Book Review numero uno
Eden’s Outcast
What North American born and raised girl did not grow up with Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women? I just finished the Pulitzer Prize winning biography of Louisa May (sounds like a Dukes of Hazard character) and her father Bronson Alcott (can’t get much more early 19th century Boston than that name) written by John Matteson. Unlike this review, this book was beautifully written. Mr. Matteson begins the book by acknowledging his daughter who ostensibly has taught him a lot about father-daughter relationships. He then spends the next 200 pages, railing against what an egomaniacal dreamer Bronson was. Either this mans loves and sympathizes with Ms. Alcott or he has serious insecurities about his own role as a father.
Seriously though, if you loved Little Women and you identified with and wanted to grow up to be Jo, you would love this book. You get to see just how autobiographical the novel really was. Louisa May was an independent girl who liked to…wait for it…go for runs in the Concord countryside. In a petticoat and leather soled shoes, no less. Her father, who had a penchant for communal living (even with a nudist at one point) and a great love of the Shaker way of life, was great friends with Emerson and Thoreau. Louisa May grew up hanging around these literary greats while her dad and Thoreau went for dips in Walden Pond. Unbelievable, although, after having tried to read Walden on many occasions without success, one can imagine hanging out with the literary greats could have been a bit boring. After all, the transcendentalists were not known for their wanton ways and wild sides.
The great Marmee who, lets face it, was too much of a goodie-goodie to be anything other than annoying to live with, was actually based on her Louisa May’s mother. Abba (not the band but the cute nickname Bronson had for his wife Abigail) lived in destitution while her husband “the reformer” failed at almost every endeavor until his 60’s. Not only did he not make any money, but he believed in charity and veganism. I know, it if one is a vegan, what does one have to give? So, they had to share their few apples and wheat bread, and she was continually darning their linen clothing. On his commune, he didn’t believe in abusing animals to work the fields. A noble gesture, however, he couldn’t seem to keep people there who wanted to work (no great shock there), and as he was naturally a writer, his hands didn’t do so well with the manual labor. Thanks Abba, great job tilling the fields now can you whip me up some hot potato water?
It really comes as no surprise that Louisa May is desperate to help out once the Civil War breaks out. She may have been surrounded by dying men in an army hospital, but at least she’d eat real butter. Unfortunately, the illness she contracts and the treatment she receives leaves her ill for the long remainder of her years. The author engrosses you in this family and their trials. You learn to appreciate that without Bronson and his requirement that all members in the family keep diaries that everyone in the family gets to read-how fun for a teenage girl-and his persistence in keeping his family in debt, the industrious (and likely hungry) Louisa May would not have become the prolific writer she was. Amazingly, she supported her aging parents on her income and managed to take of her mother’s physical and fiscal needs in her later years.
I won’t spoil the entire book for those who want to read 500 pages about a 19th century author and her vegan-commune living-financial failure father. I will just say that Little Women was very autobiographical. After reading this book, I find myself wishing I were less like Jo and more like Louisa May.
I hate recipe quiz
I now hate the Facebook recipe quiz.
Tonight Carm has expanded the facebook page. This has been going on for some time. At first, it was merely joining the national movement towards “sharing”; now, she’s “updating” and “enhancing”. She has taken a movie compatability quiz with my brother. Apparently, they’re cinematic BFF’s. This was all fine. Building relationships, making friends, connecting with folks we haven’t heard from in a while. Until, that is, the recipe quiz entered our lives.
For those who don’t know this little game, it is an online quiz from the sadists at epicurious.com to see who recognizes the recipe from their photo gallery. The more questions you get right, the higher you rate in their kitchen. Some are potato peelers, some are line cooks, some are sous chefs, etc. I don’t know the main prize, I haven’t achieved that yet. After seeing a “potato peeler”, carm decides to rock out the recipe quiz. This, is great. I love to cook, she finds it tolerable. To be fair, she’s a wonderful chef…she’s just anal. She finds it frustrating if exact measurements and exact times are not noted and respected. I tend to be a more fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants-Julia-Roberts-Pretty-Woman sort of girl. It makes her crazy. To find her having an interest in the culinary arts is, in my mind, an attempt at bonding. How wrong I can be.
Today, while I was at work, she came home from her job and took a few quizzes (yes, a few because there is a need to win). When I arrived home I was greeted with “You’ll never guess what I was ranked” today. This is a statement to which there is NO appropriate response. I waited. “I took the recipe quiz! What do you think I would be ranked?”
Again, there is no appropriate response. I threw out a few ideas.
“Dishwasher!” This was my first idea…..it was not met well.
