves for plastic scissors and jumbo crayons.

Ritual.

Every morning is the same. I wake up on the left side of the bed, roll myself into the kitchen, pour a cup of husband-made coffee, scoop some kibble into the cat bowl to quiet her whining, and settle into my gold leather armchair by the sunroom window to read and finish opening my eyes.

The variations come only on weekends, and the days when my husband, who is so very heroic and sweet for making the coffee in the first place (I have no room to complain,) skips the steps of washing out all the components of our ridiculously Jenga-like coffee maker and the brew ends up tasting a tad bitter.

I have an acute tongue for coffee. My favorite summer Starbucks drink used to be an iced cinnamon latte with two-percent milk. (Skim makes it too watery next to the ice, and whole is too thick and milky, interrupting the flavor of the coffee. There is a science to these things.) Over time, I began to notice that my latte sometimes tasted better than others. I’ve always believed that Starbucks workers are schooled in consistency, so this made me curious. One afternoon at the drive-through window, I took a sip and found my drink to be the perfect blend. Not too sweet, no bitter aftertaste. I wanted to congratulate the latte maker but felt silly, so instead I just asked, “Why is it that sometimes when I order this it tastes bitter, unlike this masterpiece which you have made for me today?”

The guy at the window, who actually was just making change, not espresso drinks, informed me that there are some baristas who ARE LAZY and don’t take the time to rinse out the components of the espresso machine between pulling shots. When that happens, the oils from previous pulls collect and become bitter, thereby compromising the purity of all future shots and rendering my drink groty.

This morning my “barista” (the one I sleep next to) was not lazy, but still my ritual was thrown askew. For starters, I woke up on the couch.

Yesterday, while cleaning out my desk drawers, I came upon several fluffy cat toys. Normally, we hide the toys from the cat for the very reason that I am about to explain to you, but I have noticed that Mia is packing on the pounds lately, so I decided she needed some exercise and tossed three toys to the floor. Before we went to sleep last night, I mentioned to Jeremy that I should gather up the cat toys to keep her from making “hunting noises” all night, but he said, “No, no, leave them out. I want to see what she does. If she makes noise I will get up and take them away.”

At 5:50 this morning, I started dreaming about scary, screeching children, and woke up to the real-life sounds of the cat prowling around the house with a pom-pom in her mouth droning on and on as if in pain.

An hour later, after the droning stopped, I still couldn’t fall back asleep and moved to the sofa. When I woke up, I had a horrible headache, and in an insult to injury kind of way, the coffee was not up to its usual level of warm, friendly greeting. My husband just mowed the lawn in this blazing summer heat, so I will not speculate further on why the coffee was bad. And I think I will attempt to redeem the day by making us both some nice French toast.

Suds.

I always seem to find bubbles on my birthday.

Last week I turned 33 and sat five rows from a velvet-curtained stage, sandwiched between my husband and two little blonde girls on booster seats who kept switching places. Before us was a party of dancers in colorful panty-hose suits who appeared to lack skeletons. They were somersaulting over each other’s heads, galloping through hoops twenty feet in the air, and balancing chandeliers on their foreheads while assuming the dead cockroach position. It was magical to be at the circus, and I was surprised at how often my mouth fell open in amazement and how genuinely I laughed when a cat bride and groom came rolling along in a stagecoach pulled by a poodle.

This wasn’t a circus with juggling clowns crammed in a Volkswagen, or tightrope acts with roaring tigers; it was a sophisticated circus. A dance of acrobats. Ballerinas who could fly and twirl from satin ribbons high above the crowd. [The cat wedding was just a bonus.]

Then my favorite part happened: bubbles began to float down from above and fill the theatre as “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” played. I lost interest in the dancers swaying on stage and became enraptured by a rain of bubbles drifting toward my head and vanishing into my skin. I felt peaceful and happy, caught up in a sense of wonder that only finds me once in a long while, when all the distractions of life dissolve. I became like a seven year old again, curled up in my Crayola sleeping bag on the living room floor watching The Muppet Show while my sister braided my hair.

