Golden glow lays over the land
Praying mantis walks up the window
Storm clouds gently glide through azure
Golden glow lays over the land
Praying mantis walks up the window
Storm clouds gently glide through azure
Later, I graded papers and watched part of John McCain’s funeral, some of which almost brought me to tears. I often disagreed with him but never did I question his passionate love of country, his courage, his willingness to buck the norm, to defy convention when he thought it was the right thing to do. I think he and I shared certain values on which this country is based even if the country as a whole rarely lives up to them. These include the conviction that all people are equal, that everyone deserves justice, and each person carries the right to find his or her own share of happiness without judgment and condemnation from others who may think differently.
Later, while working on the latest book I am writing, I found handwritten recipes written by my grandmother, my mother’s mother, Nellie Narcissus Duke (Kaiser),whose father came here from Switzerland as a child. One, for dumplings, remains readable. The other written in pencil on the front and back of thin paper is fragile. It is for Strawberry Shortcake. If Grandmother Duke ever made dumplings, I do not remember it. Mother did–chicken and dumplings. I wonder if she used this recipe. I do remember conversations about the shortcake because Dad did not like strawberry shortcake even though he liked strawberries. I took photos of these two recipes written decades ago in my grandmother’s handwriting.
Mom filled the white bowl with black raspberries.
I pour Bossie’s white milk over them,
watched it form a pattern,
flowing around the raspberries–
a design in deep purple and white.
I thought it almost too beautiful to eat.
I was seven.
Now I rarely find black raspberries. Red ones won’t do. They lack intensity, the beauty. Every year we went to Hunt’s Orchard north of Amazonia, Missouri, to buy black raspberries, took them home, sorted to discard the imperfect ones, then threw them way behind the garden next to the timber–huge trees, oak and hickory. Eventually, these imperfections transformed into thriving black raspberry bushes. We had our own patch, created from the discarded, the imperfect.
Mom fed us fresh raspberries for a few days. The rest she used to create her famous pies, froze a freezer full. Baked, they transformed a winter kitchen into the warmth and sweetness of my mother’s family devotion.
I bake pies, many kinds of pies. I have never made a black raspberry pie.
Note: this will be published in an upcoming publication by the Story Circle Network. In July my daughter, grandson, and I went to Hunt’s Orchard–yes, it still exists. I asked about black raspberries. We were too late; the season was over. The timber behind the garden area was to the right in this photo. The person who bought the land years later bulldozed down all the big trees.
Monday I went to my new job, finished decorating my new room with a few posters, a giant puma drawing from one of my former students, and an old National Geographic photo of a giant redwood tree with several men stationed at varying heights. This year I will be teaching English Language Arts to grades 7-10, a writing class, and Spanish 1 and 2. The 7th and 8th graders will be a new experience. However, several have already come by to meet me, chat, hang out. Hard to knock that for starters. It is a nearly new building out in the country surrounded by fields and pasture with a feed lot down the road–ranching country where rodeo is a major activity.
On the east side of my classroom a giant window takes up 1/3 of the wall. A small section of the window even opens. Twice I have opened it and listened to the birds singing outside. The window sill can hold several plants because it is long and at least one foot wide. Plant shopping occurs this weekend. Students begin next week.
This recipe, one of my favorites, will appear in my soon to be released cookbook full of family and life stories about food, family, and friends. I made this tonight around eight. As usual, I made enough for leftovers for another meal. Makes it easier if you work or are really busy.
Two small cod loins or one large cut in half
3 gloves garlic, chopped
1 poblano pepper, deseeded and coarsely chopped
Fennel essential oil
Lemon essential oil
Vegetables of your choosing cut into bite sized pieces
1 small handful of pepitas
I vary this by using different vegetables, e.g. spinach, Swiss chard, Brussel sprouts, beets, carrots. Tonight I used Brussel sprouts.
Saute garlic in olive oil until golden. If you use beets or carrots, sauce them with the garlic until nearly tender. If you use spinach, beet greens, Swiss chard, add them last.
Add the cod loins to garlic mixture and sprinkle each one with several drops of lemon and fennel essential oil. If you do not use essential oil, sprinkle with ground fennel and add deseeded lemons. If using Brussel sprouts, cut them in slices and add at the same time as the cod. When the cod is half cooked, add the poblano peppers and cook only until cod is done and the peppers are cooked but still bright green. If using spinach, etc., add them just before cod and peppers are done and stir until wilted. Sprinkle pepitas over the rice and vegetables. Serve over pasta or rice.
Note: I have also used fresh fennel for this recipe. If you decide to do this, saute it along with the garlic.
Served over Basmati rice. Salad is red bell peppers, red cabbage, romaine lettuce, radishes, and scallions with roasted sesame seed oil for dressing.
Yucca will take over if you let it.
Every summer after the blooms dry, I tackle them with long,
red-handled clippers and cut off long stalks.
Not bothering to put on boots, I set out in black and grey Chacos,
cutting stalks in places unreachable by tractor.
I climb down to a rough area, open these long, red-handled clippers,
chop off the dead blossoms, then look down.