“Firestarter!” Playfully recalling the first meal she made for me when she ignited a paper towel. The smile on her face was fading to a grimace. I tried to evoke the memories of our many breakfasts.
“Microwaver!”
“Toaster?”
I was starting to lose confidence. I was clearly not getting the clues and it was going to cost me the last glass of wine from the bottle tonight. She gave me a hint. “What….do….I….do…while…you…cook?”
“Neatener?!” It’s true. She’s really good at it.
“Card player?” We do play gin while I’m cooking sometimes…..
The answer, sadly, was “salad maker”. You have to understand that I grew up with my mom making the most fabulous dressing that I have been trying to replicate for TEN YEARS. Carm gets it after two tries. She has mastered the dressing. And I have neglected this skill.
So, now, she has elevated herself in the game and in my life as the one who can make the perfect salad. I will be thinking a lot about this day and the fun we had laughing about it until our stomachs hurt.
I have a lot of time to think now that I sleep on the couch.
Homeowner’s Ass-ociations
I would like to take a poll. No, it is not national politics I’m curious about. I could delve into some commentary about the current economy or some ponderings about what life would be like if Palin were president. Sure, it would get laughs but it would be so easy, it would insult both of us. Instead, my poll is about local politics.
Who lives in a neighborhood with a Homeowner’s Association?
Who is an actual part of a Homeowner’s Association?
How did these people get appointed to this group?
On whose authority to they derive their power?
In my little relatively homogenous neighborhood, we have an HOA (how cute is that) and it is run by a very reasonable man. We call him il presidente. He’s nice, he does good things for our community, he believes in community, he takes pictures of naked women as a hobby. I mean really, how could it be better. Integrity with a hint of scandal, just what I love in a president. Under his watchful eye, and likely lens, dues get collected, the parking strips remain mowed, and the entrance has tended shrubbery. Every few months the neighbors (you have to understand this means 10 houses) get together and squabble over how the parking strip gets mowed and who trims the shrubbery. Apparently these talks get heated but having never actually attended, I have no room to comment.
The unfortunate step-child for our HOA is, no joke, the ARC (Architectural Review Committee). It seems that there is great concern that one of us is going to whip out a wheel-less 1984 Corolla on cinderblocks onto the front yard next to the above-ground pool and we need someone in authority standing by to beat them.
As you might remember from previous conversations, I have a slope in my back yard that is held together by a tenacious Wandering Jew that is always being trampled by the hound. The sloping unfortunately extends to the back of the house where the foundation is increasingly exposed. It is time for a retaining wall and a patio. I went to the same folks that did some other work in the neighborhood and are using them to build this very complex wall and floor. Enter the ARC.
Again, I would like to point out the beauty of the backyard plan is in its simplicity (and coincidentally cost effectiveness)….retaining wall and patio in tasteful pavers. There are no fountains, water features or Buddhist meditation areas. Despite the fact that no one can see this area unless they go through the back gate while being molested by a 100 lb drooling bloodhound, an official “plan” needs to go through the WHC-HOA-ARC. A friend draws up a to scale drawing of the area complete with computer generated shrubs (which lets face it, I won’t be able to afford until next year), and I send it in along with an official letter and a brief description of my need to prevent my house from sliding down an eroding hill (which I do think would actually take out the Wandering Jew).
I was then informed that the WHCHOA-ARC would need to meet and possible go to my backyard and look at the offending area. …you know, before they could make a decision…..are you kidding. Then I was then privy to the email banter that went back and forth between members of the WHC-HOW-ARC.
Member 1
“We are leaving early on Thursday morning for ten days. Based upon the description you provided I would have no objections.
If everyone else can meet you guys go ahead without me. I do think it is important that we have plans in hand (not promised) before we give her an answer. “
…wtf….
Member 2
“Were the attachemtns on the previous email considered “plans”?”
….no, a drawing of the wall and floor that is to scale isn’t a plan….we wanted to give you something pretty to tack up on the fridge.
I won’t bore you with the remainder of the communications. I just want to know, what on earth do you do for a living that gives you the time to examine , meet and discuss, and come to a decision about what your neighbors do in their backyard.
Again I can’t understate the complexity of my request, wall…..floor. I informed the WHC-HOA-ARC that a more sophisticated rendition of wall and floor was going to cost extra because, it’s so *$#%#-ing easy, the landscape architect didn’t need to draw it. This sent them into a tailspin. I was not privy to the ensuing debate over this little development.
Eventually, my request was granted, and as I sit here typing, 5 men are laboring in the backyard to build aforementioned wall and floor. There have been more delays, including waiting for the city to mark the yard for cable and gas lines but they finally started. Of course, their first step is to dig up the sprinkler system as it, naturally, runs right under where the wall is going to be.