There was also the time that we almost burned the kitchen down. My sister and I were attempting to cook a chocolate mousse recipe we’d seen demonstrated on our favorite show, ZOOM. Our babysitter must have been in another room talking on the phone as we knelt on chairs and stirred away bubbling pots on the stove. The details are vague, but I remember that a dishtowel caught on fire, and somehow the glass coffee pot exploded and there was chocolate pudding everywhere. That was a night full of distractions.

A few years ago, some friends took me to lunch in Franklin for my birthday. Afterward, we walked around the square looking at the shops. I was wearing a black dress and a turquoise necklace and I remember it being a really good day. We walked along the sidewalk for awhile, eventually coming to the shop that made homemade soaps and fizzy things for your bathtub. The smell of lavender and roses drifted outside and mixed with the bubbles floating down from above the doorway. I stood there and popped them with my fingers before they could land, my head tilted back to watch them bouncing toward me.

Sitting at the circus, being pelted by soft bubbles, I thought of an idea. One January when our little kid has a fifth birthday or so, I will bring a bubble machine home through the winter snow and will fill our house with the fragile orbs to celebrate. And maybe, hopefully, just like our child, I will find myself still caught up in the magic of them too.

Five Villages

[in keeping with my recent tribute to SUMMER, i offer a photo blog of our three days spent in Cinque Terre on the coast of Italy. it was early-May when we were there, but it's the kind of place that feels like a perfect slice of breathtaking summer any time of year...]

{click photo to enlarge}

"Trees on a Plane"

I’m at Frothy Monkey today, watching out the window as an American flag whips in the breeze and people sit on the patio slurping drinks with ice. I am secretly hoping that Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban (fresh off their honeymoon) will stroll in so I can congratulate them. They’ve been seen around town lately, at the park, at Starbucks, and various other places where regular people go. With my left ear I am listening to Patty Griffin’s “Long Ride Home” muffled under the whir of the espresso machine. With the other ear, I am on alert for an Aussie accent.

As I sit in this corner booth chewing on my straw, my husband is in the process of smuggling baby trees back from Montana in his carry-on luggage. He has been there for a week playing at a camp in the mountains and came across some spruce or cedar saplings that mentioned they had always hoped to visit Nashville. So I guess when no one was looking, he sneaked into a patch of woods, dug their roots from the Montana soil, and nestled them between his toiletry bag and boxer shorts for the journey to our backyard.

One of my favorite things about Jeremy is that whenever he finds a new interest, he jumps in whole-heartedly. Lately, he is really excited about trees and shrubs. Before he left for Montana, he built a new patio with help from a few friends and an odd stranger or two. After days of slaving in the sweltering heat and consuming ninety-five gallons of Gatorade, it was finished. We had it trimmed with a bunch of interesting trees and plants that we spend a lot of time over-watering. It feels good to be outside now that we have a place to stand.

While summer has never really been my favorite season, I do love it for the "corn-on-the-cob, outdoor grilling, gathering with friends, and letting cold water from the hose splash onto your feet" that it brings. It’s the only time of year that I really enjoy Mexican food (the readers gasp), and the only time of year that watermelon seems truly important. It’s also the only time of year when I don’t feel redundant wearing flip-flops every day, and the only time of year that I miss being a kid--if only for the waterslide parks, and hot dogs by the pool at our neighborhood clubhouse. I remember the summer my friend Robin tried to convince me that french fries tasted better dipped in mayonnaise (they don’t), the one and only summer I got up on water skis, and all the summers I spent in California visiting my cousins on their ranch.

The ice cream truck goes past our house a lot these days, whistling its rendition of “London Bridge Is Falling Down,” and every so often I feel tempted to snatch some quarters from Jeremy’s dresser and run out to the curb for an orange sherbet push-up with Fred Flintstone on the wrapper, or an Eskimo pie.

I miss my dad a lot this summer, as I watch Jeremy flip charred chicken on our grill with the same red metal lid that my dad’s grill had my whole entire life. My dad loved to grill steaks and spend long hot Saturdays working in his rose garden, wearing tennis shorts and blue-banded socks pulled straight up toward his knees. The flower beds never seemed bothered by his lack of fashion.

