The Onion Fairy and Other Tales

 

            The Onion Fairy and Other Tales

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I grew up reading Hans and the brothers Grimm and Aesop. I love fairy tales and fables. Back then we had the unexpurgated versions, full of blood and guts. I’m not saying that was better. I’m simply saying that is how it was.

The stories, which I read over and over, never gave me nightmares nor did they leave me pining for the handsome prince to hack his way through the brambles and rescue me from the wicked step-mother. Naïve as I was, I knew that wouldn’t happen.

A few months ago, in a set-apart corner of my garden, I made a compost pit. Frequently, a couple thoughtful neighbors contribute their kitchen parings to my pile. If my kitchen door is closed, I often will find a bag of bits hanging on one of the fussy details of my wrought iron gate. When I take my own kitchen debris out to the pit, I grab theirs to dump also.

We all win. Our kitchen trash cans never stink. In a turn-about I cannot explain, the compost pit smells like fresh new earth.

The other morning, going out for my walk, I found a bag hanging on my gate. I gave it nary a look nor a thought.

Later, I grabbed the bag, and instead of carrot peels and over-sprouted potatoes, I found a perfectly wonderful bag of onions. My very first thought was “The Onion Fairy came by and gifted me.” Similar to the Tooth Fairy. Except I didn’t have to sacrifice something in return.

Speaking of the Tooth Fairy, my daughter told me that children are getting $10 and $20 dollar bills in return for their baby teeth. Inflation. Crimininaly. (Root word—crime) I’ve lost two adult teeth. They should have been worth a few thou. I saw nary a penny. But, in all fairness, neither did I put the well-used teeth beneath my pillow in hopes. Now there is a fairy tale that should be re-written.

Onions and tomatoes. My kitchen is overrun with onions and tomatoes. Tomatoes are from my own vines. They are so heavily laden that I’ve had to pick green tomatoes so the weight of the fruit doesn’t tear down the whole vine. I gave away two large colanders of green tomatoes last week. Tomatoes ripen quickly, so every day, tomatoes sneak into my meals.

Living alone, I have no restrictions or restraints on meals. I eat what I want when I want. I had a couple days when I didn’t feel like cooking. I made tomato sandwiches. Tomato and onion. Tomato and mayo. Tomato and lettuce and onion. Tomato and jalapeno and cheese. Tomato and re-fried beans and onion.

My favorite sandwich I concocted with a smattering of peanut butter, mayo and thick tomato slices. All my friends said, “Ewww.” I didn’t say it was gourmet. Think outside the box. It tasted surprisingly good enough to make twice and again.

Here in this area of Mexico we have an expression, “to cut face”. It is easy to figure the meaning.

My neighbor Lani had surgery. The bottom part of her eyelid was falling down and needed to be clipped and stitched up. Lani looked like a raccoon which had run into two doorknobs.

When I went to around visit her and saw her face, I figured she needed to be cheered up and what better than a session of cutting face. I told stories and we laughed. We laughed a lot. Most of the stories were on myself. But not all. When I walked home, I thought, not all that we label ‘bad’ is bad. That hour of cutting face was the best medicine. You just never know.

One of my stories involved a huge fifth-wheel camper which looked like it was going to park itself in front of my wall. This is not the campground! I got on my high horse, got quite volubly territorial, pacing my living room, keeping an evil eye on the camper plus a couple cars and the truck pulling it. I mean, I was in a huff.

I was on the phone with my daughter while this beast invaded “my” back yard. Shame on me, to think it “mine”. Lola was outside pitching a fit. Dee Dee told me I sounded more territorial than my dog. That burst my bubble and brought me back to earth. The evil machine finally got turned around and found the campground. I blamed Lola for spinning me up.

Today I have a bowl full of ripe tomatoes. Wonder if Lani would like to find a bag of tomatoes hanging on her gate.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

The Springing Week of March

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Rhubarb and Other Gifts

 

                Rhubarb and Other Gifts 

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I just saw the most marvelous little creature clinging to a hand towel out on my clothesline. I’ve no idea what it is, have never seen anything quite like it. Wondering what it could be, I lightly brushed it with my fingertips and it spread out, moved a few steps and settled down again.

The body is much like a walking stick, wings closely tucked. Spread out, the wings appeared silvery gray, a lacy, gossamer delicacy. At the tip of each wing was a more defined, darker, star-like shape. It took my breath away.

When I touched it again, it had determined I was not a threat, that I was unlikely to snack on it, and stubbornly stayed put, holding its wings close to the stick body, stingy with its beauty.

I shall not soon forget this little critter. It made me want to hug myself.

The gift of being able to meet that little creature started the ball rolling to turn my attitude around. I’d had a couple overwhelming weeks. I’d let worries pile to a height that seemed insurmountable. On top of friends with cancer, a loved one losing a job, worry about the mental health of both my overworked son and my daughter, rising prices of food, the on-going pandemic effects, let’s just add war. War is not ‘someplace over there’, not any longer. War anywhere is war here. To my mind. And to my hurting heart.

So the arrival of a bunch of gifts soothed my soul, changed nothing on the outside, but rearranged my inside.

Jim, recently arrived from Missouri, clanged the bell at my gate. Jim sends me pictures of his huge garden. I send him reports of my bucket successes and failures. Jim brought me two rhubarb crowns. I miss the mouth-watering tang of rhubarb. I planted the crowns immediately. They may be the first rhubarb crowns ever planted in Jalisco. They may not grow in this country. But the farmer part of me, contrariwise, knows they might grow. That’s worth the try.

Then I prepared dirt in two buckets for artichokes, the seeds a gift from Michelle. With all that possibility, it is hard for my inner farmer to stay depressed. I’ve not had an artichoke in years. Oh, the thought of it!

