Cima Comer

It’s early evening. I’m at an outdoor café in Gargnano – a different one, just to compare. The waiter brings a Aperol spritz. I know better than to order a snack with it – it’s included. Little breads with tomato, salami, olives, chips.





Quack. I look down. A duck has waddled in from the shore and is asking for a handout.





A well dressed trio is strolling by. The woman, in lovely jewels and a warm smile looks over, sees the duck and exclaims in shock – a duck? At the café? She walks over to the duck and gives a stern reprimand. What kind of a duck are you! You should be in the water! The duck ignores her. Quack! She walks off with a shake of the head. Ducks!

I’m sure that late in the season the people of Gargnano have their fill of tourists. Strangers come, they fill their restaurants and bars, they make it difficult to move around. But the season hasn’t started yet and right now, Gargnano folk are as welcoming and engaging as can be, as if that winter without the hub and hassle has had its toll. You miss your enemies too, after all. What else is there to talk about if not that aggravating tourist who sits at a café and wants desperately to feed the duck, even though she knows she shouldn’t. And the duck can sense her ambivalence and so it stays and quacks.

Truthfully, I am just so happy to have civilization around me again. Ducks included. It was a remarkable day, one where I’m proud to say I did what I set out to do and that leaves me, at this evening moment, feeling genuinely satisfied.

But I have a few reprimands and they are directed toward me, even as I’ll write them here so that I’ll remember that I am prone to doing things that are sometimes, well, foolish if not exactly fraught with danger.

But before I get to that, while I’m on the topic of ducks, let me say that they’ve got my name here. This morning, I took my breakfast outside. The German couple staying here felt that it was too cool. Nonsense. It was in the upper fifties, but the sun was out and it felt heavenly there, suspended over the water.






The ducks saw me, swam over and together we finished some toast. (I kept the croissant and fruit to myself.) It was interesting to watch them establish their territory and fight off all intruders. Ducks and people have something in common after all.






And since this was to be indeed a mostly sunny day, I thanked my stars and asked the hotel proprietor about a nice long hike.
Long is good, I said. Just not one with sheer drops.
I understand, he tells me. I have fear of heights as well.
I felt instantly bonded. Indeed, I wanted to call Ed and tell him that even among the rugged and sporty people of mountainous Gargnano, there are those who, like me, can’t stand at the edge of a cliff.

The proprietor suggests a lovely hike up to the little chapel at San Valentino. He maps the trail for me and it looks to be a four hour deal. I notice that the trail actually continues, up to the tallest peak around here – the Cima Comer.
Is that a difficult climb? I ask. I’m interested in getting some good views.
He hesitates. You’ll get good views just from the shorter one. But if you want, you can continue. Of course, it will be longer. It's 1279 meters (that's 4196 feet) above the lake.

Okay, I’ll see how it goes.

I set out at 10:30. Everything about the day (and the place) feels bright. Cheerful.


 


Even Cima Comer, towering over the village, looks friendly, in a distant sort of way.






(Well, maybe less so once I start the hike.)






It is, at the village end of it, a lovely and historically meaningful cobbled trail.


 


These villages along the western coast of Lake Garda were once the northernmost lemon growing places in Europe. Before the unification of northern Italy with the south, the country depended on the lemons from Garda. It’s mild enough to grow citrus fruits here, though during the winter they need some modest protection. And so you see these stone pillars dotting the landscape here. They supported winter cover for the groves of lemons. I suppose it’s like our hoop spinach – grown year-round in Wisconsin. I have a lot of respect for places that try to beat the odds and extend the growing season.






They've since been replaced by olive groves. These days you can ship lemons from elsewhere. Olives command a better price.






As I  climb up, the forest obscures the view toward the water. But there is a clearing at one point, offering a lovely glance at the village below as it winds in a ribbon along the shore of the lake. Even from this escalation you can see the southernmost tip of Lake Garda.






But the views to the north are obscured by the Comer cliffs.  I have that itch to find out what's on the other side.






