week of friends

It really was not planned to be that intensely focused on friends. The week just filled itself with people in the way that it does when you open yourself up to the possibilities. And tonight capped it with a dinner that truly was extra special icing on an already grand cake.

That, of course, came in the evening. The day? Well, with all the sunshine and dry weather, I needed to finish working on the front flower strip. I do it early. Very early. Right after a quick feeding of the animals and an inspection on what's going on in the courtyard-facing flower fields.

(one large lilium, exploding; the rest -- still holding back)

(the first of the delicately hued day lilies)

(getting to be taller than the house!)

(these always bloom ahead of the pack!)

The front strip needs a good weeding job. But the dirt there is so dry that the hose soak has to come first, otherwise you cannot pull out the roots of the grasses and weeds that sprout in the tough soil. In all, it's a lot of work, but I finish it! It's not magnificent, it's not sumptuous, but it's good enough. 

It's close to noon by the time we sit down to breakfast. I am so in need of a rest that we linger on the porch for a long long time.

With a fan, it's very manageable, even as the temperatures are once again creeping up to over 30C (87F). 

As we sit back and lightly rock on the springy chairs, I'm filled with that sense of wellbeing that comes from a very deliberate acceptance of all that a day may present. Ed and I share in this purposeful contentment, preferring to quietly watch swallows dart in and out of the garage than to list and review all of life's irritants. And it strikes me that when you are young and searching out partners in life, you don't think much about how it might be to spend senior years with someone. You assume that if you have a solid foundation, then you will in some fashion grow together. But what if you like peace and prefer mindful acceptance over a never ending spelling out of all that is wrong with your life? Shouldn't you be sure to find a partner who is like you in this regard?

Ed, for all that we do not share, is indeed very much like me in this regard. I swear, violent storms could knock down our house and tear up the farmette lands and we would get up the next morning, and start planning the rebuild of our next home, taking time to sit and watch swallows, because in this quiet activity we find joy.

And now comes evening dinner. Here, I have to smile at how many dinners I have eaten with these two friends!

I met them first when I started writing Ocean, so maybe 18 years ago. He blogged too and we somehow found each other through this shared hobby.

Ocean has done this for me: it has grown my pool of friends. Some live far (Australia!), some live closer, like these two. And most live somewhere in between (California, Michigan). Some were older when Ocean came along and some have died in the last year (lobsterman's wife Bex, intrepid France traveler Lee, beloved Cambridge artist Lily). But they were and are friends, as solid as can be. 

So here we are tonight, on their porch, reflecting back, looking forward (their kids join us and it is super cool to listen to their stories too) and I'm thinking -- each day brings many precious moments and this is one of them.

(All this and fabulous food too...)

Good night to you, dear reader, wherever you may be.

With love...

flowers

On the one hand, the blooming season has been late this year, but on the other hand, the number of buds on any perennial stalk is large. Larger than in previous years. Nevertheless, on the second day of July I am typically seeing clumps of lily heads everywhere. Not this year. Small batches, single flowers are still the norm. It'll be another week before the buds begin to open up. (I've stopped saying that any particular year is strange weather wise, because they're all strange. We no longer have great predictability. The only thing that is certain is that this growing season will be again in some way unusual.)

I am up early. I want to go the the Farmers Market downtown and it is not as fun to go there when the crowds swell in the later morning hours. Not if you really want to shop.

After being up most of the night, Ed is reluctant to come with me. What are you shopping for? - he asks, eyes closed.

Well, flowers for one. 

Yes, flowers. I'm not sure what I'll see this week, since the spring peonies should be mostly finished and the summer field grown dahlias aren't ready yet, but surely there'll be something. Too, I want to check out the veggies. This is strange, given that I just picked up a full box from our CSA on Thursday, but the fact is, most CSA boxes (including ours) are overloaded with zucchini right now and the only way I can sneak zucchini into our dinner diet is to cut it up into tiny squares and toss it with a salad (along with other gems such as cukes, radishes, sugar snap peas and whatever else you may have). Ed is not otherwise a fan of zucchini. 

