Let’s go for a walk

Let’s go for a walk. I cannot begin to put a number on the amount of times that I’ve heard that request put forth by various members of my family. From childhood until now, that has been a reoccurring request. From grandparents who walked a few miles a day, to family in Louisiana wanting to go to the river, to my own children requesting to walk my parents’ farm. Wherever we are, whether at home, visiting cousins, or taking in vacation sights, it’s the same refrain. “Let’s go for a walk.”

For the most part, we are an active family most happy in the outdoors. I will go ahead and confess that there was a good sized portion of my life where I rebelled and went against the grain. I refused to go outside unless to lay on a blanket slathered in oil, cooking myself in the sun. Exercise was a dirty word, and any attempt at getting me to participate in family activity or chores was met with a truly awful display of my teenage personality. I was rude, whiny, obnoxious, and generally so unpleasant that my poor parents became loath to even try to engage me. I missed a lot of good moments that way and I have more than a little regret about that. Slowly, I have come to the realization that not only does taking a walk make me feel physically better, it is become apparent to me that being out in nature is the very key to dealing with the anxiety and depression that I have developed in the last few years.

Growing up as I did, as an only child of fairly loner parents who preferred to live tucked away from society and did not own a television, while making me quite happy and comfortable with being alone and capable of amusing myself, also had the effect of instilling in me a desire to live in a big city. I made sure to let my parents know on numerous occasions how they were ruining my social life (as that ever so pleasant teenager, again) and that at the first chance I got, I’d be moving to a big city and living amongst civilized society. I told them I hated the farm and gardens were stupid and I wanted no part of any of it. (Glad you didn’t know me then? You should be.) I had zero appreciation for the beauty and comfort of these Tennessee hills.

As I said, I had big plans to be a city girl. Fast forward to my very early 20’s. My first husband and I moved to an apartment in the little town of Ardmore. Now, this was truly a small town. At the time we had one chain fast food store, two small grocery stores, and a couple shops. The apartments were few in number and not fancy, but were decent and mostly quiet as those places go. As I started out in my big girl independent life, I began to notice something. Between an older neighbor who was, ahem, quite involved in keeping track of the comings and goings of the folks around and the parking spots allotted to them, and the lady on the other side who enjoyed a rather vigorous love life on the weekends, I came to the realization that I didn’t particularly enjoy having neighbors quite as much as I thought I did. Police sirens and garbage trucks, music, revving cars, and an unceasingly barking dog began to drive me to distraction. I got a puppy and took her for walks. First just in the field behind our building, and then to other parts of the tiny town. I had a car, mind you, but the puppy needed exercise and though I was not cognizant of it at the time, I, too, needed to get outside and take a walk.

After a year, my first husband and I, who also grew up on a farm, both began to understand that we craved to be back where we came from. My parents deeded us just shy of an acre on the back of their farm, and we built a house up on a hill on a dead end dirt road. Things happened, as they sometimes do, and shortly after, we divorced. I decided I wanted to keep the house instead of selling, even though it meant I’d have to work double shifts as a waitress, and my parents had even generously offered that I could move home to get myself back together. I loved my little house in the woods and didn’t want to be anywhere else. Later, an old friend and I dated and married, and after discussion, he sold his house in a small country neighborhood and moved into my secluded little home. It took him only a short time to get adjusted, and now he too loves living away from people out in the hills.

At this point in my life I understood my need for solitude and nature around me, but hadn’t yet come to the realization that I needed to go for a walk. We had three kids decently close together and were busy doing all the activities involved with young children. During these years, my parents still wanted to go for short walks occasionally and the kids, when they were a bit older, began to request to walk to the back pond after our customary Sunday Mexican food lunches. Sometimes my husband and I would walk with them, and other times we’d take advantage of a quiet opportunity to nap while they strolled with their grandparents through the trees and fields. Now, knowing what I know, if I could go back in time, I would go for that walk each and every single time it was offered. I cannot change time, but I can move forward and take the walks from now on.

I can remember, back when my maternal grandmother was still alive, and then a few times after she passed as well, being at her house in Louisiana with all the aunts, uncles, and cousins over for a meal and visit. On occasion, we would walk down to the river, I don’t remember which one, and watch the kids poke around in the muddy water, looking for critters to mess with. A handful of times, at my aunt’s house a few miles away, we would tramp around her back acres near the swampy lands, discovering flora and fauna, and attracting an alarming number of mosquitos. We didn’t walk on the roads there, because of crazy drivers and the fact that she lives near an alligator farm and I feared running into an escapee. (That actually happened to her once, as she was out running. I don’t think she ran that way again after that). Still, I didn’t always go for the walk. I just hadn’t learned yet.

My other grandparents, who were from Oklahoma, walked every day until they couldn’t. They always asked if I wanted to go, and there again, it was almost always a no from me. I couldn’t understand the point of walking just for the pleasure of it , and certainly hadn’t made the connection of the outdoors being vital to my mental health. My parents also live on a dead end dirt road and a small creek runs along it for a good bit of the way. There is always something to see there, and adventures to be had, though all of that was still kind of lost on me. As I said, if I could, I’d go back and take every walk I could. I’d probably have been healthier and certainly I’d have been happier.

From a wonderful walk through Dismal Canyon.

Slowly, over the last few years, I started to understand how much better I felt outdoors. I started gardening and then went for the occasional walk. My children and I began to go on short day trips to take hikes. We love a good hard walk with the reward of a waterfall at the end, and major bonus points if it has a swimming hole at the base. I was getting the love for the walk. Then came the devastating news that my mama was ill, dying in fact, of cancer. Months in the hospital and the heartache of the everyday battle took its toll on all of us, so what did I do? I took the kids for a hike. The woods and the exercise gave healing and strength for what was to come. Against my strongest prayers, my mother lost her battle with cancer, and shortly after we lost a dear youthful friend. We had also lost another young friend right as mother’s diagnosis. So much sorrow in such a short time. Winter came and then during what was to be a spring of rebirth and healing, came Covid. A pandemic that sent us all home to hide.

For a time, all we did was sit and watch tv and eat. Depression and fear will do that to you. I realized we were all miserable and I’d noticed a decline in my own health. So what did I do? I went for a walk. At first it was just because I was counting calories and a walk earned me the ability to enjoy more food while dropping a couple pounds. Then I finally began to notice it was helping me mentally. I didn’t think as much about my sorrows when I walked, I concentrated on foot placement and breathing. My dad would take us for walks on the farm, which I began to finally forge a real connection to. We followed every fence row, moving through hills and valleys on horse and deer paths. He showed us the different trees and we learned which rocks held fossils and which held little deposits of glitter. We came together to heal a little, moving through our loss and making new bonds. We walked with the horses, making friends with the newest baby and tracking her growth. I finally understood, after all my 46 years, where my heart and happiness lie.

If a walk doesn’t end in a waterfall, it’s best if it at least includes a precious baby horse. Meet Jean the beauty queen.