Jeremy has already promised that in some summer down the road to come, he’ll take our little kid fishing, or maybe to the park for a push on the swings, and tell them all about their grandfather so it will be as if they know him well.

Paris in the Springtime

Nothing much to write about at the moment...I am keeping occupied with memories of Europe. Thought I would post some photos from our time in Paris.


a big tower thingy we kept passing...not sure what it was but it changed colors at night.

jeremy and door detail: a study

notre dame cathedral

colorful paris

venus de milo and friends

visiting Amelie in Montmarte

tea time

pretty building behind branches

"subway" entrance

along Rue Cler

if you look reaaaally close, you can see Nicole Kidman perched on top...she's waving

picciones

We returned from our European vacation a few weeks ago with battered suitcases full of memories. Our room with a view of the Eiffel tower made Paris seem like a dream-come-true vacation, even if we’d flown home at the end of those three days. As tasty as our corner bakery is here in East Nashville, nothing can compare to chocolate filled croissants from a real Parisian patisserie.

Possibly the best photos from our sixteen day trip were taken in St. Mark’s Square in Venice. This was our first Italian stop and despite the throngs of Americans attempting to spoil the vibe, we found Venice both breathtaking and thoroughly amusing. Jeremy, in particular, made dozens of new friends (of the feathered variety) as we crossed the square on our way to another scoop of gelato. At first he wasn’t thrilled about the idea of having birds land all over him but I insisted on a photo, so he bought a bag of birdseed and indulged me.



Once he had overcome his fear of bird flu, and realized that the pigeons, though fat and ravenous, weren’t actually a threat, he quickly adopted the role of Venice’s favorite birdman.



At least thirty euros were shelled out over the course of 48 hours, as he snapped up bag after bag of birdseed to feed his new-found friends. Many times we’d be walking the perimeter of the square on our way to lunch or to tour a palace, and I’d turn to look for Jeremy, only to find him half way across the square buying another bag from the seed cart. “Just one more time,” he would say, with a pigeon on his head.



Before long, the pigeons would see us coming and alert the others. Pigeons flew in from nearby cities once they got word that some silly American was blowing his life savings on an enormous buffet in their honor. They began following us all around Venice, landing on Jeremy's arms and shoulders, even when he wasn’t holding any birdseed. He was like a local celebrity among park fowl. A generous stranger with endless resources. The Oprah of the Grand Canal.



I am pretty sure a few of the birds followed us to the coast when we headed for our next stop, Cinque Terre. Though we visited many amazing places throughout Italy, seeing castles and sculptures and unforgettable pieces of history, we will always remember Venice for the pigeons.

Chirp.

Baby birds are guarding our mailbox.

A few weeks ago, we noticed that a fat robin had poorly-assembled a pile of twigs and string on a front-porch ledge just above the brass box which collects our mail. Within a day, the wind and rain had blown the nest away. But the robin was determined and rebuilt her perch, much sturdier this time, with twine and branches from all around the neighborhood.

She sat upon the nest for several days, fluffed up and proud, glaring at us each time we opened the door or peered at her from between the blinds. I named the bird Roberta. She became our third pet (kind of) and I greeted her every morning. I wondered if the glowing porch light that stays on at night had disrupted her rest or caused her to see annoying spots whenever she blinked.

After many days of watching her sit in her bowl-shaped abode, I opened the door one afternoon and noticed that Roberta was gone. Three baby beaks were poking up from the nest like tiny birthday hats. I discovered a few bits of eggshell the color of a Tiffany’s box scattered in the grass, and soon Roberta swooped in from the yard with worms and bugs clinging to her beak. I felt all congratulatory.

The next day, everything changed. I stepped out to retrieve the mail, and suddenly two squawking robins darted toward my head from a nearby tree. It was Roberta and her man, a skinny but ferocious looking bird who was clearly on a mission to protect his triplets. Roberta was our friendly, feathered pet no more. Visions of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds flashed through my mind as I fled inside clutching my Crate and Barrel catalog and fumbling to hold onto a stack of bills. I needed the mail, but surely it wasn’t worth getting my eyes poked out like Tippi Hedren.