And here's what surprises me at the market: the crowds really start to swell as early as 8 in the morning. I mean, it's not shoulder to shoulder yet, but you're not going to have the space to yourself. 

Too, I see that more and more vendors, especially (but not only) the Hmong vendors, are adding flowers to their sales. Nearly every other table has great big bouquets for sale. Of what? Oh, everything! I still see spring favorites -- peonies and lupines -- but also summer stuff: lilies, sunflowers, etc. And here's the problem: insofar as there is choice, it is impossible to pick out a favorite, because you don't know if someone else's bouquet will be better. 

I find this to be the greatest source of frustration with our market: you walk in a circle around the Capitol and you cannot tell what will be for sale down the road. When I used to be the market buyer for L'Etoile Restaurant, I would routinely do the circle several times to figure out where the best stuff was. But of course, these days I don't want to spend the whole morning on that effort. So I take a chance, buy a bouquet, and pick up some asparagus, and boom! a few stalls later I see better/cheaper asparagus and even more stunning bouquets.

It's good to get to know the vendors and to pick your favorite sellers as a starting point. I have my favorite greens guy (Snug Haven) and perennial guy (Dave at FF) and potted annuals guy (from Koepke's). Now I have to search out a favorite for bunches of flowers. There are many contenders! Really many!

As I leave the market, struggling with a full load, I realize that I've over purchased again. I mean, how can you not?! It's the last asparagus of the year, the last arugula. The young carrots are irresistible. And of course, there are the bunches of flowers. I come home with two.

Our breakfast table is the better for it.

The rest of the day I spend on outdoor work. 

It's not light stuff: for the first time this year I turn my attention to the front flower strip. The one that faces the road. I've ignored it because at some level I've given up on it. Never plant perennials near a maple grove! The tree roots there are fierce and the soil loses nutrients by the minute! A dry spell doesn't help. Still, the flowers I did plant have, for the most part, come back (in a very wimpy form). And really need water. And some weed work. Today I do both.

By evening I am spent. To the core. My eyes refuse to stay open. Somewhere in the distance fireworks crack and boom and sputter. I barely notice. Can you be asleep and still write a post? I think so. Indeed, I'm living proof of it.

Good night!

so many swallows

1. So Many Cats

Last night, as Ed and I were tending to our various readings and writings on the couch, the usual parade of cats came in from the porch, meowed a bit, then either settled for a nap inside, or left to look for greener pastures. Three of the six are regulars here. They check out our willingness to throw down some people food for them and they rub their faces on our legs, or trample over us to get a more substantial nuzzle. Ed is a big sucker here and never turns down a request for a kitty rub.  But this night,  as I look up to see which cat is meowing from the middle of the living room floor, I do a double take. The cat isn't one of the usual three. In fact, she isn't one of the six who live here. She looks like Dance -- white paws, gray torso, but way darker and skinnier than the matronly Dance herself.

Ed, there is a strange cat in our living room!

You're right -- he answers, unfazed. 

This is a first. Strange cats routinely pass through farmette lands, but inside? Never.

I get up to check out her markings, but she'd done her quick survey of the premises and is out the porch cat door before I can come close to her.

2. So Many Machines

This morning, all is calm once again. No cat spend the entire night here, ever, thank goodness. The house is quiet. And the day outside?  Lovely. And very dry. I know I have to water the flower tubs. I probably have to water everything even as I cannot possibly water everything. But, I can't be discouraged at the start of the day, right? I'll do what I can do! Onwards!

I take on the flower fields.

In the meantime, Ed settles in to work on the latest addition  -- a 1966 Bolens 650 tractor, with lots of attachments. Really, lots. (I know which attachment interests him: the tiller.)

He'd picked it up yesterday, hauled it over in a rented u-haul and now he's taking it apart because, well, it doesn't work.

It's in very good condition - he tells me.

Yes, but it doesn't work! What if you can't fix it?