I am still struggling through grief. I still battle depression. I still have times where I cannot get up off the couch and do much more than the basics. Those days, I am happy to report, are becoming much fewer and farther between. I pray, I write, I garden, and I cook. Those activities all help. I feel best, however, when I get up and go for a walk. On mother’s day, I took my mama’s ashes and I went for a walk. I scattered them through the woods and paths she loved and I talked to her through my pain and longing. We took our last walk. A few times a week, we drive over to my dad’s and we go for the walk. I got up the other morning and realized I was all out of sorts and full of what I called the sad/mads. Instead of starting an argument with anyone in my family, I put on my coat and shoes and I went for a walk. I felt so much better afterward. Today, all my kids are home and though it’s quite chilly, the sun is shining and the wind has calmed. We plan to gather a picnic, and you guessed it. We’re gonna go for a walk.

These are troubling and scary time for all of us. Pandemics, civil rights movements and all that comes with society struggling to move forward, and now civil unrest in our beloved country as well. My advice? Turn off that stupid TV, put down your phone, take out the earbuds, say a heartfelt prayer, love thy neighbor, and just go for a walk. Be blessed and kind. Go in love. Speak peace. Grab your shoes and go for a walk. Love, Jessica.

Morning has broken

Leave a reply

This is my view every morning. I look out of my window, across the porch rail and through the garden gate to the trees on top of the ridge we live on.

Good morning. And it is so good. I love mornings. I am one of THOSE people. The ones that snap awake before the sun even begins to rise. The ones who are alert and functional immediately upon opening our eyes. I know, we are obnoxious to those of you who prefer to sleep and not speak until the sun reaches midway in the sky. I’m happy and hyped up to start the day in the morning and don’t even need coffee or tea, though I do enjoy them.

For me, the dawn is a sign of beginnings. A fresh start. A clean slate, as it were. Though past actions always have consequences, the dawn brings everyone a promise and a gift of another chance. I’ve seen many a glorious sunset, and the Good Lord knows that the evening’s light can make a pretty show, especially on water, but for me, its always the dawn that sings to my soul. As a matter of fact, the title of this post is the title of one of my very favorite songs. I love the version by Cat Stevens, and though it may sound silly, I joined my church in part because that happened to be one of the hymns they sang on my first visit. I took it as a sign,

All of my life, I have been a daytime person. Though Mother said, upon occasion, that as an infant I tried her patience and attempted to switch my nights and days, as far back as my cognitive memory goes, my energy follows the sun. As the day wears on, I wear down. As a matter of fact, I’m as grumpy after 8 pm as some are before 8 am. I rarely will answer a text after that time unless it requires immediate action, and have always been a matinee movie sort of girl. I have asked my husband on more than one occasion why good music is so often played at venues when it is past my bedtime.

Even as a teenager, I wasn’t great at being a night owl. I remember many an evening riding around in a car with friends. You folks from small towns know what I mean. There’s nothing to do other than drive in circles, blasting music, and clustering in random parking lots, standing around tailgates or hoods, posturing in your best outfit, hoping to be seen by someone different than the same 20 people you saw every other weekend. I have always been less than completely social and that certainly didn’t improve as the evening went on. I was notorious for sitting in my friend’s passenger seat, locking the door, and napping until something exciting came along or it was curfew. (Incidentally, I learned to lock the door, because, teenagers, right?) And I promise you that while my friends were tolerant of my eccentricities, they also quite often used the opportunity to amuse themselves. I cannot tell you how many bare bottoms I saw, and sadly on at least one occasion, my repose was interrupted my window tapping, insane giggling, and I opened my eyes to ahem, male paraphernalia against the glass. Fear not, I wasn’t traumatized, but as I inherited my mother’s acid tongue, that young man may have questioned the appeal of his own personal nakedness for some time after.

I have had, over the years, several friends who are avowed night owls. Folks who can sit up through to the wee hours and still be perfectly cheerful and come up with many ideas of fun to be had. There were plenty of times I joined them in my youth. I’m going to be completely honest and admit that while some great fun was had, Mama was quite right when she said nothing I was getting up to after midnight was anything I SHOULD have been getting up to. This statement came as I was arguing the point for a later curfew since wee lived a good 25 minutes outside of town. Since I was at the height of my teenage hubris and had no damper between my brain and my mouth at the time, I popped off with, “ Mom, I assure you that I am doing the same things before dark as I am after.” That particular moment of genius served only to backfire immediately. She thinned her lips and her eyes narrowed, clear warning signs of doom in my mama, and guess who had to be home even earlier for a while until she learned to keep her smart mouth shut.

Dawn, for me, has always been the harbinger of the best times. Dawn is when I would hear my parents stir in the house. Coffee to be made, a cow to be milked, a wood stove to be stoked in winter, breakfast cooked, and then work or school. Dawn is Christmas morning gifts being opened quietly and enjoyed before the chaos of cousins. Dawn is Easter morning candy consumed unsupervised with gleeful abandon. Dawn is packing the car to go see family in Louisiana. Dawn was driving to Nashville to catch a flight to my only trip to Europe. Dawn is my aunts and mama drinking coffee and softly laughing on the porch, their time to bond and reminisce without all the kids around. Dawn is a spectacular light show to the soundtrack of birdsong, rooster crows and animals calling in the fields.

Recently, my oldest and I have begun to make it a more conscious habit of opening the curtains and the front door to witness more fully the changing of the light. We grab a cup of hot tea or coffee and quietly watch the colors shift from dark to light. Dark blackish blue gives way to streaks of gold, pink, and purple, that gradually fade away to a bright day sky. I built this house to face east just for that reason. I bless each morning, grateful for another day. You never know which one will be your last, so praise every dawn you see. Happy New Year, friends and family, I hope your future is as bright as the rays that peeped over these glorious hills of Tennessee this morning. Go forth and God Bless.

False Pride and the comeuppance of the Croquembouche

Leave a reply

I guess I will start off by saying hello again. I haven’t written much lately and I think that my last post took a lot out of me. I’d say 2020 has been quite the year, but that’s more than a bit of an understatement, isn’t it? I’m back, and trying to figure out how I really want this blog to work for me. I started writing because friends and family who read my FB have told me I should write more. I don’t know that I have the gift or patience for an actual book, but I do enjoy telling stories, so a blog seemed to be the right way to go about it. At first, there were big plans, and I wanted to do themes loaded with info and photos. As I’ve gone along, that seems to be too much work and actually keeps me from writing because who can come up with that many big ideas? It seems more natural to go with my FB style and just do smaller posts about whatever is rattling around my brain. Sometimes I’m funny, oftentimes serious, occasionally a little sad. I write about my interests, my family, and talk way too much about food. That said, I guess I will get to my story.

