Dark Clouds

Every school shooting is awful, but I was especially horrified by the one in Minneapolis yesterday. Beyond the tragedy of children being shot as they gathered in the sanctuary for the first mass of the year,  perhaps the fact that the Catholic school that was targeted was only about three-and-a-half miles from where my mother lived also made this attack seem close to home. My mom would have been so upset with such a senseless act of violence, and in her neighborhood, too.

When someone dies, it's common to regret all the happy occasions, holidays, graduations, weddings, and other milestones that they will miss. However, since 2019, there has also been a litany of bad news that I'm glad my mom did not have to endure. 

Cannery Row

When I agreed to split a half bushel of peaches with a neighbor this weekend, I had forgotten that I ordered a half bushel of tomatoes to be delivered today. I got my peaches on Sunday, and with the freshness clock ticking, I have been preserving the ones we haven't eaten ever since. Monday, I dehydrated a half-dozen as an experiment, and then yesterday, I added them and some toasted pecans to a buckwheat sourdough bread dough.

This morning I finished baking the loaves just as the tomatoes were delivered. After I prepped another half dozen peaches for dehydration, I decided to make peach jelly, which is more technical than jam, as it requires the extra step of making juice and straining it several times. That part was kind of fun (and it used up a lot of peaches), although as the process dragged on, the box of tomatoes on the table did weigh on me a bit. The end result was eight half-pint jars filled with beautiful red-gold jelly.

Once the jelly was jarred, I turned my attention to the tomatoes, boiling water to skin them, then chopping and salting the chunks. I filled thirteen quart jars with the diced tomatoes and proceeded to the hot water processing. Unfortunately, by then, it was apparent that my jelly, as pretty as it was, was not setting, and a minute later, an acidic smell alerted me to the sad fact that one of the jars had broken in the water bath. 

I confess, I was a little dismayed by these setbacks, but what can I do? Shit happens, and I still have 12 quarts of tomatoes, along with the prospect of re-cooking the jelly with more pectin tomorrow. 

My Word

Earlier this month, I sent birthday greetings to a friend and former colleague. "Thanks," she replied. "What's my birthday word?"

She was remembering a silly tradition I started years ago when I got my first "Word of the Day" desk calendar. Students and adults alike were fascinated by it, and the kids especially loved to find the word for their birthday. When it came time for me to pack my things for the summer, I always made it a point to tear off the months that we were on vacation. If I knew of a colleague with a summer birthday, they often found their birthday word taped to their door sometime in mid-June.

This went on for years, and I even photographed the words and texted them to friends who had moved on to other jobs, so it wasn't surprising that she asked. I no longer have a WOD calendar, though. When I retired, I passed it on to Treat for his English classroom, and I got him a new one at Christmas, just as my own used to be replaced at the holidays.

"I can't believe you don't have a word for me!" my friend replied when I explained the situation.

I was a little surprised by the strength of her reaction, but maybe I shouldn't have been. "Happy Birthday!" I texted another friend from school this morning.

"Thanks!" he answered. "What's my birthday word?"

Too Many Tiny Tomatoes

One of my weaknesses as a gardener is extreme resistance to pulling up perfectly healthy plants, even if they are crowding others. This aversion extends to volunteers, too. If I recognize a little sprout as a bean, squash, or tomato, I either try to transplant it or, more often, let it grow. How can I not admire the pluck of a plant that has taken root against the odds? 

My frequent co-gardener, Treat, sympathizes with my attitude. Still, he has an easier time, both pruning back plants (even when they have blossoms or fruit!) and discarding volunteers, all in pursuit of a healthier, more productive plant and garden. Earlier this season, he cast a kindly but skeptical eye on all the extra little tomato plants I was nurturing. "You know they're probably going to be tough little cherry tomatoes," he warned me. "Unless they are heirlooms. No hybrid ever re-seeds as itself."

Of course, he was right, and I have spent considerable time this summer harvesting those tiny tomatoes: painstakingly plucking those plucky little pearls one at a time. (Because, of course I can't just leave them there!) There has been a yield of over ten pounds, but I know I'll never get them all. Maybe next spring, when the ones I missed germinate and start to sprout, I'll have an easier time nipping them in the bud.