Maybe I should have seen a plan.
Ms. steps
It may have been noticed by the large fan base created by this blog (I believe there are four of you), that there has been a small break in entries. Well fear not gentle reader, I have returned to entertain both of you with the latest garden calamities. I will not go into detail about why I have been reluctant to blog; I will just mention that Mother Nature is indeed a woman and a fickle one at that. There I am, trying to do my part and composte, and M.N, bitch slaps me across the face (literally) with a branch of poison ivy. I would go into detail about the eyelid swollen shut, the pruritic lesions that covered my body, and the general misery induced by being itchy on steroids, but I wouldn’t want to be accused of dredging the waters of your emotions for some sympathy. I won’t even try to describe the looks on patients’ faces when I would walk into their room and introduce myself as their caregiver. Although, I might say that I have a new empathy for lepers.
Anyway, yesterday I made a huge error. You never know, when you start living with someone, the little phrases, actions or inactions that will throw them into a state of indignation. I really don’t know how it happened. I was merely preparing for a lovely Sunday morning walk with my canine and my human best friend and suddenly I found myself on the front porch by myself with the dog. This would have been ok I guess but I could still hear the ranting, raving and pacing going on inside the nice air conditioned home that I thought we co-habited well together. Like most major melt-downs, it started very simply (I’m sure the Germans said the same thing “all we did was shoot von Bismark, what’s the big deal?”, or in early America, “what’s the problem with a little tea in the harbor?”).
I was looking at the website listed on the milk carton (www.organicvalley.coop…..awesome), and was reading about lovely families who lived picture perfect lives on idyllic 300 acre organic farms. Here, modern day families with actual teenagers, lived in and amongst nature in 100 year old farmhouses that now had WiFi. They had real life cows in their yard, and watched the sun set every night over their land (granted they were still working at this time of day). Their children were smiling and freckled. They hugged each other and wore their t-shirts with organic slogans on them. Interns would come to their farms from all over the world to learn their farming practices and some farmers would set aside calves for them so that at the end of their internship, they would have a “starter-herd”. Can you imagine anything so lovely? They make their own butter and cream, bake their own bread, and some of them have “espresso hours” in the afternoon every day to partake of fresh fruit and coffee and discuss their day. The children are neither pouting nor pierced, there is no synthetic coloring to their hair, and they appear to be working away happily for the sake of the farm.
That was when it happened. I dreamily announced, “I want a farm”.
The response was swift and powerful. “No! You are NOT getting a farm! I am NOT a farmer, I do NOT want a farm and if YOU want a *#$%&#-ing farm, you better just drop me now”
(…it continued)
“Can you see me in OVERALLS? Do you see ME dealing with animal SHIT? I am a CITY MOUSE. I can barely deal with the animals and the dirt they track in now, can you imagine us on a *#Q&#-ing farm? And, YOU are afraid of snakes. Don’t you think that there are SNAKES on a farm? Do I need to MENTION the poison ivy incident? [now this was a low blow] You are ALLERGIC to nature! You wouldn’t last a week! You would be walking along the farm, see a snake, have a heart attack, fall into a patch of poison ivy. Your skin would start melting off you before the heart attack would have a chance to kill you. You would be dead and I would be stuck with the *#&&#^%-ing farm! And I AM NOT A FARMER!”
At this point, I was kicked out of the house to walk the dog by myself.
So, it looks like, I will be working in my little garden from now on. I was given permission to expand it, as long as somebody came and took out the poison ivy. There will be no fresh butter and cream from this household, I guess my espresso hour will have to continue to be at Starbucks. No fresh eggs either…unless….I can get the cats to do something spectacular……I think I’ll keep these little ideas to myself.
Mo’ mentum
A week with rockstar friends has raised the domestic productivity bar at our house. Not only did we have an amazing time with great people but we also inched up the steep learning curve of being adults. It’s hard to describe what novices Carm and I are at life (especially compared to our same-aged friends) without the use of bad analogy. Think about your third grade handwriting and then compare it to that of the mimeographed note home written in the perfect script of your third grade teacher. Suddenly, keeping all the m’s between the solid and dotted line pales in comparison to the bubbly writing of Ms. Sharpe who didn’t need the lines to begin with. As we were unable to take the week off, Lisa decided to use her vacation to act as Rosie (doesn’t everyone remember the Jetsons?). We didn’t leave for work without a carefully packed lunch sack filled with individually tupperwared items…clean. Being good people we did what any humble human with a homemade gourmet meal would do….we bragged shamelessly. I even went so far as to offer a cafeteria trip to colleagues:
Me: “Hey everyone. I’m going to run to the cafeteria, does anyone want anything?”