One of the things you need to know about me is that, like a lot of folks, I can sometimes get a little full of myself, or as they say around here- “too big for my britches”. I like to cook. In fact, food is what I think about at least half of the time I am conscious. Most of the time, I’m decent at it. Occasionally I pull off something impressive. My family praises my efforts and since I know a lot of people who do “maintenance cooking’ rather than inventive cooking and who seemed surprised at some of my recipes, I sometimes get a little bit of an inflated ego over my own skills. I forget myself and get a little snobby. I know, I’m sorry. I was taught better, I swear.

Fortunately for my own salvation, two things serve to keep me humble and put me in my place when I start believing in the hype in my head and thinking I should have my own cooking show. (Honestly, the last part is a joke, because I’m messy and I cuss waaaay too much for TV). First, I have a friend, we will call her “A”, who takes joy in keeping me in my place. I assume God put her in my life just for that reason, She is the friend who will take pictures when you fall down and save them forever, but is usually too kind to post them in social media. She also is the kind of friend who will remind you, like 8 years later, of that one time you made cupcakes and a stray bit of egg didn’t get mixed into the batter good and ended up as a rather unappetizing lump of scrambled yuck in a bite. True story, one cupcake out of hundreds… But she’s right, and she makes me laugh and keeps me from getting the big head. (Also, I get to feel a tiny bit superior, because she cusses more than I do, and is prone to saying things in public that make me feel like I’m a proper southern lady. Spoiler, I’m not.)

The second thing that saves my soul is that periodically, right about when I start really feeling my own self and start to show out, I fail. Spectacularly. Sadly, this usually happens in one of those moments when I was trying to perform and put on for people, and it happens most on special occasions. I’ve dropped cakes, left out ingredients, had things collapse, etc… The point is, I really should know better by now. I don’t. It happens again and again. So, here is what happened this week.

We are doing virtual school currently. We all know why, and frankly I don’t want to mention it anymore. My youngest child’s science teacher sent an assignment for them to stack things to make a holiday tree shape. Normally, this being the week before school lets out for Christmas, the teachers are mostly just trying to manage the animals, and let them do this in class with toothpicks and gumdrops. It’s actually a good scientific engineering project, and then they can eat the candy. Win, win. This year, they were supposed to use things around the house and do the challenge at home. So, normal people get gumdrops or marshmallows or whatever, and let their kids do the thing, right? Are you getting a sense of premonition here? Do you think I did the normal thing? No, no I did not.

I thought and thought about how we could do something spectacular. One, to have fun, and lets be real here, two-because I’m a show out. After some thought, I decided it was a good idea to bake something. Aww, cookies or brownies, you say? Nooooo, pastry. French pastry. The notoriously difficult and temperamental croquembouche, to be exact. Now, I’m actually not bad at pastry. I’ve pulled off eclairs and tarts with no issue. I have done pastry cream before, and various kinds of caramel. Sooo, no problem, right? Oh, wrong. Problem. Many problems. A veritable host of ‘em. Murphy’s law ruled over that day like a Roman emperor.

I started off by forgetting something, and my daughters may kill me for this. Our cycles have coordinated. It was hormone city up in here. Now, I, even on my best days, am what you would politely call “high strung”. I run on pure emotion and react in a split second. (Lets say its often an overreaction, at that) My youngest is just like me while the oldest is a bit more mellow but still sensitive. The three of us were a veritable powder keg. Now, I don’t know about you, but my cycle also makes me clumsy and forgetful. My mother said the same thing. My hands don’t work exactly right and I haven’t the slightest idea why. So, we have hormones and lack of coordination. Let’s add the fact that my kitchen is tiny and there were three people trying to work together. See where we are headed?

Ok, in my vast collection of cookbooks, I couldn’t find a recipe for croquembouche. I searched a few of my phone and read through them. I knew the timing. We gathered ingredients and got ready. Then I decided to use a different recipe than the original one I’d chosen. Why? Because it came from an “upscale” magazine and not some random person’s blog. I deserved everything that was going to happen. We started the pastry and then halfway through I remembered you’re supposed too do the cream first so it can chill. Ok, move those pots, get more bowls, get more pots, rearrange, and start the cream. That went off pretty well, albeit with perhaps a bit of sniping back and forth amongst the hormone queens. It went into the fridge to wait. Back to the pastry.

The pastry cooked up fine. We let it cool five minutes as instructed and then placed it in the bag to pipe. Just before I snipped the end of the bag, while wondering how this overly warm runny mess was going to set up right, Sophia says, “Hey, what about all these eggs in the mixer? Were they supposed to go in there?” Yep. Eight shiny little carefully separated egg yolks waiting to be blended into the cooled batter. Oops.. We dumped the dough out, mixed the eggs in. (Very carefully “A”, very carefully). I scooped it back into the bag and got ready to pipe. Oldest daughter had, during this, struggled to line baking sheets with parchment paper, which sensing her emotional vulnerability, decided to get all sideways in its little case and refuse to rip straight. She may have cussed, but she’s 18 so I pretended not to hear it.

I start trying to pipe the little mounds to make the profiteroles. Apparently, more chilling time was needed because this wasn’t going well. Our ancient incontinent Pomeranian is capable of tidier piles than what I was making. I just kept going, pirate mouth and all, determined that whatever happened would happen. I’m yelling, the older daughter is trying to commiserate, and the youngest is bumping around trying to help, but mostly saying and touching things at the wrong time. Totally not her fault, however. She’s nowhere near as experienced in the kitchen and sometimes tries to guess what you need next and gets in the way. I was past the point of clear communication. We got them piped and the daughters argued and managed to egg wash them. While they were doing that, I sat on the sofa and guzzled tea and questioned my sanity. The good news is that despite inauspicious beginnings, the little pastries turned out and puffed up nicely in the oven.

Once the little puffs were cooled to room temp, it was time to fill them with the pastry cream. Everybody wanted to be the one to fill them, so there was a bit of “discussion”, but we got it under control before it got physical. This was the point where we realized that the underside was a tiny bit harder than was possible to cleanly insert the frosting tip in, so there I was poking holes in the bottom with the end of a clean paintbrush. Hey, whatever works. Finally, they were all filled and ready to go. I was feeling a little more confident this point. Heck, we’d gotten the hardest parts done, right? No one had died and there hadn’t even been any realistic threats of bodily harm. That’s when ish when downhill. It when downhill faster than a greased sled on ice. It. Was. Epic.

Ok, I’d read that amateurs sometimes used a little cone to assemble the filled puffs into a tree shape. At this point, normal folks would have used their brains and a little humility. Me? Nooo. I was a dumpster fire out of control. Boldly i set out a little cardboard cake circle and started the batch of caramel that is used to stick them gather like mortar. Oh, dear. It was simple mixture of water and sugar, cooked to a certain stage where the profiteroles could be dipped and laid like a tasty brick tower. Easy peasy, right? Nope. I put the mixture in the pot, put the lid on and waited as instructed for it to turn “ a lovey light shade of amber”. I stood there like a hawk. Nothing but slow bubbles and certainly no color change. With a few minutes to go, I slipped around the corner to sip my tea for a second. Like a flipping unholy magic trick, 30 seconds of hydration cost me the whole kit and caboodle. I skipped back into the kitchen to find a burnt umber mess in the pan. I smelled and tasted it with the optimistic and tearful hope that color be darned, it was salvageable. Indeed, it was not, it was a smoky nasty hard candy briquette.