About a third way up the mountain, there is a tiny hamlet of Sasso. Just a few buildings and a café bar. Buildings are made of stone here. No surprise.






I’m tempted to pause, but decide to push forward. I’m already two hours into the walk and I’m feeling ambitious.

How ambitious? Well, here come the reprimands. There are many points, so bear with me.

First, I have to say, wise people would save the hardest hike for last. You have to build up to it. I may be fit, but I don’t climb mountains for a living.

Then, too, I should learn to take breaks, even if Ed isn’t with me. He insists on it. For the view. For the serenity of it. For a snack, a nap, or for no reason at all. He likes journeys. I like to get to the end of the book. His way makes more sense.

And also, if there is a sign that says – this portion is for advanced climbers, I should back off right then and there. I may be a solid hiker, even with camping gear, even for many days on end, but I am a wimpy climber. Anything that requires scaling and has the potential to send me plummeting down into a ravine will freeze me solid. I should remember that.

Here’s another tip: perhaps I shouldn’t hike long distances alone. Take someone else. Or take a phone. Take something! Because if I go into rocky terrain, it really is not that difficult to stumble and fall and unless I want to write one of those books about how I made it down a mountainside with a broken bone jutting out of my arm or leg, I should have some way of seeking rescue.

I did encounter one (and only one) fellow – on his way down, pausing here for the view.






Useless type. Like Ed, he seemed to enjoy sitting at the edge of cliffs. I worried that he’d fall and I’d have to carry his pack down with me – to help with the identification of the body at the base.

Other things to remember: ask about snakes in the region. Find out if you should carry a knife or some venom-stopper in case they are of the biting sort.

Finally, take a flashlight. Even if I’m going for a four hour hike and I leave at 10:30. Because you never know if that hike will extend itself into the evening hours and it really is inconceivable to navigate these mountain trails in the dark.

On the upside, I did take water and as I was already thirsty one third way up, in Sasso I purchased some more. And – here’s another wise tidbit: I remembered to take the old but still functional peanut butter sandwich from Madison.

So now I continue to San Valentino. There are some difficult stretches – slippery stones, requiring that you get on your butt and proceed slowly, but nothing beyond the beyond.

At San Valentino, there is a chapel and a shelter – it appears that hermits once lived here. How or why is beyond me, but people are people and each one has her own sets of preferences.





It’s just short of 2 p.m. By my (incorrect) calculations, the summit should be a mere hour or so away, if I take the short cut.

I don’t pause. I take the short cut, scoffing at the “it’s dangerous” signs.

A few minutes later, I retreat, tail between my legs. It’s the long road for me. I can't, even with the aid of steel ropes, make my way up rocks. Who am I kidding.

The long trail is... long. And steep. And, my hotel proprietor to the contrary not withstanding, it has some nice bends along cliffs that go straight down to the level of the lake. I slow down on those. My imagination is very good at conjuring up images of how a fall might look.

When at 3 the peak still seems mighty distant, I think about giving up. But when you’ve climbed a mountain and you still don’t know what it’s like around the bend, you don’t easily turn back.





So I continue. It has been such a long and pause-less climb that I feel I have certainly given my heart a good workout. I keep my eyes focused on the trail, always looking for the easiest steps, the less slippery option. The benefit of looking down is that you notice the alpine flora. There are, indeed, quite a number of flowers (and fraises des bois!) growing here.













And then, suddenly, I have passed the tree line, and I see that I have only a short distance to go, and I have to admit it, I have never been so happy to see a cross in my whole life.





I look around. The mountains, rather than the lake below, now grab your attention. To the southwest...






To the southeast...






And finally, long hidden from view, to the north...






I realize that what I thought was the haze of travel yesterday was really the haze of the lake. It gets that way here often. A mist forms, things get a little blurry. Canvas-like. Always beautiful.

I am left with the challenge of a summit photo. Ed, where the heck are you?? Sigh... It’s back to figuring out how the self timer works.






