It all went cattywumpus when we tried to add Emmett and Sarge to the photograph.
Summer hasn’t been especially stress-free around this house, but every time I take an amble around, I’m reminded why the place you live matters, and why the effort you put into your surroundings makes a difference.
Hello, Sarge. :)
The first heirloom tomato is changing color and YES I checked to make sure it wasn’t the reflection from the newly spray-painted trellis or the orange rag I used to stake it. It’s definitely ripening. That means caprese salad with home grown tomato and basil very soon…and gorgeous creamy buffalo mozzarella. It means bruschetta. With great bread. Yum.
The first one out of the gate is on the JD’s Special C-Tex plant, which you’ll remember my friends at Michigan Heirlooms subbed for me when my second Paul Robeson plant wasn’t available. For the record, here is the progress on the Paul Robesons.
Okay, now, I’m going to go on the record and say that I am viewing these SUPPOSED Paul Robesons with a skeptical eye. They don’t look like Paul Robesons at this point in their maturity, is all I’m sayin’. That quasi-teardrop shape seems more indicative of a Japanese Trifele tomato, no? Which wasn’t even on the seed roster at Michigan Heirlooms, so no idea how that mix up might have occurred. If there was, in fact, a mix up. I am certainly not impugning MH’s reputation or their knowledge of tomatoes and maybe my Paul Robesons will smush out and take on the proper shape. I don’t think I would mind getting a Japanese Trifele by some sort of cosmic accident, since the review I just linked to calls them “a truly transcendent tomato”. God knows I could never pass up a transcendent tomato and I certainly never thought I could be growing one or several in my humble garden.
The Cherokee Purples aren’t even worth showing you at this point. I really view them as a workhorse tomato. They’re growing well but are already cracking in spots. I’m sure this is somehow my fault.
I never thought I could talk this long about tomatoes.
The shade-loving loose plants that I bought at Eastern Market Flower Day are, like last year, absolutely spectacularly beautiful. They thrive in the big containers on my front porch and I have sworn to go back every year to THAT vendor to buy THOSE plants.
And, a new addition this year, my extremely talented parents refurbished my wood duck welcome sign and it has taken a proud place on my brick. They made me a moonlit snow owl sign, as well, because Miss L and I love owls, but it hasn’t been hung yet so no pictures available.
My father carves the birds, woodburns their feather details, and my mother paints them. They have made some unbelievably beautiful pieces together, from small Christmas ornament carvings to full size decoys. I wish I had a website to direct you to in case you want to buy one BUT MY PARENTS DON’T HAVE A WEBSITE EVEN THOUGH THEY COULD BE MAKING GOBS OF MONEY ON THEIR BEAUTIFUL WOODCRAFTS. Yes MOM AND DAD I AM TALKING TO YOU. And not just because you are probably the only ones reading my blog. ;)
My little Miss L developed a wiggly front tooth during our vacation and yesterday, day care called me to let us know the exciting news – she’d lost it!
I am trying to keep Miss L stories off my blog as much as is realistic, simply because of her privacy. Sharing your kids with the whole Internetz is a thorny issue that I would just rather avoid, but she is the biggest part of my life and so to keep her to one side altogether just isn’t possible. Especially with big milestones like this!
She came home with her tooth in a bag and a somewhat startled hand-letter sign: MY TOOTH CAME OUT. !!
I had the battle rattles about performing Tooth Fairy duties. On normal nights, I could come and go in her room without waking her up, but I had a terrible feeling that the minute I tiptoed into her room to slide her Tooth Fairy money under her pillow, she’d be wide awake, staring at me…”Mommy??…What are you doing, Mommy?”
Luckily, though, she had rolled far over to one side of the bed, and slept on while the Tooth Fairy delivered her reward, fished out the tooth, and crept back. I know the Tooth Fairy overdid it. $5 in cash and for a first tooth, a little goodie box on her dresser – a diary with a key, and a friendship bracelet kit.
“I think the Tooth Fairy left me all of this stuff because I left HER some stuff,” she confided.
“Really?!” I asked. “What did you leave her?”
“Uhhhhh….a drawing…and some soap.”
“Some soap. You left that under your pillow?”
“Yep. Soap! From that place Up North!”
“Did she take it?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Miss L said.
I looked at her and thought, this is either a total fabrication or an elaborately constructed trap…which one? (There wasn’t any soap under your pillow, baby; How do you KNOW there wasn’t any soap, Mommy? Unless you yourself are….THE TOOTH FAIRY! AH HA!!)
I left it alone.
I can’t get used to looking at her with a gap in her mouth – she suddenly looks so much older.
When I tell people that my folks live Up North, they invariably ask me if they live on the lake, or in Traverse City, and I know they are imagining a resort community with discreet mushroom colored cottage-type baby McMansions. Boat shoes and white docks. I laugh and tell them no, and leave it at that. I can’t imagine moving Up North to live around the same kind of people in the same kind of houses and clothes that you escaped downstate.