The air ablaze with colorful language, I tossed that pan in the sink to soak, and started another batch. This one didn’t even get halfway through before seizing and turning into impenetrable sugar rocks. I threw in more water to no avail. It wouldn’t remelt and became something I could have repaired foundation with. I was in tears, the girls were stunned, things were being thrown, and my son was smartly hiding in his room, because he wanted no part of any of this drama. Sigh. A third pan, and a third batch. This too, started to seize. I was boo-hooing, adding water and crushing sugar crystals until finally some semblance of sugar caramel sauce became apparent. Look, it wasn’t a lovely shade of amber, and it had some heinous lumps in it, but I was at the end of my rope here. We grabbed the puffs and got ready to dip and stack. Thank the good Lord I had had the foresight to put on a double layer of latex gloves before the dipping process. Liquid sugar is basically caustic lava. Trying to hold the delicate puffs to keep from squeezing out the cream, dipping them in the molten sugar, and trying to make them stack in reducing circles was akin to building a pyramid from flaming balls of jiggly sweet death. We all tried, we cheated and placed reinforcements in the middle. We teamed up with racing and dripping more syrup. Naughty words, yelling, tears, fervent prayers, and the complete destruction of our Christmas cheer (and almost our souls), and we ended up with no fingerprints, a couple blisters, and the pastry tower equivalent of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Tired, broken spirited, and sick of the smell of burnt sugar, we threw edible glitter and sprinkles on it, along with a couple Instagram filters, sent a pic to the teacher and called it done.

Theoretically, a lesson has been learned here, and I will not attempt stupidly intricate stuff when simple ideas will do. Perhaps I will buy prefab gingerbread kits and slice and bake cookies. Yeah, I wouldn’t bet on it. I think there’s years of jackassery left in us yet. Stay tuned.

There. It’s lovey, isn’t it? Julia Child is crying in Heaven. We’re such a mess. At least it tasted decent,though for that effort, I’d rather have eclairs next time.

Dear Mama

1 Reply

Dear Mama, today marks one year since your soul slipped free of your failing body and flew into the beyond, free at last of the pain and suffering you had spent your last year of life in. 365 days since I have seen your face or held your precious hand and longer still since I have heard your voice. It seems unfathomable that I’ve already gone a whole year without you. All of us here are still a little lost and still figuring out how to cope with your absence. It still surprises me that I can’t pop over to the house to see you.

This is the last family photo of the three of us. It shouldn’t be.

Dear Mama, I spent some of this past year so angry with you. I was mad that you ignored your own health, believing that there was nothing that would happen in this life that you couldn’t control. I was angry that you made choices in life that took you from us way before any of us were ready. I raged against the fact that you couldn’t conquer your pride and personal demons to get the help you needed. After you passed, I threw myself into going through your boxes and boxes of belongings, throwing away lists of chores, notes, and carefully clipped magazine articles. I tossed piles of shiny things you had bought in crates for charity and gave tons of pretty garden decorations to your sisters to take home. I blew through your closets like a whirlwind, giving away anything I could, keeping only a couple T-shirts for myself and one of your favorite blouses that my dear friend B made into ornaments for us. I was in a rage, eager to throw away memories because it hurt so bad that you weren’t here instead.

The beautiful ornaments made by my friend B out of your favorite shirt.

Dear Mama, I did something I didn’t even know I was capable of doing. I arranged your funeral. I made calls I never wanted to make and tried to write up your life in a couple sentences for a newspaper notice. I wrote your eulogy that took me 2 weeks to even begin, in fact I wrote it the night before your funeral because I couldn’t accept the finality of it all. I wrote paragraphs in a flood of tears and snot, trying to convey my love for you without screaming into the gathering about how absolutely wretched your absence made me feel. Funny to sum up my whole life with you in a simple speech. I think you were with me giving me strength to speak to a room full of people without breaking down. I have books written in my heart for you, mama, so many things left to say. I hope you heard me speak that day and knew I’d done the best I could. I took some of your ashes to your parents’ graves and mixed them in the soil, so you could be with them in your beloved Louisiana, and then I spread the rest on the hills and valleys of the farm you loved. I have a pinch left, and will burn them tonight in a prayerful fire and try to release the anger and sadness that still fill my heart.

This picture sat on the table with your ashes. It is on of my favorites. My amazing parents on the day they were married.

Dear Mama, thank you. Thank you for choosing to have me. Thank you for keeping me. Thank you for a childhood full of magic, books, costumes, laughter, and love. Thank you for baby goats in the house and owls healing in the spare room. Thank you for Monty Python, Steve Martin, and Lily Tomlin skits we could recite by heart. Thank you for cutting up my waffles until I moved out, just to show me you loved me. Thank you for loving me even though I was a troublesome child, and refused to listen to your wisdom even when ignoring it hurt me. Thank you for supporting all of my dreams and interests, no matter how silly and pointless they were at the time. Thank you for the effort you put into my weddings, sorry you had to do that twice. Thank you for taking the time to make things special. Thank you for raising me the way you did, though I failed to appreciate it at the time. Thank you for listening to me vent when I had no one else to talk to. Thank you for being my friend and sounding board when the rest of the world seemed to much for me to deal with.

Thanks for the laughs and always being unafraid to be silly.

Dear Mama, I’m sorry for being an ungrateful and unhelpful daughter. I am sorry I didn’t do more on the farm or help more around the house. I am sorry for the clothes on the floor and dirty dishes in my room. Having my own kids, I totally get it now. You were a good mama, and I’m sorry for all the times as a teenager that I told you that you were not. I’m sorry that I didn’t grow up completely, and sorry I never got to know you on a more adult to adult level. I am sorry that I didn’t push harder for you to tell me why you were so thin and tired, though I am not sure you would have ever admitted to me that you were sick. I am sorry that you had so much pride that you tried to deal with it all alone. I’d have taken that burden from you if I could.

The day you came home from the hospital. There was hope you’d beat the cancer, but I think we knew you were on borrowed time even then. My heart had such joy at the time.

Dear Mama, the kids miss you so much. I hope you watched from your airy perch when Sophia graduated and walked across that stage. I sure wished you were there with us. I hope you are with them all as they grow into such wonderful people. I know you were so proud of them and they knew it too. You took such care to show interest in them and support everything they did. They will remember that forever, and will tell your stories to their kids someday. What a loss for them, their precious Baba gone before they had the years with her that they deserved. Thank you for helping me be a better mama, for showing me how to raise them, for all the lessons and help. Watch over them as they grow, and be with me as I let them spin from my hands like gossamer out into the world.