There isn’t much time to pause now. I do sit down for five minutes and chomp away at my half a peanut butter sandwich. It’s a little mushed and the jam has seen better days, but I figure I need the protein for the hike down.

And it is a grueling hike down. I leave the summit at 4 and I try to put some speed into the descent. (I’ve been known to fly down mountains. Ed is much more methodical – up or down, his pace never varies.) I borrow a stick from the woods to help me and still, my feet feel every stone by the end of it all. Every pebble in fact.

Finally, there's Sasso. Two thirds down, one third to go.





As I approach Gargnano, I look over my shoulder. There’s Cima Comer, laughing at me. Or, is it that I’m laughing at her? I managed to touch her tip after all. There’s nothing like a safe return to make you feel deeply satisfied with life.





That, and an Aperol spritz with Prosecco and an orange slice. Eight hours after the start of the hike, I'm at the café.



This is the evening when I look for other eating venues in town and my kind proprietor suggests the lovely Three Geese, a.k.a. Trattoria San Martino. I’m not sure why it has two names and the hotel proprietor has a lively debate about it with his parents who have (charmingly) taken to sitting in the love seat by the front desk in the evenings.

I walk to the restaurant at 8 in the evening. Even though the sun sets behind the mountain by around 6:30, it doesn’t quite get dark until after 8. Here, I can still see the peak of Comer, jutting out over the village below.






At the Three Geese (or San Martino...)


 


...I am the first there, but within minutes, the place fills, helped by the appearance of a family of ten adults and five children, there to celebrate the birthday of one of the moms. Initially, I had been given the table facing the window, looking out onto the water, but I find the view inside much more entertaining and so I switch sides.

It’s been a while since I’ve done a run of food photos, so let me do it now, if only to remind myself of the wonderful spaghetti with lake Garda sardines...





...and the utterly delicious Lavarello – a fish I had never heard of before, but one that apparently is abundant and caught fresh daily, here at Lago di Garda (it also makes an appearance in Lake Como).





...oh, and a delightful strawberry mousse for dessert.






It is true that I’ve had my fill of walking for the day, but the stroll home is lovely and takes no more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Still, I am happy when I reach these arches. It’s the last bend in the road. After that, I know I’ll find the sweet doors of the hotel.

finally, Lago di Garda

Northern Italy is at the very tail end of its own heat wave – the temps climbed up to the high seventies today.

Weather stuff is tricky when you’re away. You want it to be nice. And on days when it does indeed exceed your hopes, you want to make sure you don’t waste a single minute of it. That’s a lot of pressure!

Still, as the pilot bumped his way to a landing in sunny Milan (and passengers grumbled at the added little bounce -- “that’s Altitalia for you!” -- one said, but then, a flight from Paris to Milan is always filled with people who look like this:



on the bus to the plane


Men in a hurry), I was looking out the window and thinking – wow, the Milanese spring is two weeks ahead of where our spring is right now. Amazing! (Both theirs and ours.)

Just to clarify, the lake region of Italy is just south of the Alps. You can this flying into Milan. Here’s the first of the big beauties – Lake Como, spreading its claws right up into the mountains.






On my return next week, I have to spend a night in Milan. That’s not the best way to end a trip, but early flights force my hand there. But there’s no reason to even pause in this city on my arrival. From airport, straight to the train station, where I catch the local to Brescia. (The local is always half the price of the snazzy intercity – there it is, that speeding devil, showing off its bright redness, like Mr Red back home, or my rosie, or my red hot lover. Forget you all! This time I’m on the pokey green snake.)





It’s always a challenge to take these trains after a long and convoluted series of flights. Far too easy to fall asleep and miss your station. The warm sun comes in through the windows, the train rocks gently, in the distance, the northern Alps frame your views...

No, I must stay awake.