Colleagues: “That would be great! What were you going to get?”
Me: “Oh. Me? I was just going to grab a fork. I have a freshly made dish of porcini and polenta with homemade chocolate cookies to eat today…..but I’d be happy to grab you a day-old sandwich while I’m there.”
Unfortunately, as all good things must come to an end, so too must our friends return to their own lives….jerks. We decided however, that we were not going to let this momentum drop. Before they had pulled out of the driveway, we were doing laundry, neatening, organizing and prepping the garden for a garlic patch.
On our travels one afternoon, Lisa (after she had cleaned out our fridge and washed every piece of laundry we own…yup even the undies) and I went to the garden center and learned about garlic. In the state of North Carolina, you can apparently plant garlic any time of year and harvest it as needed when it starts to flower. Sounds like my kind of project, plant when you’re ready, harvest when you need. The woman we spoke to said that she leaves it in the ground until she’s ready to use it AND that she has some that’s been in the ground for a year. In retrospect, she did not mention if that particular year-old-bulb was any good but I’m going to play the blind optimist on this one. The photos should be an accurate catalog of our efforts today, albeit they do not show the grass-clod-throwing contest that we engaged in.
After planting our two foot square area of garlic, we cleaned up and started the home organization. I’m telling you, we were on a roll. This lasted approximately 20 minutes before we decided that what we really wanted to do was watch “Juno”. We then napped, read, and hung out with the neighbors. But I would say, that our momentum lasted a good 2 hours, which is an excellent start for us. After all, the caterpillar does not become the butterfly in one day, we need a good solid rest in our cocoon before great transformation can occur.
Arborius laborium
The real reason for this blog is to chronicle my gardening efforts. As a new homeowner, I am excited about the prospect of a garden. This excitement lasts about as long as it takes for me to walk from my computer/desk/TV to the backyard. At this point, as I look out at a great expanse of woods, my enthusiasm wanes a little. As I trudge out to the garage to get my gardening tools, which smell of the hound droppings they were most recently employed to pick up, the enthusiasm is down to a general interest. When I walk out to the “unfinished” portion of the backyard, I realize the deception of scale….it looked a little smaller from the comfort of the living room. My enthusiasm now a passing curiosity. By the time my rake gets entangled in the first root system, I remember the joy of my previous townhouse and the 3 pots that constituted my garden. At this point I can’t recall the feeling of enthusiasm and I am back on the couch with a beer and an episode of Desperate Housewives on DVD.
Well, no longer. This spring I’m going to turn my black thumb green. I’m going to put in a patio, grow vegetables and herbs, keep my rose bushes neatly trimmed and beat the weeds into submission.
We’ll start with the backyard. If you’re not already aware, the previous owner of the house is a fastidious woman with no great love for animals. The backyard had some lovely grass, then a creek running parallel to the house, beyond which is 1/3 of an acre at most with some scattered trees and random ground cover. It is in the very back where my neonatal compost heap has begun…..I think I’m up to 6 egg shells, a few avocado pits, and some carrot shavings. The first order of business after moving into the house was putting up a fence so that my adorable lummox can run free without the need for a leash….or a dogwalker.
The yard began very nicely, it has quite a slope to it down to the right which you might gather from the Over this slope grew a fantastic Wandering Jew plant. 
The purple flowers were gorgeous, and the plant’s succulent stems were a lovely change from the spindly plants that grow in Indiana. They also, it turns out, provide excellent traction for large quadrupeds to get to the bottom of a sloped surface quickly (going around said slope clearly takes too long on a bloodhound’s busy schedule). I was certain that once a path was worn through the W Jew, that the carnage would stop. Sadly, the gestapo of Wyatt would not rest until the plant was obliterated.
That’s it. Here is my first task. Clearly he can be trusted with neither plants nor grass (his urine apparently, like his breath, is lethal) so I will eliminate the slope, build a small but elegant retaining wall and cap it off with a patio. The remainder of the yard will get mulched so he can track his large muddy paws no longer. It was time to consult a landscaper.
My recommendation to those considering a landscaper: consider a reasonable price for the materials and labor that you think would be appropriate for your project and then triple it. This will bring you closer to the actual price and it avoids the embarrassment of your potential contracter having to help you off the floor after you’ve fallen from your stool.
I’m no idiot. Despite my concussion, I knew then that it was time for a second opinion……tune in next time as I describe limping through the Spring Garden Show 2008.
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