You always smiled when the kids we with you. What beautiful memories you gave them.

Dear Mama, in a way I am glad you weren’t here to what what this country is turning into. I wouldn’t have wanted you to see the way people are turning on each other. The way we have lost our way to brother and sisterhood. The whole pandemic shutdown suited me just fine when it happened. I was so angry and stunned that the world went on without you, that when it kinda stopped, I was just fine with it. Every time I went to the grocery store we used to go to together, or ate at one of our lunch places, or drove roads that we’d ridden together a million times, I was shocked that they were still there without you. How could your absence not be noted by the world. How could things just roll on like nothing was missing? But, life does go on, doesn’t it, Mama? We’re all just a brief flicker of light in this world, before we pass on and the next generations take our place. I understand that, but how meaningful we seem to our own ones.

I love this picture of you and your sisters. That’s the last beach trip we took.

Dear Mama. I’m going on. I am working my way out of sadness and trying to find my way to the potential you saw in me that I never reached. I’m going to continue to try to be a better mama to my kids. I will try to help my dad more on the farm. I will plant things and then rescue them from my own neglect, haha. I will try to do small kindnesses for others and spread joy where I am able. I will do my best to continue your acts of giving. I will write down our stories because they were too beautiful and funny not to. The world needs an accounting of the silliness and love that our family holds, an anthology of our adventures and mishaps alike. Guide me, Mama, sometimes I struggle with everyday, and trying to find my own joy. It’s pretty hard some days to remember that your love and advice are no longer a phone call or a short drive away. You will never be far from all of our hearts and thoughts, Mama. I know most of us talk to you like you’re still listening. Maybe you are.

You were never a fan of selfies and really even pictures at all because you felt old. I wonder if you knew how beautiful you were and how much we long to see this smile again.

Dear Mama, I love you and I miss you with an ache that has yet to ease. That’s about all that’s left to say. We wish you were here to laugh that crazy laugh or even slide your eyes at us like you used to do. Until the day we meet again, we send our love. I will always keep with me the memory of one of the last lucid things you said to me near the end. That shining moment when you stopped trying to walk and grabbed my arm, looked me fiercely in the eye and said, “Jessie, no matter what happens, remember I will always love you, No matter what”. Back at you Mama. Right back at you. Peace.

You’ve Got to Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Positive

2 Replies

This is a post about why I’m turning away from a lot of social media, and keeping more to myself these days. It’s a post about the struggle to stay away from ugliness and negativity . These are troubled times, no doubt about it. The world has always been a rough place, full of intrigue, barbarism, war, disease, and famine. Wait, those are not exactly the four horses of the Apocalypse, are they? No matter, I just assume the actual apocalypse may have four main horses, but there will be a whole lot of nasty little biting ponies behind them. (No, no, don’t write me a response telling me off for being a small horse hater, I’m not. I love all horses, but childhood experience taught me some ponies bite. That’s another story though)..

This is Jean. She’s not a biting mean pony. She’s our sweet baby girl born this year. See, I know the bad ones are few and far between, I promise.

Ok, where was I? I got sidetracked thinking about hateful ponies. Oh, right, the world has always been an ugly place. It’s true, there’s always been evil in this world. I will be honest, though, that in my personal bubble, since my birth in the early 70’s, my life has been pretty calm and unruffled. I realize that I have had more advantages than quite a lot of people, so by no means am I speaking on anyone else’s experience. I had a loving family, health, security of all types, and many other blessings. I didn’t worry about much other than my wants, and certainly had all my needs covered. I was most likely what you’d call sheltered in a lot of ways. While I was aware that many others did not have what I took for granted, it wasn’t until much later in life that I found out the depths of what I did not know.

There’s a whole lot of folks out there who haven’t had a lot of happiness in their lives, and we’d do well to recognize that and learn some empathy. I was taught by my family to do for others. If you had the means to help someone, that’s just what you should do. My parents helped a lot of folks over time, in a variety of ways. Mama also taught me to do small kindnesses for people. That means, not big stuff like helping pay bills or whatnot, but making little treats for someone, or leaving them flowers on their porch, sending a card, or giving them a silly heartfelt gift. Sometimes, a little note of positivity helps a person get a better outlook on what’s going on in their life. Mama always taught me to make things a little fancy too, like simply putting maraschino cherries on a plain ol’ chocolate box cake to take to a friend. (And this was way before Martha Stewart, or Pinterest, folks).

I lost the path again, there. Is that just me, or is that a southern thing? Who knows, hang in there, there’s a point around here somewhere. Ahh, yes, it was there is ugly everywhere and people suffering. But, you know what? You don’t have to take part in it. You really don’t. Now, I am a firm believer in helping bringing about change to make things right and good for the benefit of everyone, and sometimes you gotta roll up your pants legs and step alll in some mud and manure to get that job done. That’s necessary work. What I am trying to say here is- You don’t have to be the captain or even part of the crew of the ship of fools. That means you don’t have to be a part of the ugly. Not only is it not necessary to join in, but it also means you don’t have to entertain it. You don’t have to tolerate it or stand in the same room with it. This is something I have struggled with in my own way. It’s so easy to get caught up in hate and despair, but you can choose not to.

Growing up, my mama always sang me a song called Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive. Some of y’all might know it, but for those that don’t, the first stanza goes like this- You’ve got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative, and don’t mess with Mister In-Between. Pretty great, right? The rest of it is wonderful too, but I’ll let you all go listen for yourselves, and I bet you’ll want to add it to your repertoire right away, and there are several versions to choose from too. So, lately in this current political climate, in our world of social media, constant TV, and sensational news (both fake and real), I’ve learned that people have just become downright hateful in their opinions. They just want to tell anyone and everyone how dumb they are and how underserving of love they are if they don’t agree. I don’t know about you, but I was taught a little better than that. I think we all need to grab a glass of tea and listen to this song again.

This is Major Tom. Tom wants everyone to stop arguing and pet Tom. Yes, he does speak in third person, he thanks you for asking. Tom says Tom’s chest is soft and good for scratches which just makes everyone feel better about everything.

I’d always heard that you never discuss politics, religion, or money in polite company, and now I know why. Because you can’t. People feel rather strongly about those subjects (heck, they will fight you to the death over what a celebrity wore on tv, so imagine the vitriol that comes with real issues), and have, apparently, lost the ability to agree to disagree, or gasp, even listen to another person’s perspective with an open mind and heart. I had no idea of the bitterness and hate in some people’s hearts until recently. Call me naive, I suppose, but here I was, just bopping around in my little bubble of chaos (if you know me, I don’t even have to explain that one), thinking people were walking around loving each other like we are supposed to. Guess not..It’s a dog eat dog world out there, and social media has brought the worst out in everyone. That’s no fun at all!

