Weirding my way into winter

 

Weirding my way into winter

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No longer can I remain in denial. I am an addict. I am addicted to sunlight.

When I lived in Poulsbo, Washington, on the Kitsap Peninsula where it rained ten months of the year, I remember how hard it was by February to keep up my spirits.  That is normal behavior, pretty much.

Now, these years later, after a mere couple (2) cloudy days with rain, and I begin to wonder if a Prozac Big Gulp would really work.

Having grown up in a country of constant drought, I love the rain. However, I love it more here, where (usually) the days have a mix of sun and rain (when it comes in season). When it is weird, like now, not so much.

Three weeks now, well entrenched in the Dry Season, October to June, three weeks, I repeat, three weeks of rain. The skies have emptied their black crumpled doomy-gloomy clouds of rain, rain, rain every day. Makes me want to lay my head on the chopping block like a chicken who gave up, go a-head, ready for the pot. (Sorry, couldn’t help the pun.)

When we are gifted with two days of sunshine, sunlight, sunglow, glorious, beautiful, warm, brilliant, sizzling, sun, as we are today, were yesterday, ah. Happiness is.

Forecast for tomorrow is cold, cloudy, doomy-gloomy and rain.

Nobody wants to give attention to the words “climate change”. Simple. I understand. Overworked becomes overlooked. For my own benefit, I’ve changed the words. Admit it or not, we are well entrenched in Weather Weirding. (Along with other kinds of weirding but . . . )

Winter is bad enough without going weird. With harvest well under way, thousands of acres of corn are now ruined, good only for silage. Cane harvest has only just begun so should be okay except for the small amount of cut cane on the ground.

On a personal level, cold and wind and wet often find me huddled shivering in a blanket. In an effort to take better care of myself, I splashed out.

A good bathrobe is a lovely and decadent way to treat oneself with gentle care. I never knew that until now. After an evening shower, I cuddle in my plush hooded robe, double wrapped in front, which almost drags on the floor, with a book and a cup of steaming tea with a candy cane, warm and cozy, waiting for my hair to dry.

I take my pleasures when and where I can, luxuriate in such simple joys. I give them my attention, thank them for participating in my life. Makes me feel rich.

Look out the window at my dog, Lola. There she is, on her back in a puddle of sunshine, legs uplifted into the air, a look of silly satisfaction on her face. She is a good model for mental health.

In the Garden Weirding department, remember the lime tree I witched a few months ago. I had tried being nice. I had even threatened that if she didn’t pop out some limes soon, I would rip her out and replace her with a guava. Then a friend who looks good in pointy hats and is handy with a broom, suggested I witch my barren lime tree. Feeling foolish, I followed instructions. My lime tree today, who can say how or why, coinkydinky I’m sure, has branches so heavy with fruit that some are near to kissing the ground.

The Weirding part though is not that. In addition to limes, she is giving me lemons. Uh huh. Lemons. And the same branches also have limes. Mostly limes. Some lemons. Explain that! Weird!

If I could, I would follow Lola’s example and go lie on my back in the sun and soak it up the sun before the clouds invade. If I get my creaky bones down to the ground, I fear I might never get up! I suppose I could roll under a lime tree and suck on a lemon.

However, it is clouding up and rain is on the way. Where did I put my bathrobe?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Raining in December

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A Different Kind of Day

 

            A Different Kind of Day

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Interesting how we carve time to suit particular purposes. I won’t look it up, but thinking about it, I’d not be surprised that our universal way of dividing our days started with the Industrial Revolution, as a way of getting the workers to be where and when the bosses wanted them to be. That is as political as I am willing to be this morning.

My day began yesterday, actually. It rained yesterday, so that jiggered up walk times with Lola, but we managed to wriggle them into slots that worked for us. I don’t walk in the rain and Lola is definitely not a water dog. She is a huddle in the warm dog house dog.

Then there was a very large and very loud wedding at El Eden, just a couple kilometers down from my house. Weddings around here are not quiet and seemly affairs. This one was huge. It began early with music blaring from a wall of speakers, punctuated by fireworks, day and night. Music is live, with bands lined up to cater to every taste, beginning with the brand of music we older folks tend to like and remember, and I’m grumphing here, it is downhill from there.

I’ve always wanted to walk over, just show up, if asked, I’m a friend of the bride or the groom, whichever. For the food. Oh, the mountains of food. Fill a plate, sit in a corner and watch the people. This would be, of course, early in the event. Food, of course, is accompanied with quantities of liquids.

Back when I used to go with Kathy to her resort, we watched a lot of weddings. Thus, I know by the noise level, pretty much what is going on down the way. Eventually the elders retire and the youngers take to the floor. We would say, Rock and Roll.

Until five in the morning, I kid you not. So that was my night. Fortunately, even with interruptions, I am an easy sleeper. So I woke at pretty much my usual time, according to the light. Sort of. I don’t use a clock for wake up. Sunlight, even muted, does that job.

Something seemed off, the day didn’t sound right, but after ablutions, I got dressed, ready to go walk my dog. Looked out the window and all plans came to a stop.

It could have been raining all night from the looks of it. And it looks like it could rain all day. Sorry, Lola.

This is our third rain in a week. The first one blessed us with more rain than we had in the entire (nearly non-existent) rainy season. Farmers are well into corn harvest. Cane harvest just began. Oops. Not good timing.

My tomatoes are beautiful and in full blossom, so not sure what this will mean for them. Everything else must be soaking up the moisture with gratitude.

I feel discombobulated. My whole routine out the door just turned in the door. I had to turn my light on above my desk. I never turn on a light in the morning. Natural light is plenty. I have to laugh at myself. I look out the window. Raining. The forecast for the day hasn’t changed in the last hour and a half. The forecast still says rain all day, all night. 