He thinks that's a really poor excuse for passing up the chance to get it to work. So, for now, he has his hands full!

(We pause, but only briefly, for breakfast.)

3. So Many Flowers

He returns to tinkering, I water and weed. A rain shower would cut my work in half, but we haven't had a good one for many days and there's none in the forecast. 

Ed peers up at my work and comments -- you have so many flowers here!

He's right. And they are all thirsty.

By the time I'm done I have to go pick up Snowdrop at robot camp. 

4. So Many Cherries

Again we have a short time at the farmette. And again we go right down to the new orchard to pick cherries, because we have so many!

Half of them are chomped up by birds, some are already rotten, but she finds the perfect ones. She climbs the ladder and gets to work.

And I have her pick a few pea pods too. 

And at home, I take out my prepared mixture of peaches, sugar and cream (with a little lemon juice and vanilla) and I throw it into the ice cream maker so that we can have freshly churned peach ice cream.

5. So Many Grandchildren

Toward evening, I return Snowdrop to her house and once again I try to pause for a chat with my older girl. Wait, Sandpiper is on the move!

And Sparrow wants a huge long hug, and then there's this fantastic Montreal book he wants to show me...

And meanwhile, Snowdrop contemplates climbing up on the roof of their playhouse and Sandpiper is getting himself into the next bit of trouble...

And it is all great fun, but I can tell you, with three little ones, you cannot expect to concentrate on serious topics or even lightweight conversation with the other grownup in your midst. Still, it is such a beautiful evening and the sound of happy kid voices is a wonderful thing indeed! 

6. So Many Swallows

The air is perfect -- not too warm, not to cool. The sun is low, but still with us. The smell is of summer, in full swing. We eat dinner on the porch.

And we linger. Because from our seats, we can see the swallows darting in and out of the garage. One, two, three... No, more than that. So many swallows!

Cats, machines, flowers. Cherries, peach ice cream, grandchildren chasing each other on the deck. Swallows taking flight. 

It really is a classic first day of July!

Minneapolis moments

What a deeply satisfying set of hours! My week for friendship is drawing to a close and yet the aftertaste remains, in the best of ways. Like one of those wines which, they say, "lingers for a long time on the palate."

I loved my overnight at the Danish cottage. The breezes traveled through the spaces below, the fan pushed out the warm air and the couch, covered by a very Danish quilt, felt especially luxurious.

We were up early -- both Diane and I have that habit. Breakfast, over conversation (and a glance at the booklet about the construction of the guest cottage).

A look at the garden and a chat with the gardener par excellence, Mette (the homeowner whose son designed the small house). As always, you learn something from talking with a person who grows things. 

I pocket the nuggets of information for later use.

Eventually Diane and I head out -- first for a walk across the Mississippi (you can do that in Minneapolis!).

We admire the cityscape that has been shaped so strongly by its milling past. [Minneapolis was once the "flour milling capital of the world." You can see why: the drop in the Mississippi from the St.Anthony Falls gave the industry the power it needed. Grains from the northern plains and the Dakotas were brought by train and flour sacks were then carried up to Duluth, from there they traveled to the East Coast and beyond. In its heyday, Minneapolis had some 20 mills lining the river, in much the same way that steel mills once lined Pittsburgh's riverfront.]

 They're beautiful views.

We then go to a place recommended by our landlady, Mette. As a food photographer, she is very much involved with the local food scene in the Twin Cities. This spot is called "the Food Building" and it houses a flour mill and bakery (Baker's Field), a creamery (Alemar Cheese Company), a salumeria (Red Table Meat Company), and a cafe that allows you to sample any of the products made or baked here (Kieran's Kitchen).

We start off with a leisurely chat over coffee and fantastic rhubarb-ginger popovers.

But a after a while, I suppose a long while, because we are friends of long duration (time for a timed release!)...

... and so we can carry on for quite a bit, it's the lunch hour and so we move on to foods more appropriate to that meal.

All so delicious that I buy out the bakery just so Ed can sample the stuff that is good and, importantly, very different from our usual fare back home.