I’ve been struggling a lot lately with positivity, like I suspect a lot of people have. I lost my beloved mama to cancer last year, a couple of precious youth members gained their wings, and then the whole pandemic started, and somewhere right in there, we started turning on each other. This country took a moment when we needed to reach out and help and love each other, and instead turned it into the Purge. People I know and love have started spouting rhetoric that makes me wonder if I ever really knew them at all. Now, though I inherited my mother’s high emotional status and fierce temper, I’m actually pretty much a pacifist. I dislike conflict and discord. I have been antagonistic many a time, and won’t pretend to perfection, but my heart really does yearn to be a good neighbor to the world. I’ve cried and been aghast at what I’ve seen from folks, and finally, after a couple of soft attempts, have finally elected to shut down my FB page. I decided that I needed to be away from that kind of negativity in my life and I’d just write my little blog and not know about everybody else’s hateful thoughts. So far, it’s working out quite well. (I should admit I have a small page to share my blog on but I don’t follow people on it).

In all the sorrow this past year has held, we had some shining notes too. Pandemic be darned, we managed to be able to celebrate our oldest graduating with honors from high school!

I’ve been going to the library lately, reading books on positivity and choosing how you react to a situation that you cannot change. One such book that I am working on is called Three Simple Steps by Trevor Blake. I’m still in the beginning, but found a quote that I have been mulling over for days now: “We must change our thoughts from being against things we don’t want, to being for things we do want.” Simple, right? If you think about it, though, it’s really deep. We can choose not to sit around and just hate stuff we don’t like and turn around and celebrate what we do. I think it’s kind of a revelation. I can sit here and read awful things people say and be sad, or I can walk away from it and find my joy. It also seems to tell me that if I want to love some people in my life, I probably shouldn’t know a whole lot about what they think about on the daily…

Even Nature reminds me to look for joy. This tree certainly appears to be happy!

Clearly I cannot change other’s hearts, but I can protect mine. I can walk away from the negative, and continue to be positive. I can read books, and watch documentaries. I can search out information from a variety of sources, and educate myself. I can love people (from a distance if necessary), and try to do those little kindnesses. I enjoy my church family. I enjoy my husband and children. I have family and friends I can reach out to, and who are more than welcome to reach out to me. I can garden, paint, cook, and craft. I can hike the woods and enjoy Nature. I can step away from arguments and turn my face away from temptation. I’m gonna sing my little song and listen to my heart. I’m gonna take my advice from Mr Rogers and try to be a good neighbor. I’m gonna acc-cent-chu-ate the positive and eliminate the negative. Wouldn’t you like to latch on to the affirmative too?

This is my tiny tribe, my reason to be my best. We choose positivity together.

We can be the agent of change together. We can choose love. If you have the means, get out in nature and take a walk. We can write letters again. Cook for someone. Plant a garden or even just a houseplant. Look at each other in wonder instead of disgust. Share your gifts and talents with the world. Pray if that’s what helps you. Talk to each other. Humble ourselves. Make a list of your blessings and start the day with that so you can face the trials with a clear head and happy heart. Volunteer. Learn. Grow. The world has it’s sorrows, don’t be one of them. Love to you all, I hope this finds your heart. Jessie, Weeds and All.

The land of Tea and Honey (and toast, there has to be toast)

Leave a reply

I think almost all of us have a comfort meal, that go to treat that we reach for in times of distress and happiness too. Most folks that I know can tell you right off the bat of a favorite snack or dish that brings joy to the heart and comforts when sick. For me, it’s pretty simple. I don’t crave giant gooey cakes, hearty soups, or creamy vats of mac and cheese. All I want is hot tea with honey, and a slice of buttered toast. Okay, honestly, if I’m eating it as an actual meal, a fried runny egg or chunk of sharp cheddar cheese round it out, but mostly my heart just wants tea with honey, and toast.

Look at it, it’s so beautiful in all its simple glory. That is one of my favorite little teacups. I grew up with Beatrix Potter books and Mrs Tiggy Winkle was one of the ones I adored most. I even have a cookie jar of her.

My love of tea started in childhood. My mother always made me little cups of hot tea with honey and milk as a treat. Back in my younger years, it was Sleepytime, an herbal blend meant to calm and promote a restful night. As I grew older, my tea selection branched out a bit. We usually had a variety of different fruit or herbal teas and, of course, Lipton or Luzianne. In my adult years, we had Earl Gray, and after I was grown I discovered my love of Chai. To this day, I keep a tea cabinet that rival’s other people’s smaller wine cellars.

We love it all here, from the mildest of herbals, to sweet instant chai latte blends, locally grown favorites, and bracing British blends. My husband and son have a cup occasionally, but my daughters drink it almost as often as I do. (If you live around the Tennessee Valley, check out Piper and Leaf’s brick and mortar shops, or you can even order by mail all over the U.S. You’ll be glad you did!)

Whenever I was sick, Mama said tea would make my stomach better, sooth my throat, or help a headache. In my mind, nothing heals quite like a hot steaming mug. Sometimes, after I’d grown and had my own family, I would go over for a visit, and she’d still make me my favorite. No matter the flavor I chose, she always dropped in a generous spoonful of local honey, and a little whole milk. Nothing in the world makes me quite as happy. Even my own husband has learned how and will sometimes make it for my breakfast, or when I am sad or have stomach issues. I will even admit that on occasion I have been known to indulge while hiding in a bubble bath with a good book. Judge if you must.

Now, I have to say, it’s the honey that makes the tea. While I don’t always put milk in it anymore, I never drink it without honey. Sugar wont do, either, it must be a good rich honey, and i always prefer to buy local. When I was little, we bought honey by the five gallon bucket from a local man. My parents, being health conscious, didn’t use processed sugar at home, and someday I will write a story about that and share some favorite recipes, but today I’ll just talk about it a little. My current favorite honey isn’t exactly local, but comes from my aunt’s farm in Louisiana. Cypress Haven has been producing honey since roughly 2013, and I try to stock up whenever I make the trip down. Aunt G is my godmother and her bees are well cared for. Sadly, there was a tragedy a few years ago, when local flooding took out her hives and she had to start fresh.. Thankfully she has several new hives now, and maybe this Covid will calm enough for me to visit.

Aunt G. sent me this photo and said all that honey is just from 2 hives. Is it any wonder I plan on getting my own bees soon? Beautiful!!!

Well, if tea dressed in honey is the star of the show, then the stalwart companion can only be toast. I am a confirmed bread lover, and though my passion extends to almost any kind you can think of, wheat toast is my truest love. This may well be because my dad baked bread for us when I lived at home, and it was always wheat. There was never any Bunny bread or Wonderbread in my home, and to this day I cannot palate the stuff. Give me a healthy thick loaf, brown and rustic, sweetened with a hint of honey or molasses. Though, maybe not quite as versatile for cooking as a French or Italian, for toast, it simply cannot be beat. I can remember waiting for the fresh loaves to cool just enough for that first slice, and then the glorious toast the next day for breakfast.