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 7, 2023

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I Don’t Know

 

I Don’t Know

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I don’t. Truly, I don’t know.

Life is so much more interesting when I don’t know. When I “know”, I limit myself to where it is difficult for new and different information to filter into my brain. Hey, because I already know! A closed door. Right?

Take something simple, like tortillas. What is there not to know about tortillas?

I feel pretty puffed up that I can make decent corn tortillas. I seldom make flour tortillas because they always come out looking like amoebas.

I had leftover sweet potatoes, so on a whim, I decided to invent sweet potato-flour tortillas. Okay, I borrowed the idea from rotis. Flat bread is flat bread, I figured. If it works in India, it should work in Mexico.

My Grandma taught me to cook, and even her written recipes called for things such as “butter the size of a walnut” or a pinch of this and a handful of that. So when confronted with a recipe, I look over the list of ingredient, frequently substitute, add or subtract: kitchen chemistry.

Though I use a Mexican foods cookbook I’ve had since 1975, with recipes from various regions of the country, I tend to use recipes as, well, suggestions. The other day I decided that maybe I don’t know, so I read the directions. Knead the dough? Let it rest in a cool place before rolling? Who would have thunk it? I didn’t know.

In my usual fashion, I mixed my sweet potato and flour, salt, shortening in proportions that seemed right to me, drizzled water, kneaded the dough and put it in the refrigerator to rest.

All my life I’ve made pies. I roll out a mean pie dough, perfect every time. I allow myself a sweet burst of pride over my pie dough. So rolling tortillas should be a slam dunk, right?

Wrong. I mean, I’ve nothing against amoebas, but an amoeba doesn’t hold fillings the same way a perfect round tortilla holds them. For those of you not keen on reading all the directions, in case there is another of us, form the ball, flatten it with your hand, roll once, quarter turn, roll once, quarter turn, roll, turn until your beautiful round of dough is the thinness you desire.

Pretty slick, eh? See what I mean? I could have been making my own glorious flour tortillas all these years, but I already “knew”, thus limiting myself.

That’s a pitiful small example, but, believe me, it works on a larger scale with important stuff.

Dreaded winter is here. During late November, December, January and early February I am an icicle. This year I did something different. I spent money. I bought a different kind of space heater with hope. Hope that it might work warmly. Then I went all out and blew my limited budget on a posh, thick, men’s extra-large bathrobe. Men’s because men’s are better made, and larger to double drape over my legs.

The day after Thanksgiving I pulled my heater out from behind the chair in the corner and read the directions. See, one can teach an old dog new tricks. Plugged it in and within two minutes, I knew my heater was worth every hard-scrabbled peso. See me smile?

Last night, after my shower, I pulled my bathrobe on and fell in love. I felt like I was held in warm, cuddly arms.

Speaking of love, I have fallen head over heels in love with a real man.

My morning routine includes short readings, from poets, other writers. They make me feel good, make me think, give me something to chew on throughout the day. A few months ago I added Gerald Manley Hopkins, 1844-1889, English poet and Jesuit priest, to my list, simply because so many writers referred to him, a stranger to me. My degree was in History. I missed a lot of Literature.

For weeks and weeks, I wondered, why am I reading GMH? What was so brilliant about him? But gamely, I kept going, until one morning I had an on-the-road-to-Damascus experience.

I got it! How could I not see it? How could I not know? How could I be so ignorant? The man is beautiful, brilliant, genius, full of love and light and life. I’m his. Now I can hardly wait for our morning tryst.

So, see. Every day now I try to remind myself that I just don’t know. If I don’t know, incredible gifts tend to fall in my lap, like love.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December? Already?

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Pardon My Turkey

 

Pardon My Turkey

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One of the many things I have come to respect about the Mexican culture, the Mexican people, is their ability to celebrate. Times may seem grim and the larder near empty, but they somehow will scrape together beans, tortillas, tomatoes and peppers, gather family and neighbors into their homes to share a feast, and maybe even shoot off a few fireworks, always with music in the background, even if from a radio. Remember radio?

We, my friends, in our country, seem to have whipped ourselves up into a real mashed potato mess, appear to be in several varieties of a ‘pickle’, may think no amount of sugar and marshmallows can redeem the yams, despite all this, we could take a page from the book of “Be Happy” from our southern neighbors.

Celebrate. Celebrate that it is snowing. Or that it is not snowing. Or that the water pipes didn’t freeze. Or that you woke up breathing. Or that you have leftovers.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. Most of you, my friends, cooked up a big family dinner, turkey or not, with all the trimmings. How many times have I heard you say, “The best thing about Thanksgiving is the leftovers the next day.”?

Yep. So how about we pile the goodies and build a sandwich, throw on a gob of cranberry sauce, squeeze a slice of pumpkin pie onto the plate, and deliver it to a neighbor, a friend, or, even better, an enemy. (Try that last one, just once.)

Deliver the plate with a few words suggesting that it feels good to celebrate gratitude more often than one day a year, and what better way than with the best of the leftovers, so, here, share with me.

Throughout the year, I might find occasion to share more plates. Just a suggestion. Maybe my chosen recipient throws my offering in the compost bin when I turn my back. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that it sure made me feel good to prepare the plate with my best, just cooked or leftover, no matter, decorated with a sprig of cilantro or rosemary or mint, and share it with a smile.

If we all do something like this once in a while, I guarantee, life will look less messy; will seem just that little bit more kind and gentle. Me, I’m selfish. I do this for me to feel good.

Don’t worry. Be happy. Would you like gravy over your sandwich or in a dish to the side?

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Thanksgiving? Already?

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