Italian trains aren’t as on the spot punctual as those in neighboring countries (I’m thinking France, Spain, Switzerland, Germany) – so you can’t plan your connections around them. A little over an hour later, ss we pull into Brescia (a city at the southern end of Lake Garda), I see that we’re a tad late. So I miss a good bus to Gargnano. Ah well, there are plenty of others.

If I could fall asleep standing up (Ed can do it, I cannot), I would do it now, at the bus station in Brescia. It’s fairly crowded here, on this Friday afternoon. Lots of high school kids, too, returning (cigarettes out, ah, foolish kids!)  to their homes on the outskirts, or in the lakeside villages. When my Gargnano bus finally comes, it fills up quickly.

This is what people do when their gas gets taxed at higher rates – they cut back on using their cars and rely on public transportation, which then improves significantly to meet the growing demand. I’m one who believes that this is a good thing.

It’s my final leg of the journey and on the bus (an hour and a half ride), I can at last doze off. Mine is the last stop on the line. But who can sleep! Watching school kids get on and off, listening to the chatter of the older couple behind me – these rides are like café people watching: full of the excitement of being in a different country.

By the time I arrive at Gargnano (pronounced Gar-nia-no), the bus is nearly empty. I get off and look around.

What a stunning little place!





Gargnano is actually a handful of hamlets, clustered at the shore of Lake Garda and extending into the hills above it. I’m staying at the heart, where shops, cafes and eateries line a beautiful waterfront.

My hotel is a short walk – along a quiet street by the water’s edge.





Let me say right at the outset that the prevailing mood here, at the family run Hotel du Lac is that of a gentle quiet. Right now, the deep waters of Lake Garda are very still. At night, the wind picks up and I listen to the splash of small waves along the pebble shore. But there is no other noise, no disturbance.

It is also true that I am here before the season starts. My little hotel really doesn’t open until tomorrow, but they moved things up when I asked about a six day stay. They rewrote their webpage and actually have another room now occupied as well – by a couple whose home in southern Germany is a mere five hour drive. Sort of like me going to Escanamba for the weekend.

And speaking of my reference town of Escanaba (it’s your classic midwestern lakeside place – not especially a big tourist destination, but with your standard motel rooms going for about $100 per night) – I’m paying comparable rates here (though with a huge breakfast included). Meaning it’s not dirt cheap. I could have done better pricewise along Lake Como. But you have to get off your “go for the cheapest” horse when you travel this far for a week’s break. For ten Euro more I have Gargnano. It’s worth the ten Euro, really it is.

I don’t do much on this first day. The haze of a long journey has set in. You know how it is – you feel you’re moving even if you’re not. Everything seems slightly more distant, slightly muted around the edges.

It’s late afternoon and I walk to the village center. The locals are out and about, as usual the older men prefer the company of each other...





...and the older women huddle over a baby carriage and admire a new Gargnano addition.





Gargnano. At the feet of steep hills. Narrow streets, colorful houses, lovely vistas onto the waters of the lake.










I sit down at a lakefront café and let the sun warm my right side. It’s slowly sinking, but I’m plenty toasty on this last (or second to last? One can hope...) summerlike day here.

The waitress comes over. Si signora? She asks.
I want one of those, please. I wince at my own rusty Italian. It's been a while. I point to the aperitif of choice here: an Aperol spritz (half Prosecco, half the deliciously bitter Aperol, over ice, with a slice of a blood red orange).
She brings it. Lovely little drink. With a tray of snacks.

And a bruschietta with tomatoes.

I haven’t eaten since the morning snack at the Paris airport and even though I’m just a few hours short of dinnertime, I’m hungry. And I am especially hungry for that warm bread with tomatoes, drizzled over with a local olive oil and sprinkled with oregano.

It funny how quickly you get attached to the local stuff here, in the Mediterranean countries. When you go into a small food store (and I did), you see a shelf of wines – always local wines. Everyone in the village appears to drinks the local Lugana and the not too distant wines of the Veneto. And they use their own olive oils and they buy bags of their local cookies. If I stay long enough in a place, I’ll get into that habit too and I begin to think that these wines, these olive oils, these cookies are superior to all others and I’ll buy some and lug them home where they will at once taste... well, nice, but also ordinary. No different than the next good oil or decent bottle of wine.

