Hot Chocolate and Pudding

As I peeled the foil top off a large can of Swiss Miss hot chocolate, I was immediately transported back to childhood.  The chocolate scent that rose from the can was of the boxes of Jello chocolate pudding, a favorite dessert from my youth.

We sometimes prepared the cooked version on the stove, stirring and stirring in a silver-colored pot with black handle.  We put plastic wrap on the top as it cooled, then slowly peeled it off to see the chocolate craters on the surface.  And no one ever wanted the hard crusty part when it was just a day old. Sometimes we used the yellow and white Tupperware shaker, with a plastic spoke in the middle to stir it up.  We could then immediately take turns dipping spoons into the shaker, slurping down the chocolate jelloey pudding.  Yum!

The final time I remember eating homemade pudding I was just driving, home from a visit to a friend’s house with a severe case of the munchies.  I dove into the bowl of freshly-made chocolate pudding on the counter and starting inhaling spoonfuls into my mouth, all the while yakking on the phone.  Yum!

An unexpected trip to the past, just from opening a can.  Weird. C

 

Coyote Roam

The coyotes amble through our yard as if their own, trotting along the  back perimeter, then disappearing by the mulberry tree into the wetlands or  the neighbor’s grasses, abutting the tiny creek that flows through it.  There are two we mainly see: one the size of a German shepherd, with similar coloring and a long, dark tail.  He suddenly sports a limp.  The other is probably the babe that our pup Cali chased in spring, smaller and sand-colored, cute as can be.

I wonder, do they snicker in the grasses as Cali comes out, tethered to a leash or long rope to play or “do her business”?  Cali’s nickname is Bolt from our unfenced yard, since she will play and chase balls with us, then give us “the look”, turn and run…eventually coming back, but not before she explores a couple yards and crosses some streets, barely avoiding traffic.

And then, as the coyotes stealthily gaze into our windows after dusk, whether needlelike rain or clear moon shining, do they howl at our home as we settle into our warm house, no rain, no breeze, no bugs,food in a bowl? Jealous of our comfortable, spoiled dogs? C

 

Equestrian Connected–People Connected

“When was the last party you were at with three generations singing together?” John asked, as we all broke into the familiar words of  Hard Day’s Night, Yellow Submarine, Eight Days a Week and a myriad of other Beatles songs performed perfectly by the band American English.  So true.

There were over 300 of us joined together last night, at the annual fundraiser for Equestrian Connection, the equine therapy program I volunteer at.    I looked around the indoor arena transformed into a party room with flooring (no dirt!), round tables and chairs for dining, a bar, a stage for a live auctioneer and bands, the silent auction nestled in the aisle with the curious horses, not used to these late night festivities.

The evening was lively and inspirational, with some young students speaking, a homemade DVD put together by one family showing the benefits of hippotherapy, wheelchairs scattered around the room intermixed with dancers and revelers.  The goals were clearly defined: to raise enough money to pay for one year of therapy for the 20 or so families who cannot afford the therapy right now but know how critical it is for their kids.

One choked up mom said on stage that her wheelchair bound eleven-year old daughter cannot play soccer or softball or baseball…but she can ride horses!  I have personally witnessed time and again the amazing improvements these children (and adults) make during their weekly lessons or fields trips from schools and institutes.

So, there we were, routing for the auction bids to go higher, warmth spreading on a clear, cold autumn night.  American English entertained–and reminded me how many Beatles songs I know ALL the words for (hard admission for someone who grew up a true-blue Elvis fan with the scrapbooks to prove it)–and drew people together.  Some people danced, I saw one group of seven from 65 to 13 standing arm and arm  and singing along while swaying with the music, others took pictures with their phones and cameras, some just tapped their feet and enjoyed the sets.

And we all arose with the encore, seeming to sing together strongly–if not totally in tune–that we would start a Revolution to band together and keep this organization moving forward.