This went on for a few more days. I'd snatch the mail and run inside, dodging a fury of red feathers and loud chirps that I can only assume were profanities in bird-talk. The passport I ordered for our trip to Europe did not arrive, and I am starting to think Roberta might be responsible. I would not blame the postman for opting to chuck our mail in a nearby gutter to avoid getting pummeled.

So we have started taking our dog with us to the mailbox now. It has become a rehearsed event as we line up and embark outside as a family, a hyper Jack Russell terrier as the first line of defense. Now that we out-number them, Mr. and Mrs. Roberta don't come quite so close to our faces, and the adrenaline associated with grabbing our phone bill has subsided a bit. I’ve also been able to get a good peek at the babies, who seem to have quadrupled in size in a matter of days. They are plump and covered with feathers now, and they glare at us too as they stretch their necks in search of a wiggly snack.

Even though our front porch has turned into a daily battlefield of sorts, there has been something intriguing about watching the birds and seeing how similar they are to humans. I think it's fascinating that the dad-bird sticks around as protector, while the mother dashes off in search of food and then returns to feed and keep her babies warm. A little family.

And as long as they let us have our mail, I guess we'll let the Robins remain in their front porch apartment until they're ready to fly away one day.

a writer's life

Today I am a writer again, if only by force.

Years ago while living in Houston, I worked in my church’s Media Department as producer of a talk-radio show. How I fell into such an occupation and actually did well at it, I have never quite figured out. My job prior to that was managing an after-school program for an Episcopal elementary school, and before that I ran a computer lab for hormonal middle school kids. Sometimes I look back over my hodge-podge career and find it to be a strange string of endeavors, and also surprising that I’ve managed to avoid ever waiting tables.

One evening during my radio show stint, I attended a dinner party at my distinguished friend Mary-Catherine’s house. For a long time up until then, we had always called her Missy. Missy was a ballerina and read books on philosophy and comparative religion. Soon she began sculpting and traveling to exotic places and oozing with intellect, and that’s when she became: Mary-Catherine who gives dinner parties in her early twenties. This was a time when most of our friends survived on Chinese take-out from General Joe’s with a bottle of Mountain Dew.

Sitting around Mary-Catherine’s dining room table with our individual menus written in fancy script, we started talking about our dream occupations…what we would love to do if we could do anything in the world. When it came to my turn, the answer was easy: “I want to be a writer.” “Don’t you write now?” Mary-Catherine prompted, mentioning a couple of articles I had written and a book I helped edit. I guess I had never really thought about it before. “Well, yes, I write. But I am not a writer,” I said. “You’re a writer if you say you’re a writer,” Mary-Catherine insisted. “From now on, when people ask you what you do, I want you to tell them that you’re a writer.”

And that was it. From that day forward I was a writer. It had happened over Beef Wellington and baby carrots at eight o’clock on a Saturday. Looking back, I think I’d just never had the guts to believe I could actually be a writer, let alone say it out loud to other people.

It was several more years before I actually began writing on a semi-full-time basis, and there are some days now that I’m still sheepish about answering when people ask what I do. Many days, I just don’t feel like a writer, either because I’m not inspired to put anything on paper, or because I’m busy doing other things. Every day, without consciously dubbing myself as such, I know that I am a wife, cook, seamstress, decorator, dog-walker, and person who uses her computer a lot. But actual writer? It’s only on rare occasions, when I’m whittling away at an artist’s biography or editing an interview, that I wear the writer label as proudly as my favorite shirt.

This morning I opened my laptop and stared at a blank page. “I have nothing to write about,” I thought. It’s been a month since my last entry and still, nothing to say. The page glared at me irritably, as if shouting, “Just put something down already! I’m so bored.”

But still I had nothing to say and sat frozen, staring at an empty white page dependent on me to give it a life. Then I remembered the words of Mary-Catherine-sculptor-painter-dancer-philosopher-gourmet chef-and world traveler. “You’re a writer if you say you’re a writer.”

So I wrote the word Today... and became a writer again.