Out of the six nights I am here, three of them are on a demi-pension basis – breakfast and dinner included. It was too good a deal to pass up, even as I hate being tied to just one eatery during my entire stay in Italy, so I made this compromise of three and they were fine with it.

Back in my room now... (and back to mirror photo snapping... where are you, Ed?!)






I notice that the sun has set. My room faces east and I see the shadows of my own Gargnano mountain on the hills before me. The sunlight picks up the reflection of a window pane and it throws a tail of twinkling light onto the water. It is an utterly sublime moment – a play of light on water, a touch of cloud, a dazzle of fading blue.





Today is my hotel dinner night. The one other couple here is eating here too. We are in a dining room that sits almost on top of the water. The views over the lake at this evening hour are stunning.





People always ask me if I mind eating alone when I travel. Of course it’s fun to have Ed or my daughters or friends at the table. Of course it is. But eating out alone is never an issue for me. I know Ed takes a book when he does it. I take my notebook. Often times I scribble stuff I never use. It’s the kind of writing that I used to do when I was younger. Journal like. Very indulgent. And sort of pointless. But fun.

I also watch others. And, when you are alone, people engage you. (They always leave you alone when you’re with someone.) The German couple began talking to me before I was through with my “pasta” course (barley, prepared as a risotto, with tomatoes and basil). A delightful duo. Very gentle, very polite.

They’re at least a decade older than me. We talk about our various travels and eventually they find out I am originally from Poland. They’re both surprised.
So you must be Catholic! – the woman blurts out.

No one has ever said this to me before, just like that, out of the blue. It was an idle observation, I suppose. Perhaps an association with the Polish Pope. I consider my answers. Well now, when I was born, right after the war, it is true that the country was 98% Catholic then. But I myself am actually of the 2% that were not.

As European countries struggle with a new wave of religious politics, I’m still riding the old one. And indeed, I am in a place in Italy that is just full of the old one. Mussolini occupied and set up residence in a Gargnano villa in 1943.

On the flight over the ocean, my Serbian friend talked about her family, especially about her father who, as a Jew, spent the war years in German camps. She said how he wasn’t one to look with hostility at all things German after the war. He drove a BMW, because it was a good car – she tells me. My first car was a Mini Cooper. I drove it every summer from Yugoslavia to Paris when I was a student. My mother was terrified for me, but I liked Paris. And tennis at the Bois du Boulogne. I smile at the image of this now big time doctor  as a Yugoslav student, driving her Mini Cooper across the continent to play tennis in the Bois du Boulogne.

But it is also true that we are the postwar children. We think about invasions and occupations on this continent. The next generation can think in a history textbook way about the war. My generation cannot. And it’s rare that I am in Europe and am not in some way reminded of my role as the child whose family and friends lived through the war. It’s just the way it is.

The food at the hotel? Delicious! It is their first meal service of the season and they were duly apologetic about not having all their eggs out of the basket yet, but I cannot see what could be better than my eggplant appetizer, the barley risotto, a fresh salad, and the most delicate lake trout I have had in a long time. Followed by a semifreddo with meringue and strawberries.





...and heaven too.


Outside my window, at the predawn hour, the lights on the other coast shut down and the sky begins to turn a bright blue again. A new day. May it continue to bring sunshine. Just one more day. Then I will feel satiated, I promise.

life’s travels

 (Morning)

I suppose it’s fitting that I am traveling alone to the northern parts of Italy. You could say I became who I am here a long long time ago – an adult, but with clear leanings toward child’s play.