I actually made fresh bread myself today, and enjoyed a cup of tea and some toast while I wrote this. The smell of it baking brings the kids like little gluten mosquitoes, hovering ‘round the kitchen waiting for the chime of the oven timer.

Well, now that you’ve been patient and stuck with me for a few minutes while I prattled on about my favorite snack, I suppose I can at least share a recipe with you. I’ve been working on finding a perfect mostly wheat loaf, and today’s baking turned out pretty good!

Mostly Wheat Bread. 2 packages dry yeast (4 1/2 teaspoons). 2 1/2 cups warm water (divided). 1/2 Cup plus 2 teaspoons molasses. 2 Tablespoons butter melted. 2 teaspoons salt. 4 cups whole wheat flour 2-3 cups bread flour. . Instructions– Combine the yeast, 1/2 cup of the warm water, and 2 teaspoons of the molasses in a large bowl. While you are waiting for it to get nice and bubbly (so you know it’s alive and working!), combine the flours and salt in another bowl. When the yeast is nice and foamy, add dry ingredients and remaining wet ingredients. Mix well, and then turn out on clean counter and knead, adding a little sprinkle of flour, until dough is smooth and elastic. Place in clean oiled bowl, cover loosely in plastic wrap, and let rise around an hour is a draft free area. I, personally, let the oven heat for a a minute on it’s lowest setting, turn it off, and let it lol rise in there. When the dough is nice and doubled, turn it out on the counter, punch down, and separate into two halves. Form each half into a smooth oblong and place in well oiled loaf pans, cover them with the plastic wrap, and let rise again for about 30/45 minutes. During the last few minutes of the rising, pre heat the oven to 375 degrees. Remove plastic wrap, and bake for 30 minutes or so. Let cool on rack as long as you can stand it, and then slap on tons of butter and enjoy. This makes phenomenal toast the next day!!

Next time you are feeling down, or even want to snuggle with a good book or show, grab that kettle and make yourself a steaming mug of tea with honey, and some crunchy buttered toast. Enjoy!

The Tomatoes of Good Intention

Leave a reply

It’s August, and the garden season is in full swing. Out in the country, it seems most yards have a dedicated plot or even an entire field full of carefully cultivated fruits and veggies. This is the time of year when kitchen counters and even dining room tables hold the bounteous overflow waiting to be eaten immediately, preserved in freezer bags, or canned in rows of glorious glass jars lined on a pantry shelf. I am no different. Every year, for years now, I, too, have sown my front yard with seeds and seedlings alike, carefully planning in the hopes of a bumper crop to eat and share with friends and family.

I wasn’t always this way, however. My mother loved gardens, and as long as I can remember, she was to be found either at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and her stash of seed catalogs, or out in the yard, digging, weeding, watering, or gathering. There were many spring nights when she would be out tilling up that rocky, red clay streaked Tennessee dirt In the last light of the sunset. She always tried to get me interested in her love of plants, and I suppose when I was little, I may have been cheerful enough and even mildly helpful at times. My teen years, however, were a turbulent time for everyone, and every attempt she made at coaxing me outside to assist in the garden or on the farm was met with great resistance, and even outright hostility. I was a lazy and volatile teen, and when my poor parents tried to institute a family hour on Sunday afternoons of working together, I made them so miserable they finally gave up.

It pains me, both as a grown daughter full of regrets, and as a mother raising three of her own, to admit my behavior. I fought tooth and nail to be relieved of that simple hour of weeding the garden, chopping encroaching thistles, or picking up the ever renewing crop of rocks that spawned in every field or garden bed after even the lightest rain. Everyone knows that weeding or rock removal in TN feels as futile as emptying the sea with a thimble, but still necessary if you want to claim any corner of land as your own and pretend control of your surroundings. Thistle chopping still elicits the same angry response in me as it did years before, so I avoid it whenever possible.

Back to more modern times, sorry. We southerners have to tell about eleven stories just to get to the point of one, but I do like to think that’s part of our charm. I have a garden now, and though I am able to get help from husband and children, largely the work falls to me to maintain the rows and beds I plant. Sadly, I still retain old habits of indolence and irritation, and anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am an ambitious planner, but greatly lack in follow through. I have big dreams, but I am still working on the responsibility for making them come true on my own part. So, this is the story of the tomatoes of intention.

My mother passed away last Fall; in fact, it will be a year in September. This spring, my dad allowed me to come over and pull up all of the raised beds she built in her meticulously planned out Potager style garden, and install them in my own haphazard plot. My family and I fought red ants, rocks, and the fun of trying to level ground on the top of a hill to put the beds together in a way that was pleasing to the eye and allowed for the maneuvering of tiller and wheelbarrow. Untold field buckets of dirt and bags of purchased topsoil later, and we were in business. We drew plans, ordered seeds, and bought tiny plants to be arranged in rows and blocks.

Here are some of the beds during planting and mulching time. This is before the rains came….

I love to cook and eat, and my talented and saintly friend “B” taught me to can my produce to preserve what I grew for meals in later months. Everyone knows you cannot beat homegrown for superior flavor and texture, and what is the star of almost any Southerner’s garden? The one plant that can be found in everyone’s yard, whether in containers or rows. The plant that is most watched for disease and pests, and the fruit of which can cause bouts of anxiety as we watch for ripening with the greatest amount of patience we can muster? Nothing more than the humble tomato. Once thought to be poisonous, it has been embraced in the South as the most anticipated fruit of summer.

As sure as Daffodils are a sign of Spring, tiny green tomatoes are the clearest indication that Summer is on its way.

I do not have to write an ode to the superiority of a garden fresh tomato, as far better writers than I have covered that subject to near exhaustion. Everyone in the Tennessee Valley and beyond is capable of coming to near blows on the subject of the best way to eat them on a simple sandwich. Most agree it should consist merely of bread, mayonnaise, and a thick slice sprinkled with salt, but it gets downright ugly after that. The type of bread, the brand of mayo, the addition of pepper or a leaf of basil is as tender a subject as any that come up in Sunday morning sermons.

Now, I suppose average folks plant a few seedlings very carefully, perhaps in a small square bed, or lovely container on their patio. Not here. Up in these hills, and down in the valleys too, it’s perfectly normal to plant from 30 to 70 little green branches in rows and along fences. I’m no different. I think I was hovering around 40 at the first planting, and I will admit to a later addition of around 10 more. In light of my mother’s pretty geometrical raised beds, I decided it would be pretty to put them in tomato cages and sow flowers around the base for an aesthetically pleasing plot. Off I went to the local lumber and garden center, where I lay down serious cash for sturdy Made in America tomato cages. I also put small iron posts at the ends of some beds and strung hay twine for support in a fit of ill advised folksy recycling.