Very quickly I am nearing my departure hour. Diane drives me to the airport and I shuttle back to Madison. 

It's a super short flight today (31 minutes!), leading me to dream about the day I would not need to fly (because someday, there will be a speedy train linking these Midwestern cities). As sometimes happens, I get upgraded to the inebriated class. Meaning, I get a seat up front where even during a flight of 31 minutes people are offered a free drink in the air. And they take it! At least most do. At 4 pm, double shots of vodka with a splash of ginger ale are are being delivered by a running flight attendant (Sorry sir, but I have to do this fast, we are about to land!). I have to think that either people are secretly fearful fliers and the slug of booze chills them a bit, or we, as a species just cannot turn down a free anything. If they offered a free gallon of gas for the car, poured into your water bottle, people would take it, sloshing it all the way home. They've spent a small fortune on a flight ticket, and if it comes with a drink, damn it, they'll take it. And who can blame them. Flying these days is so stressful. Anything to make it go faster. Anything. (My own "booze," having the same effect, is reading the latest David Sedaris book.)

I pull into the driveway of the farmette and I see a piece of beat up machinery in the place of my parking spot.

Ed!

It's a long story, gorgeous...

I am home.

old haunts

Everyone has them -- places where we'd spent so much time, so long ago. Places that were once so familiar because rarely a day passed when we wouldn't poke in or at least pass by. Places that somehow got off our radar screen because life took us elsewhere.

Minneapolis is full of these old haunts for many of those close to me. They grew up there, or they raised a family there, or they moved there for a while. And because it was their turf, I'd drive up, or take the bus up, or fly up to visit. My Minneapolis has always been someone else's Minneapolis. I was the interloper following at the heels of those who knew it at some deeper level. I never paid much attention to the city itself because I was always more focused on someone whom I wanted to see badly enough that I would make that trip.

And once again, today I fly up to the Twin Cities. My friend Diane doesn't live there anymore, but she is up for a few days' visit and it is, therefore, a perfect opportunity to see her. In her old haunts.

But first, a morning at the farmette. I'd say it was full of search and discovery. Why search? Because I could not find two of the Bresse hens. I searched everywhere. Two were, as always, poking around just outside the barn. Two were missing. 

I woke Ed. Two got snatched!

Two? No, they're around.

I looked everywhere. They are quite visible and they have never strayed more than a dozen feet from the barn.

They're around.

We've lost two in one morning to predators before.

True. But they're around.

More searching. And of course, he was right. They'd wandered off toward the writer's shed. Carefree and seemingly happy. 

When I say "full of discovery," I am of course thinking of the hens (I surely discovered that their range has grown!), but I also mean new blooms. At the end of June each day begins to bring new day lilies into the picture. Today I discovered these lovely faces:

(At the same time that some of the old irises are still at it. Such deep colors we have right now!)

Breakfast is on the porch and I am so grateful that we do not have to spend it talking about "who could have snatched the chickens" and "how do we keep the rest safe in the face of a stalking predator." Instead, we talk about how beautiful our little corner of the planet is right now. Despite everything.

I weed a little. And I think about the article in today's paper that described how some women have channeled their anger into "rage gardening" this week, pulling up weeds in a fury as they felt their lives to have been upended. I appreciate the sentiment, but I think rage gardening isn't really about the furious pulling at weeds. I've come across the term in these Covid years and I feel it's more appropriate to describe rage gardening as a way to diffuse your inner turmoil and anxiety. By gardening you take yourself out of the immediate reality and put yourself in a very basic composition of soil, plants, maybe water. At least this is the way I experience it. Your fury eases and eventually, if you weed long enough -- dissipates.

And in the afternoon I hop on a flight for the one hour trip to Minneapolis. Were there a speed train, I'd take that but we are not a nation of speed trains.

Diane meets me at the airport and we set out to her favorite little Airbnb. And yes, I can see why it is a favorite! Rented out by a Danish woman, it has that feel of someone's very deliberate, yet very restrained style. (Having a son architect do the design helps...) And the little garden! Beautiful!