She lies there, her body slightly bigger than the size of my upper arm,
fat, not long.
A snake stretched out, only 1/8 inch from the front of my Chacos.
I look again. Crap. She’s a rattlesnake, one of those short,
stout prairie rattlers, perfectly blending with the grey and brown
rocks and soil.
Slowly, I inch backward, taking care not to fall on the steep slope.
When several feet away, I run to the barn, grab two shovels off their hooks,
run back. She’s gone. I search everywhere around.
I never find her.
I walk into the department store,
plan to pay a bill, order a griddle for the new stove,
see a bald headed 30 something with a big, brown beard.
He is not what I get.
A younger man walks up, “Can I help you?”
Explaining what I want, I look.
Caramel skin, five inches taller than I,
obsidian ringlets falling, not long,
cut short to a form a big ball, a glossy poof.
He’s not too thin, not too chubby.
Straight nose, not too long, not too short.
Arched eyebrows, oval face.
He’s drool worthy.
It’s ridiculous. I’m old enough to be his grandmother,
Do we ever get too old to look, to appreciate?
My mother grew up in Fortesque, Missouri, a once thriving town which now contains 32 inhabitants. Mom’s dad owned a farm right on the Missouri River near the Rulo, Nebraska bridge. Then eventually, it was my grandmother’s and then belonged to Mom and her two siblings. We went to visit and found the river really high.
For years we crossed the Rulo, Nebraska, bridge and came to a restaurant at this site to eat catfish, carp, and all the trimmings. A few years ago a really large flood destroyed it. This is the new building but obviously it is closed because of high water.
Back on the Missouri side looking across the soybean fields. Strange sight to see irrigation proceeding at the same time the river is high. The Corp of Engineers is releasing water upstream where the river is really high. The bluffs in the distance are across the river in Kansas.
Several times in my life I have seen water at least 15 feet deep from bluff to bluff. A few years back I knew people who lived inside a big levee and for nearly three months had to go to and from their house in a boat. Needless to say, that year no one raised a crop of anything.
Without levees, the river would be over all the fields now.
I walked down the main levee and took this photo under the Rulo, Nebraska, bridge.
While in the river bottom we decided to take the loop drive through the Loess Bluffs National Wildlife Refuge. The last time I was here five years ago, there was more water and fewer lilies. The smell of their blooms permeated the air.
Apparently, this is bull frog heaven because they were certainly actively croaking. In October and November approximately 400,000 geese and ducks migrate through here.
At the north end of the drive through the refugee this beautiful sight occurs.
The tunnel between the trees continues for several miles.
Later when we drove back to St. Joseph, we drove down to the nature center and the river’s edge there.
No swimming in the Missouri River. They warn people every year, but alas, people still try and drown. The river moves fast and the undertow will pull even strong swimmers under.
I was not happy out here. Ema, my daughter, insisted. If a person fell in, there is no hope. She, however, keep bouncing around and playing on it.
Even though I grew up in this area, I am always amazed at just how green and wet it is there even when they have a dry spell like now. Plus the humidity–not like here in the Panhandle of Texas–it does not cool off that much at night in Missouri.
This is he house where I grew up north of Fillmore, Missouri. My dad lived here in this house from 10 year old to 90. He died in the month after his 90th birthday. The house stands on the land my great grandfather established after he arrived from Switzerland in the mid 1800s.
This is the only building left at the site of my grandparents original house and barns. It is an old carriage house. In this photo my daughter and grandson are taking a look. One of the original stained glass transome windows from the house hangs in my own house. My grandparents were Lilliebelle Werth and Pleasant Lightle.
When I was a child, this was once a chicken house but mostly the farrowing house for our registered Hampshire hogs. Later I learned that when first built during Prohibition, Dad held dances here which the sheriff checked to make sure there was no alcohol.
This is corn and soybean country. The view reaches across the land from the back of the home place. We met the young couple who own the house now. They keep everything spic and span just like my parents did. I am grateful.
Antioch Christian Church where we attended church when I was a child. My mom’s fruit pies were famous here.
One of the highest wine growing regions in the world exists in northern Argentina in the Calchaqui Valley. This lovely hotel where we spent the night reminded me of New Mexico.
The hotel garden.
The ceiling above the walkway.
The walkway from the garden to the front of the hotel. Spanish colonial architecture and design seem much the same everywhere.
Cafayate is small and lovely. Like every other city, it too has a square with a church on one side. We went there instead of Mendoza, the city most people in the US associate with Argentinian wine, because Hugo, Gaston’s dad, prefers the wine from there over that from Mendoza.
The church on the square in Cafayate.
Many trees were in bloom there. Gaston’s mom and I collected some seeds from this one and I have two plants growing in pots at my house.
More colonial architecture.
Although most of this valley is filled with vineyards from one mountain range to the other, I did see fields as well.
Behind the hotel where we parked the truck, the guy was raising fighting cocks. I never had the chance to take of photo of them.
After a leisurely breakfast at the hotel, we needed to the oldest winery in the valley.
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