Remember when I said I was more of a planner than an executor of said plans? This is where that becomes most apparent. I watered my little plants and gave them a nice dose of “miracle” food. Then the spring rains came. Those darned tomato seedlings turned into giant sprawling hedges that would have been suitable for protecting the princess in Sleeping Beauty. Those plants laughed at my tiny post and twine supports, and toppled those carefully sunk tomato cages in an enormous mass of verdant tentacles that kudzu would be jealous of. I lost any chance I had of putting back the fences that, in previous, smarter years, I had employed to keep control of the jungle. The best I could do was upright the cages and hold them there as my son sank solid 6 foot T-posts inside as a brace. Even then, some leaned like a certain Italian tower.

I knew better, really I did. There was no way those tiny posts and twine were holding back the hefty vines. I haven’t a clue why I even entertained the idea.

The trouble I went through to sink those cages over a foot deep in this rocky dirt? And all for naught. Thick, pricey American steel (or aluminum, iron, I have no idea what they’re made of) cages cannot hold these wild vines!

I was in tears. The weeds were interwoven and hidden under the canopy. I despaired of ever finding the first tiny tomato in the primeval forest that my tidy plans had become. An off hand planting of butternut squash got ahold of some ‘roids and overgrew its own trellis, eating a line of cucumbers, and grabbing onto the tomato cages closest to it. There are a few weeds here that I am convinced have the ability to grow the height of a man, quite overnight, and others where a three inch sapling has a root system that could ruin a foundation. If only I had weeded every couple of days like I knew I was supposed to. (See, it’s that follow through problem). I had intended this beautiful and possible Instagram worthy little area and what my own efforts had given me was something monstrous that was frightening the neighbors. There was even a stray cat that showed up for a few weeks that we never saw again. I’m pretty sure the weeds got it….

Do you see the one plant has overtaken its own area and is reaching for its neighbor? Can you even tell there are separate plants? Or that there was rainbow chard between the cages?

My son and I surveyed the problem, and started to make a plan. (see? I’m a good planner). We started pulling weeds by the wheelbarrow full and laying down old newspaper and straw to block new growth. I tried staking some of the tomatoes and rewinding errant vines of every sort back on their appropriate supports. The tomatoes saw my paltry efforts and gleefully began to ripen. Every gardener knows that first great joy in eating the beautiful red fruits, the object of year round longing. You enjoy a sandwich or two and slice them into salads. You may even share a couple with someone you really like that cannot grow their own, but not too many, because they are delicious and precious. The next week you start getting enough to make that first batch of salsa and perhaps can a few jars of sauce. Then it happens…

The sweet little cherry tomatoes are the first to be ready and a family favorite for sure.

ALL of the tomatoes ripen at once. All 471 plants that you have because you were so giddy in the spring you forgot how many places you’d ordered them from. This is the point where the house doesn’t cool off because you’re running that canner in the kitchen a few hours every other day. Jars of chopped, whole (not me, but some people have the patience to stand there and watch jars boil for like 4 hours, but I don’t), crushed, sauce, salsa, and soup. You eat pasta, sandwiches, tomato omelets, and salads until your blood registers 45% lycopene. You start counting your jars and make phone calls or social media posts asking if the Piggly Wiggly has any more lids. You buy freezer bags and start rough chopping the tomatoes without even skinning them or reseeding them, because who has that kind of time anymore?????

Ah yes, even the mop bucket gets repurposed.

The hornworms and caterpillars are taking their share and some of them are cooking on the vine in the July/August heat and the chickens are getting reealllll sick of tomato scraps. This loss no longer bothers you. The Roma with a nasty worm tunnel in it, stinking on the vine, gets thrown over the fence into the woods with nary a tear. All surfaces are covered in tomatoes, along with whatever else you planted. People have them on tables in their yard with a “FREE” sign on them. The okra has grown into giant prickly bats, because you know the grocery store has decent okra all year long, but tomatoes, they’re a whole different story. All the planning I’d made of beautiful, well cared for plants and no tomato wasted? Hahahahahaha, um, yeah, as I said, I’m a great planner….

An inelegant shot, but still one of the prettiest sights you’ll ever see. Any gardener knows the satisfaction of rows of canned tomato soup, just waiting for Winter and a grilled cheese sandwich.

It’s August now, I still have tomatoes on the counters to deal with (maybe tomorrow) and plenty still on the vine outside. I may even have about 10 young, 2-foot tall seedlings planted on a fence row, (I learned a little something at least) waiting for the intense temperatures to ease, so that they too can grown big and heavy with their own crop of tasty tomatoes. I have a whole plan for how I am going to preserve them and the recipes I want to make and share. It’s a great plan. I have such good intentions. In the meantime, here’s a few ideas you can make with your own embarrassment of tomatoes.

There’s nothing easier or better than a quick little Sunday night buffet where the star is a large plate of sliced tomatoes in a simple golden balsamic vinaigrette.

Our favorite summer dinner is a very simple pasta. Take a few handfuls of cherry tomatoes, sautéed them with chopped garlic in olive oil, and throw in some thinly sliced basil and salt and pepper. Toss with fresh mozzarella pearls and cooked noodles of choice. Quick and delicious.

This one took a tiny bit more work, but not much at all. Take a sheet of puff pastry and roll it out a little thinner. Poke a few holes around it with a fork. I spread an herbed cream cheese from the grocery thinly on top (you may need to warm it up a little at first for easier spreading), and lay a variety of 1/4 inches slices of tomatoes and even some little halved cherry tomatoes. Drizzle with a tiny bit of olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and thinly sliced fresh basil leaves, and bake in 375 degree oven for 25-30 minutes. My family didn’t let a crumb go to waste.

Thanks for reading, folks, and come back next Sunday and see whatever nonsense I’ve gotten up to. Feel free to share recipes and photos with me here of your own tomato deliciousness! In the mean time, stay safe, stay happy, and God bless.

Jessie, weeds and all.

2 Replies

Hi. Welcome. I’m glad you’re here. I’m pretty glad to be here, myself. This blog you’ve stumbled upon is probably going to be a halfway incoherent jumble of whatever is happening in my head and life on any given day. I’m disorganized, messy, silly, and an introvert prone to the occasional bout of socially acceptable behavior. I’m also an optimist, a somewhat decent cook, a chaotic gardener, and a lover of life and all its adventures. I like to take photos of food and talk about it way more than any sane person is probably interested in. I laugh at both kid’s jokes and completely inappropriate humor. I’m Southern, so I do tend toward manners and a sense of propriety in a public setting. I won’t be talking politics, trying to sell you any merchandise, and I certainly will not be showing any photos of my perfect home or amazing outfits on fabulous vacations. It’s just me and my family, having a pretty good time tucked away on a dirt road in the beautiful hills of Tennessee. Stick around for the odd recipe or two, haphazard attempts at gardening and crafting, and the ability to be honest about my goofy self and have a good laugh at life’s absurdities. This is me, Jessie, weeds and all.