A fine, successful night for all, horses now enjoying the quiet until their riders come again. C

 

The First Frost

So sad, decimating the gardens after two mornings of hard frost.  In early October, no less.  Basil, so fragrant in pesto last week, now rubbery black leaves, the tomato vines collapsed and shriveled with a few lingering green ones oozing seeds, the cucumbers withered in the dirt, peppers wilting. I yanked everything but a couple herbs from the dirt yesterday, leaving blank black boxes yawning for next year’s growth.  This is when I know winter is truly coming.  So sad to have the frost so early this year, since last year we got tomatoes into November.

Then I moved on to the flower beds, clippers flying, as I cut back my summer beauties, petals gone, stems drooping.  The annuals pulled from roots out–marigolds and yellow beauties and zinnias and dahlias.  Many of the perennials now down to the earth–coneflowers, daisies, white asters, bachelor buttons,  several varieties of black-eyed Susans, bee balm.  A few still remain–gorgeous plum asters, grasses changing color like the trees, mums, gilardia, more purple sedum.  The trellises put away, the hoses rolled, bee houses  replaced with pumpkins and gourds to supply a little lingering color.

Alas, there will be more to cut and bag as November approaches, sweating in the late autumn days, as we lament the end of summer, the floral and vegetable garden.  But we will start planning for next’s years garden in the winter months, waiting for the frown ground to thaw.  C

 

Patti’s Private Pumpkin Patch

The garden smells of decay, the leaves drying and swirling, flowers blackening, bees swarming for the last of the nectar.  The tomatoes are fading, the pumpkins ripening, neon shades of orange, some still a faded green.  They are stocked in bins outside the grocery and hardware stores, gourds in nets, ready for picking–and payment by weight.

But, my friend Patti has been visiting a pay-by-the-carload pumpkin patch north of the IL border for fifteen years, packing the car with a rainbow of pumpkins. We played a couple hour of hooky to visit her secret spot earlier this week, gathering pumpkins on their opening day.  What fun we had on a lovely autumn afternoon!  The first car in, we parked by an open field dotted with pumpkins, scattered gourds on the ground. We traipsed back and forth, pumpkins in hand, tiny ones in a bucket piling higher, the trunk filling.

babies

Once the car was filled with green and orange pumpkins, tall and round and skull-shaped ones, the search was on for the elusive white pumpkin.  We wandered in the fields, sneaking a few more treasures, but we only found four small white ones intermingled with the orange ones.

A full load!

All this, for only $65.  Plus an afternoon of  sun, searching through fields, spending time with a good friend.  Worth the late nights catching up working. Plus, the porch looks great with the decorations, and the kids are ready to carve them, toasting the seeds.  C

 

Artist Missing

Morning beauty

The elusive artist remained unseen, but his work he left to view.  A lovely site on a foggy morn. C

 

Uneven Garden Bounty

A wintry summer in Chicago has resulted in fewer beach and pool days, evening sweaters in August, lower air conditioning bills and a sadly underwarmed garden.  The biggest loser in my tiny three-step levels and overflowing garden seems to be the teeny sad tomatoes lacking the sun-kissed flavor we usually get.  They usually thrive in the heat, changing from green to a sunburned red that is so delicious.  What a wonderful summer feeling–wandering through the overgrown vines, pulling off the still-warmed fruit, the smell lingering on my fingers long after I come indoors.

Although there are slow and steady handfuls of tomatoes ripening, usually now I am overwhelmed with bowls of tomatoes, seeking out new recipes to try, freezing soups and sauces to last throughout the long midwest winter.  The tiny grape tomatoes are sprouting by the handful, but they are not our everyday favorites.  And I have one beautiful plant that has yet to produce a fruit.  One of my best tomato plants is one that simply re-seeded from last year, growing in the wasteland, climbing up forgotten soccer nets, intertwined with cucumbers hanging over and through the vines.