Diane and I mostly need to catch up. 

I haven't seen her in person since before Covid. It seems remarkable that we are still in the thick of Covid issues, even though she and I have both managed to escape infection thus far. But we do venture out some, including to dinner at Sooki and Mimi -- a fantastic place named after two grandmothers!

We don't pick it for the name, however. It's all about the food here: a mix of influences: Latin, Asian -- you'll find both in the dishes. (My main: maitake mushroom tacos)

The eatery refers to itself as a neighborhood joint and I suppose it is that. Like Chicago, Minneapolis has these very local places that may well become a haunt for you if you live there, bringing in a next generation of regulars. Plus Diane and me, eating at this new place, but in blocks so familiar to her.

The evening flies by so quickly! We'll have a few more hours tomorrow, before I catch my late afternoon flight back to Madison -- where there are not two but four Bresse hens, five old cheepers, many cats and a not too young Ed looking after them all.

Good night, from way up there in Minnesota, where, too, you will find fireflies dancing at dusk and if you look hard enough, maybe a swallow or two.

Tuesday with Polish friends

My attention is split today between the farmette and Warsaw. Perhaps not in terms of hours spent planted there, across the ocean (I did not travel to Warsaw!), but surely in terms of thoughts processed and words spoken. 

I talked about traveling to the homeland with my doc this morning. (She is contemplating such a trip to her own homeland.)

I spoke as well to my Polish friends on a Zoom call, reviewing some of the events I had described in Like a Swallow. (They have been enthusiastic about the content, which is very sweet and very gratifying. After all, they lived those same years in that same Warsaw that I describe in the book.) We rarely go back in time, but the book allowed us to open some of those doors long closed -- a wonderful unanticipated consequence of putting something out for others to read.

And I thought about how history is painting events in this country and how it had painted events in Poland in the years I lived there and in the years that followed.

I had plenty of time for all this thinking, because the day was once again beautiful, but also dry. It was time to water the lavender. 

Oh, hello, Bresse hen! Are we really going to butcher you for a Sunday meal? Somehow this is feeling more and more remote. These four gentle hens are awfully sweet...

I give a quick glance at the flower tubs (oh, hi Henny!)

And at the sunflower that's growing (and growing and growing)...

And then I attend to my appointments and since I am out and about, I may as well stop by a bakery. For breakfast breads. Delicious!

In the late afternoon I pick up Snowdrop at robot camp. (She reports that each class has exactly one girl in it.) We don't have much time, but I bring her to the farmhouse anyway. Someone needs to pick the cherries! (We do not lack the cherries.)

For her, the farmette is a place of quiet  (no little brothers around, and a set of pretty quiet grandparents). I'm not sure she would appreciate a steady diet of quiet, but in small chunks, it suits her really well. 

And as she plays, I think to myself -- when did I become this quiet? Is it the Ed effect? Or is it that I have listened enough in my life to know that so many things are better left unsaid? Thoughts fare better when given space and time to simmer before served out on a plate for others to hear. Or maybe it's because I had a father who liked to expound and you know how that goes -- the next generation always wants to be different than the one before it.

When I was a nanny for the child of a prominent New York couple (read about it in Like a Swallow!), I learned how to do small talk very well. Put in a room full of "Very Important People," I could weave my way conversationally through sometimes tricky situations. At the same time, in the course of my life, I've met too many who just don't know when to stop a story. These days, if I have to pick one -- grab the stage or stay at the side of the conversation, I'll almost always pick the latter. 

Evening? I cook up soup which perhaps is not right for a warm summer evening, but still, I have rainbow chard and beet stems and a soup is an easy way to dispose of both. Besides, Polish people really love to eat soup. (We eat dinner on the porch, it's that beautiful outside!)

Wait, am I still Polish? Yeah... I think that designation will stay with me. Rainbow chard American, with a good chunk of beet Polish in me. For life.