When I graduated from college (I finally finished things up in the winter of 1974), I packed my bags and came to this part of the world. I rented an apartment in the Dolomites – a very difficult feat in years when everything had to be done through correspondence – traveled to it and waited. For what? For a male friend from New York to come visit, I suppose. He never did and I got terribly lonely up there in the Italian mountains and so I got in the habit of taking the early bus to the train that would eventually put me in Venice. I took about a dozen such Venetian trips that month and I have to say, seeing that city in the cold and drizzly days of March was eye-opening. In a good way.

Occasionally I would overnight in a small hotel not too far from the Piazza San Marco. The owner was rather romantically inclined (even as this was a family operation – the wife, the son, they all worked there) and he would show me various parts of the hotel leaning suggestively next to me, talking of romance and Venice and it all rather swam in my yearning 20 year old soul. I’m sure I was offered wine, I’m sure I accepted. And still, the story goes no further than that. In the end, I was suddenly adult enough to stay away from trouble. Despite Venice.

The little hotel is there, in Venice still. The owner must be ancient. Or dead. I don’t ever stay there anymore. The memory is more mine than his or anyone else’s. Youthful games in adult places.


My destination now isn’t Venice, nor the mountains really – it’s Lago di Garda – the largest lake in Italy. I’ll be staying halfway up its coast, in the small town of Gargnano. D.H. Lawrence paused there back in 1912 or 1913. Indeed, the Italian lakes of the north were once a favorite of the British literate folk. They have their own lakes, of course and they pranced around those as well, but the Italian lakes have a micro-climate, a Mediterranean ambiance and a pleasant relationship with the sun and so the writers who could, went there.

And I’m heading there as well. Same reasons in the end – the quiet beauty, the climate, the feeling of calm.The walks.

Not that the journey thus far has been especially calm. Before my last law class, I checked my email only to see that my flight – the first one – was cancelled. A fast scramble ensued. Pipes in the Law School developed a leak and at this very moment our building is flooded. Water drizzled from nearly every direction, threatening the building’s power supply. A class had to be taught, a flight had to be found.

As always, it all worked well enough. So I’m flying through Paris instead of Amsterdam. That’s fine. So I get into Milan a few hours later. Equally fine.

But with all the rush and unexpected activity, I never had a chance to eat my peanut butter sandwich back home. I’m traveling to Italy with half a peanut butter sandwich in my bag.

(Later)

In flight:

KLM has this new program for its frequent fliers: you can provide your Facebook profile and then connect, no, not just connect, sit next to people of like mind.

Well now, I find that to be so not me. I like to shut out the world on long flights. I like to read, write, think and if all those fail – watch a dumb movie.

I am on a flight from Minneapolis to Paris and I have next to me a person who appears to like to talk. This is not a good sign. I am not chatty up in the air. 

But suddenly, I learn things about my seat mate that are uniquely fascinating! She is a physician at Mayo. She is Serbian. She lived in Yugoslavia in much the same way and in the same years that I lived in Poland.

I understand her childhood and she understands mine. We are American, very much so, but with this curious twist.

And high school, you know how in high school...

And, isn’t it true that Americans have just no idea...

And, isn’t it wonderful how in the States...

And so on.

Eventually, she goes back to her papers and I lose myself in mine. But we are now solidly connected -- all this transpiring at 35,000 feet above the earth. These are the good flights. One has to remember that for every bad one, there are ten like this -- completely wonderful.

(Later) 

 

Arriving in Paris

I’m not pausing in Paris. My attention is focused elsewhere on this trip. But my oh my, am I always happy to have that interlude here, biting into their pain au chocolate, sipping their very strong coffee. Thanks, Paris. Now let’s move on.

(posted from Paris airport)

spring break

A tight squeeze of a day. Early classes, a sixty minute window to zip from school and catch flight out (thanks Ed!), an inconveniently out of the way layover in Minneapolis, then, one long flight, followed by a short one, a bus ride, a train ride, another bus ride and I’ll be there – a brief respite of a week, a much needed and loved spring getaway.