A first-time cuke grower, they have been bountiful and delicious, so much more flavorful than any store-bought ones I have ever eaten.  We found many uses for them quick overwhelming amount we had,  and there are still a few pickle-sized ones on the vines.  Next year, maybe we will try a variety with fewer seeds, as these all had to be de-seeded the seeds were so large.  But, removing the skin filled the house with an amazing, clean scent of cucumbers (one of my favorites).

The lemon and original-flavored basils are bushy and full, the scent trailing behind as we carry armfuls in to use fresh, cook with, or prepare pesto to last the winter.  All the herbs are lovely: oregano, cilantro, rosemary, two kinds of parsley, dill, tarragon.  I will miss you all when the first frost arrives, except that parsley that can last until snowfall.

Green peppers have been wimpy and thin-skinned all summer.  My best success is the jalapenos.  Firm, spicy, red and green, I pull them in by the handfuls.  I’m looking for new recipes to use them–feel free to pass them along.

Ah well.  As summer winds down, we will enjoy every last item in the garden until we are forced to (sigh-oh no!)  buy pale tomatoes and waxed cucumbers from the grocery store.  And savor the last flavors of summer. C

P.S.  When the dog comes in smelling like a tomato plant at night licking her lips, exactly what is she doing with my tomato plants???

 

Untitled-The Mississippi

I am a stranger to its nuances

its secrets hidden beneath and at each bend,

but its power calls

its history beckons

as flattened waves caress the muddy shores.

Sailboats astride

power boats along

seventy-eight car freight train adjacent

neighboring bridges opposite

one rusted red-brown while

on its glamorous sister

cars traverse the shining pewter span.

Calming,

resolute

alive

current of two sorts: past and water

gulls screeching

crawfish digging

turtles burying

monarch hovering

eagle soaring.

The Mississippi River.

Written on the banks of the Mississippi in Dubuque, IA 9/09  C

 

Writer’s Block

Can you write a lyric? A song? A love letter? A pragraph? An essay? A sonnet? A children’s book? A short story? A heavy tome filled with audaciously elongated verbiage?  A Haiku?

What genre–science fiction? Rants? Chick lit?  Poetry? Anime? Biography?  How-to books of drivel? Mystery? Gore? Fantasy?

When we write, we have our patterns, our styles, our formats.  And when we try to break free from our comfortable mold the words halt, the rhythm disappears, the characters stagnate.

Can I write a book? Should I start it as a short story?  The people call my name, but their secrets remain hidden even from me.  I have the opening on paper, the ending in my brain, the middle parts muddled and confused.

Do I proceed?  Dare to let them live and breathe?  Or keep them locked away forever—because it is easier to return to the familiar structure?  If I create them, I have to confront them and what they do, not avoid their failures, their disappointments, their love, their joys.

The angst of any writer, a dreamer, an artist.  The creation. C

 

Why Bother?

First weeks back to school are a juggling time, with all the outside activities starting, the missing school supplies, tryouts, and open houses.  Everyone I know is busy, just learning their new schedules.  We re-districted our school this summer, so there were many new faces at the elementary school open house this week.  Familiar faces, nervous lost faces, smiling faces, hopeful faces.  I had to go early, as one teacher does a presentation before the meeting starts.  A room of parents, some single, some coupled  with children in 3rd through fifth grade, there to listen to Mr. C.

Of the 20 or so parents in the room, several people stood at the counter that aligns each classroom.  I was stunned, and embarrassed as two dads stood at that counter the ENTIRE half-hour and played with their Blackberrys, texting, checked their emails, surfing internet Porn.  Who knows?  Right in my sight line, I could not stop glancing at them, just waiting, hoping that they would put their metal and plastic appendages away.  How incredibly rude!  Were they so important that they couldn’t listen to the teacher?  If they cared so little, why did they bother coming to the early presentation?  I  hoped that they would find a decorum of civility and put away their toys–but one even had his reading glasses on.

Why not sit and hide it in your lap, under a desk?  Why such a blatant lack of respect for the teacher?  And what a great lesson it would have been for their kids, if they had been present: I am more important than you or your teacher. You have to listen to the teacher, but I do not.  C