Benzie County – last time I checked – had 1 stoplight and my folks live in a small town filled with hilarious small town stories and characters. I have signed informal confidentiality agreements with my privacy-loving parents, so I cannot reveal either the town or the stories, but suffice it to say that the tales of local government alone would fill a tragicomic novel. The scenery is spectacular – pine woods and small blue green lakes, white sand and brown rivers, dunes and forests. My mom thinks a Sasquatch might just live in the dead stream swamp. Blue sky and cherry orchards, deer grazing in the fields, turkeys ambling out of the thickets. My mom’s garden is full of poppies and daisies, foxglove and iris nodding over a white picket fence that my dad made. His workshop is in the pole barn, equipped with a radio perpetually tuned to NPR and a small woodstove, and his carved owls, bears, and decoys line the shelves. In the winter, the locals ride their snowmobiles down to the local bar, and if there’s a band playing, you can hear it all the way down Main Street. At night, the coyotes may just come down from the fields to pace the back alley and wake you up with their squabbling. I wouldn’t mind retiring up there someday, if the boat shoes and baby McMansions stay away for awhile.
If you’re ever in Benzie County, a couple of local places for you to check out.
You would come for the soaps and candles, and stay to soak up their beautiful farm gardens. Nothing is artificial or structured – the flowering trees, herbs, bits of art and garden spaces all seem to have naturally grown and flowered in perfect symmetry. There are observation hives and other brightly painted bee boxes set around the gardens, and the steady drone of the occupants coming and going is carried on the breeze along with deep tones from the many windchimes. The little store and workshop are in the snug barn, behind a wide open porch set with cushions and rocking chairs. This is a business that grew up out of a passion and a lifestyle – keeping bees and making soap and candles and coaxing life out of the world around them. This business makes you feel quite certain that you are getting pure, whole ingredients – exactly the kind of place where I want to put my money. The store smells like pollen, dried herbs and flowers, and beeswax; their gorgeous soaps imbue everything with their natural perfume. I store them in my linen closet or in my drawers before I use them and the sunshine smell to me is always Up North.
PS – they have a mail order business too, link above. My favorite soap is the classic Pollen Pleasure but I also love the Peppermint Patch!
Beautiful Mission-style tasting room in which to sample meads and estate wines under the watchful eye of the bee goddess. They use local grapes and honey from the apiaries at Sleeping Bear Farms (here’s a cool video, if you are interested in bees and their winter travel plans) and are very generous with their samplings (if you check in on Facebook from their tasting room – which can be tricky if your provider isn’t robust, they’re a ways out in the big blue country – you get a free wine glass!) I’m definitely a wino (hahaha – ahem) and enjoyed their reds, but at their coaxing, I sampled some meads. Mead isn’t usually my thing, but I came away with two “howlers” of draft mead – both light and bubbly and refreshing – the ginger and an apple cider type and feel quite pleased as they’ll refill the pretty brown glass jugs for a significant discount, if I bring them back.
Flopping helplessly amid the pumps and cement islands of a state highway gas station.
Miss L slept in the backseat while I pumped gas and watched it; it was as big as my hand, and clearly lost.
I knelt to inspect it and it fluttered away, toward a young truck driver at the diesel pump who thought I was looking at him. He nodded and touched the brim of his cap.
I woke my sleepy girl and we went to the bathroom and returned a lost credit card that we found on the dirty cement outside of the convenience store. When we came back, the moth was back, on its side by our car, exhausted.
I picked it up as gently as possible and we looked at it – brown furry body and creeping legs as it feebly tried to escape. Enormous feathery antennae waved, alarmed, and beautiful wings – adorned with prominent eyespots of primitive black, blue, and gold – were frayed.
“What should we do?” Miss L asked.
We carried it across the burning asphalt and up the embankment, truck drivers watching us without much interest, and set it down in the shade of a cluster of scrub pines.
I don’t hold out much hope for its survival but we did what we could.
Named after the giant Polyphemus of the Odyssey.
Luckily, after a somewhat disheartening experience “floating down the river”, my dad, Miss L’s “Bompa”, was around to save the day with a fishing trip.
I’m not allowed to reveal the exact location of the favorite fishing hole, but it was a successful outing. Miss L stated emphatically that she caught forty fish, including the first and the largest. I was content to let her celebrate this although I think her tally was closer to thirteen and they were mostly little bluegill and perch. My rock bass would likely have taken the prize for largest.
We are a catch and release family most of the time and I was proud that my daughter was totally non-squeamish about putting worms on hooks and taking fish off hooks, as well as my self-started tradition of smooching the fish before they were tossed back into the cool brown glittering depths.