I’ll write more tomorrow, once I arrive.

first chomp out of the garden

Perhaps the brightest moment of the day came in the evening when, walking past my kitchen herb garden (so many of these guys survived!), I noticed that the chives were ready for snipping. Dinner for us was a plate of steamed spinach and scrambled eggs. I’m that busy. Excuse me – scrambled eggs with chives!

It’s considerably cooler outdoors this week. We started with a breakfast on the porch, but I gave up into the first spoonful of granola. Indoors felt so... deliciously warm.

Biking to work was tough, too. I was dressed for last week's heat wave. I turned around and decided to give up the bike after half a mile. But very quickly, I turned around again, hating myself for being a wimp. And then got cold again.  And so I retreated. Then kicked myself once more and, with a final spin around, shrugged off the cold and headed on Mr Red to work.

I’ll post the precious field view from my rural biking road, but I have to say, I didn’t pause for long. Too cool out there today. At the height of the day, we registered 56 degrees.





At the farmette tonight, things became rather fast paced. I had the urgent need to plant my peony. And to weed the shoulder flower bed that abuts the walkway. Ed remained calmly committed to finishing the transplant of the tomato seedlings to bigger pots. He’s not in a hurry. And he is especially not in a hurry today. He’s not going anywhere tomorrow.

I never expected him to change his mind and come with me and he never expected me to retract and cancel, but we keep the pretense going. Must you go? Can't you go? Short cut for -- I care, but this is the week to travel/stay home (depending on who is speaking).

I leave you with flowers from the garden. They are a gentle sweetness. A delightful presence. I’m already looking forward to seeing their proliferation upon my return (next Friday).

broccoli and tomatoes

When I am not teaching or working on teaching, you’ll find me today reading Supreme Court arguments about broccoli and, I suppose, our national passion for eating it.

So there’s that.

Ed, meanwhile, is home mollycoddling our tomato seedlings. We got a tad concerned as a commenter conveyed the message that we ruined the whole lot by letting them stay out on a cool March night. Start again! -- we were told.

This sent Ed googling. He came back relieved. No, if they’re alive, they’re alive, he tells me. Their souls (and fruit producing capabilities) aren’t damaged so long as they look okay.

I wasn’t convinced.

Ed asks – do you want me to call the Burpee hotline? Brilliant! -- I say. Like the Butterball hotline at Thanksgiving! (Even as our seeds aren’t Burpee seeds so I feel like we are slightly cheating.)

Hours later I hear from him again. He’s jubilant. She said – and I did ask after her credentials – that had these been eggplant or pepper seedlings, then maybe they would have been affected. But for tomato seedlings, the kind of damage that comes from spending a cool night out is peanuts compared to the horrors that lie ahead for the average tomato: winds, heat waves, pounding rains. In other words, they should be fine.

I feel like the mother who feeds her kids peanut butter on white bread, knowing that this isn't right, doing it anyway, only to find out later that actually, kids are fine with white bread. Especially as combined with peanut butter.


Ed spends the rest of the day dividing his seedlings, babying them really, while I work on campus.






By evening, we're home again and I look around me a tad disheartened. The plums are almost done with their bloom. They provide a nice backdrop to the delicate pink flowers of the peach.






The pear is flowering too. But our most prolific bloomers (crabs? hawthorn?) are just budding now.






Will I miss the burst of blooms? Typically, this comes at the end of April. This year – it looks like in a day or two, these trees will be at their best.

That's okay. You can’t have it all. I’ll be back in time for the lilacs. I think. (I’m only going away for a week!)


The sun recedes, but tonight, the air stays warm. And still, Ed’s not taking any chances. He loads the flats of seedlings onto a cart and wheels it all inside the sheep shed for the night.





In the meantime, I make lots and lots of cabbage soup – for today and for the days I’m gone. As if Ed couldn’t cook for himself. As if he hadn’t done so for the 55 years before I began to cook meals for us both.

We eat and listen to the ongoing debate on the news about, well, broccoli.