Appetizers

Some friends took us out last night to belatedly celebrate my birthday. They know I enjoy "experiences," and so they planned an evening of axe throwing and Ethiopian food. To start, they booked an hour and a half at the axe place, which included some light coaching. The instruction was pretty good, and I was pleased to stick my axe on the first try. It was literally hit or miss after that, but I felt good that I had considerably more hits than misses, including a few bullseyes. We rounded out our time competing in a version of twenty-one that our coach taught us. We played four games, and each of us won one, which was a perfect outcome for the group.

It's been years since I last had Ethiopian food. Back in the late 80s, when we first moved up here to Northern Virginia, the only place to get that cuisine was Adams Morgan, and we used to go down there every month or so. In fact, we once took my young cousin, Jennifer. She was 8 or 9 at the time, and we were childless twenty-somethings who enjoyed hanging out with a kid and doing fun things. 

On this particular occasion, I had to stop at an ATM because the place was cash-only. As we stood on the dark urban street surrounded by the usual collection of city denizens, she grabbed the money as it came out of the slot, waved it overhead, and skipped away shouting, "I'm rich! I'm rich!" Fortunately, we were able to corral her and recover the money without incident. It's hilarious in retrospect, but my heart was thumping as we made our way to the restaurant.

A little excitement is good for the appetite, though, and I enjoyed my meal then and relished it last night, too.

Not the Walk I Planned

I was feeling restless this afternoon, and since Heidi was feeling a bit drained after her first week back at school, I decided to take Lucy for a long walk on this beautiful day. Temperatures in the low 80s and a light breeze were ideal for our outing, but since it was pretty sunny and my companion wears a fur coat year-round, I put some ice in a water bottle and clipped a collapsible bowl to my fanny pack. 

Then I walked out of the house without the water, an oversight I did not realize until we were nearly to the dog park, which was the planned first stop on our route. I knew there was water there, and I was hopeful that if she hydrated well and we stuck to the shady side of the road, Lucy could make it the rest of the loop. But she is infamously persnickety when it comes to public water, and she refused to drink from the basin or fountain. She was happy when I filled her bowl, but when another dog ran over, shouldered her out of the way, and slobbered in there, she was done with that, too. 

I felt like I had no other choice but to revise my plan, and we turned toward home, although we did meander a bit. Our new path took us through a local shopping district, where we stopped at a drugstore that welcomed dogs. I grabbed a bottle of water to see us through the last part of our walk, and Lucy and I stood patiently in line for the self-checkout. 

There was only one customer ahead of us, a young woman with a baby. I was distracted as she juggled the child and her items, but turned back when I heard the register beep. She collected her coupons and a five-dollar bill from the cash slot, put the baby on her hip, took her bag, and left the store. 

When I stepped up to the monitor, the option to put my number in was not available, but I shrugged it off, considering it was only a two-dollar bottle of water. Then I noticed the screen was directing me to put all my items in the bagging area, even though I hadn't scanned anything yet. It took a minute, but I realized that there was an unpaid balance of 17+ dollars for a package of diapers on the register. 

"Excuse me," I said to an employee behind the counter. "I don't think the lady ahead of me paid for her stuff." 

"Are you saying she left without paying?" he asked angrily. 

Now there was a line of several people waiting behind me, and I rethought what I actually knew. "I'm saying there are items on this register that aren't mine," I shrugged. "I don't know how they got here, but all I have is this bottle of water." 

He shook his head, then scanned his card and entered a passcode to clear the order, but he was still upset. I paid for my water and left, feeling conflicted. I felt bad for the employee if he were held responsible, and I felt bad for the woman if she couldn't afford diapers. I also wondered if I should have just paid the tab myself and moved on.

But I didn't.

Cleanup Crew

As Lucy and I came around a bend in the trail, there was a couple stopped a few dozen yards ahead, pointing their cameras at something in the trees. Rather than spook whatever it was and risk ruining their photo op, we stopped where we were and waited. 

A putrid odor wafted on the breeze as we waited, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "Something dead is around here," I said to Lucy, as if she didn't have fifty times the olfactory sensors that I do and a bigger part of her brain dedicated to smell, too. 

Fortunately, our fellow walkers moved on, and so we did too. As we passed the spot where they had paused, I spotted an enormous turkey vulture sitting on the lowest branch, just a few feet over our heads. It all made sense to me.

The vulture started fussing when we got too close, fluffing its feathers, and shaking its wings. It fixed us with a look of suspicion, but I was having none of it. "Get to work!" I told it. "It's back there!"