Bring it Spring!

The sun was shining, the air was soft and warm, and it was a perfect day to tidy up our outdoor spaces. As we swept and stacked and rinsed and hung and planted all I could think was...

70 degrees is so much better than 40.

A Good Reminder

One of the unexpected delights of last year's growing season was the pot of lemon grass we had out on our deck. I purchased the plant on a whim when I was filling my cart with herbs and flowers for the hanging baskets. It turns out that fresh lemon grass is nothing like the woody stalks that are sold in Asian markets. I found i could clip the ends of the tender, flat blades and use their fragrance and flavor to punch up all sorts of summer salads and marinades. 

Perhaps my favorite use was a version of the Thai classic larb, made with local organic ground turkey. The lemon grass along with a generous sprinkle of fresh basil, mint, and cilantro really made the dish sing, and summer tomatoes and cucumbers completed the feast. 

Before last year, I never remember even seeing lemon grass plants for sale, and so when I spotted it in a garden catalog in January, that seed packet went straight into my basket. And it turns out, that lemon grass is actually pretty easy to grow. I have seven sturdy little plants that are already four inches tall, just waiting for the threat of frost to lift, so that they can leave the grow light and start reaching for the sun and the sky. 

They know that summer's coming, and they help me remember that, too.

There Is That

We had our nephew Treat over for tonight before he leaves Sunday for his cross-country road trip. It was great to see him and hear about his plans for camping and hiking and visiting friends on his way back and forth from coast to coast. Our pets, too, were very enamored of him-- both cats and the dog nuzzled and rubbed and rolled all over him. 

"I don't remember them being so affectionate," Treat noted at one point in the evening when all three of them were gathered around him by the fire.

"Well," I said, "it might have something to do with the fact that you are the first person we've invited for dinner in over year. You're quite the novelty!"

There'll Be Days Like This

Today's been kind of a bummer. Still tired from driving seven hours yesterday, I was kind of dragging when I got up. 

We had planned to get together with our neighbors to celebrate the Nats home opener and share the wings brought back, but the game was postponed because of COVID, then a couple people bailed, and the weather was kind of raw and gray, so we just delivered wings instead, promising to reschedule when it's nicer out. 

We spent a little time dismantling the dining room office that I used to teach remotely. It's nice to have the space back, but a little bittersweet to commit to returning to the old daily grind-- this past year has me hankering for something new; I just haven't found it, yet. 

And even our daily walk has been put off-- a neighbor's unit is flooded, and we've been helping out, manning the wet vac and donating extra towels. The dog downstairs is baying, his mournful howl floating up through the floor. He sounds a little like I feel. Who knows what we want?

But I don't worry, 'cause Mama said...

A Whole (Nother) Story

A child of the sixties, the first president I kind of remember was LBJ. Even though I was in first grade when he left office, I knew who he was. As I grew older and learned more about the turbulent decade in which I was born, Johnson was always a bit of a minor character: the benchwarmer forced into the game in the JFK story, the out of touch antagonist in the RFK story, the recalcitrant cooperator in the MLK story, the ineffective villain in the Vietnam story. (That old guy.)

His wife, Lady Bird, was also a soft-edged somebody who planted a lot of flowers along the highway, not much substance there. But today, on our road trip home, we listened to the first six episodes of the podcast In Plain Sight: Lady Bird Johnson. Hosted by Julia Sweig and based on her book about the former first lady, the podcast tells the story of the Johnsons' time in the White House using the over 123 hours of audio diaries that Mrs. Johnson kept. Her voice, her insight, and her smart observations humanize the couple in a way I just never considered. (Highly recommend the podcast.)

In my mind, the Johnsons always seemed so old, but when President Kennedy was assassinated and the two of them were thrust into a role they had worked toward but in a time and situation they were unprepared for, he was 55 and she was 51, both years younger than I am now. (Pooooosh! Mind. Blown.)

Despite their good intentions, the changing world was ultimately unmanageable, and they found themselves out of touch, especially with younger Americans. There was a little bitterness along with the relief they shared upon retiring to Texas in 1969. It would have been nice if they had had many years together after that, reading and riding and swimming and hiking and driving the amphibious car on their ranch in the Texas Hill Country, but LBJ passed away just 4 years later, at the age of 64. (So sad, right?)

Nooks and Crannies

The recipe looked easy enough: Mix up the 4-ingredient dough in the evening and let it rise overnight. Stretch and fold it, give it a short rest, and then roll it out. A biscuit cutter and some cast iron skillets warming on the stove were the final pieces. Ease them onto the hot surface and griddle for seven minutes a side. 

"What are you doing?" Gary asked when he came downstairs this morning.

"I'm making English muffins!" I told him. 

He looked skeptical.

I shrugged. "We'll see."

Thirty minutes later? We were buttering our muffins. 

Fork split and toasted, they looked store-bought, but they were much crisper on the outside and tender on the inside than those. 

"These are outstanding," Gary declared.

I'd call that a success.

Supporting Role

I stood on a 12 foot ladder in the middle of the family room stretching to reach the smoke alarm fastened to the cathedral ceiling. It had been chirping since the night before, a side-effect of searing half-racks of lamb before finishing them in the oven for Louise's birthday dinner. Heidi's folks are both in their mid-70s, and still very independent, but wise enough not to climb tall ladders anymore. I pushed the reset button, and the four of us waited, anticipating an annoying alert to break the silence in a minute or two.

"That was it?" Louise scoffed, when I clambered down a few moments later, satisfied that the beeping was over. "How stupid! I told the electrician not to put it up so high! What are we supposed to do when it's time to change the batteries? Pay a handyman 87 dollars? Ridiculous!"

She had a good point, of course. Heidi and I put the ladder back in the garage, both of us thinking how hard it is to be of help and support from 400 miles away. At least we fixed one thing, I thought, checking it off the to-do list we always encourage them to make for us when we visit.

Later that night I woke from a sound sleep, certain that I could hear the alarm bleating about its low battery. I lay in the darkness straining my ears for the persistent warning that something needed attention. It was not my imagination. We heard its piercing alert every 28 seconds for several hours until we dragged the ladder out and, at Louise's direction, just disconnected the whole thing so that it would never bother them again.

We offered to get a new battery and change it once a year on one of our visits, but she declined. This time as we stowed the ladder, I wished for a different resolution. 

But it's her house.