Then Leo cane, left leeks and a mamey on my patio table, and with a wave, disappeared. I love leeks for a yummy soup. Leeks are a rare find at the Mercado.  

The other rare treat, mamey is a fruit I’ve come to savor. A mamey is shaped like a small tan football, of a size to fit in my cupped palms. The husk is bark-like. When the fruit is soft like an avocado, it is ready to slice, discard the seed, and eat the pulp. I like to scoop out the pulp and whirr it in the blender with milk and make a milkshake. It is equally delicious spooned from its skin to my mouth. Another gift. I only get a couple mamey fruits a year.

Kathy and Richard and Crin also returned this week from Victoria, B.C. by way of Mazatlan. Kathy and Richard are here to finally make this their new home. Kathy brought me coffee beans from Looney Beans, a coffee shop local only to Mazatlan. Just the aroma emanating from the bag put me back in Cerritos, watching the waves roll into the point and crash across the rocks, tasting the brew in the thick white ceramic mug. Ah, heaven.

Crin brought me an owl puzzle she’d knew to be difficult enough for me to appreciate, a former gift to her that is now a gift to me. She also brought me a whisk broom, which might appear to be coals to Newcastle, in this country with the most variety of cleaning supplies I’ve ever seen anywhere, but there is not a whisk broom to be found.

Ben called and we talked two hours. Ben doesn’t call frequently, but when he calls, we yak in marathon style and laugh a lot. His call is always a gift.

Not to be outdone, Dee calls me almost daily, on her way to work, hands free. Not only do we get a morning chat, but she rolls into Vicky’s coffee kiosk where we both enjoy the special flavor of the day. Dee Dee orders hers cold and I get mine piping hot, steam rolling from Montana to Mexico, in my mind. If Dee forgets to order a virtual drink for me, Vicky asks, “What does Mom want?” I can see that makes you smile, so how can you not call that a gift.

I know we are taught that it is better to give than to receive. But sometimes it is better to receive. Sometimes we need a gift to remind us we are loved, whether the gift is a rare creature who spreads its wings or a promise of rhubarb to come or the elusive scent of long-distance coffee, today’s flavor, mint chocolate chip.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 17, 2022

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‘Tis the Season: The Magi, the Santa and the Jaguar

‘Tis the Season: The Magi, the Santa and the Jaguar

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One night last week I risked the icy streets and walked downtown for the Harlem Christmas Stroll. The Harlem Civic Association sponsors this delightful annual event enjoyed by the entire community. It was a perfect night, neither too cold nor too windy. Harlem streets, stores and homes were festive with decorations. Chestnuts roasted over an open fire. A gentleman from out Chinook way had brought in a matched team of horses and a hay wagon and treated the children to rides around town. What most delighted me were the kids dressed up as Christmas presents. Businesses held open house. Several places served food. Over at the library a book sale was in progress. Many people had come garbed in costume. A group of children enacted a live nativity scene. And Santa held court at KB’s Deli.

Santa was the reason I walked downtown. Lately I have been yearning for a special gift. There is scant money in my “car jar” (a line item in my budget). So I reasoned that Santa might bring my heart’s desire and leave it parked in my driveway. I stood back in the corner and waited until there was a break in the line of youngsters who, perched on Santa’s knee, tried to pry loose his beard or eyebrows, yanked his cap, giggled, cried, wet their pants and otherwise created mayhem. They were darling. A young woman took pictures of the little ones with Santa. Everybody beamed.

When my turn finally came, I scooted close and whispered, “Santa, I want a Jaguar. Bring me a yellow Jaguar.”

“A what?”

“You know, the car, a Jaguar. It is the car of my dreams. I want a yellow one.”

Santa held his fingers about two and a half inches apart, raised his right eyebrow, and asked, “Do you mean . . .”

“No, Santa,” I interrupted. “Not a Matchbox toy. I want the car, the real thing.”

Santa shrugged. A wild look came into his eyes. He frantically gestured for another baby to hoist on his knee, a distraction to rescue him from the predicament in which I had placed him. A young mother with a toddler stepped forward and placed her little boy in Santa’s clutches. I slunk out the door.

I am back to plunking spare change into my “car jar”. Many long years ago I learned that if I want a gift of impeccable taste, a gift of unparalleled beauty, I will have to buy it for myself. I cannot rely on someone else to give it to me. Then whatever gift I do receive is a bonus, a surprise. I am not disappointed if I receive an electric skillet instead of an agate ring, because the agate ring already decorates my hand. I bought it myself, just the one I wanted.

Listen closely, you Wise Men, muddling over what to get the special woman in your life. Seldom do I give advice, but since I am on the subject of gifts, I cannot help myself. I give you two rules. Don’t buy an item for her because it is something you want for yourself. Never will I forget the Christmas I received camping gear of the meal preparation variety. I don’t camp. But he did. And, secondly, don’t buy it because she will find useful. In other words, not the electric skillet, the new set of steak knives or the tire chains.

A good rule of thumb is, the more impractical, the better. One can hardly go wrong with gold (in any form), frankincense (translate that into a rare and wondrous perfume) or myrrh (although it might be rather hard to find around these parts and she’d probably rather you bought her cashmere).

Flowers are a great gift for any day. Always choose cut flowers over a potted plant. She might say, “Oh, you shouldn’t have. These blooms won’t last any time at all.” But you know that the center of her heart of hearts just melted into a puddle because you, possibly the stingiest man on earth, would buy for her, the one you love, a gift of such fragile beauty.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep dreaming of my yellow Jaguar. For my own practical present under the tree, I bought myself four pairs of woolen boot socks. And for my impractical gift, the gift to warm my heart, the gift of exquisite taste and unparalleled beauty, I robbed my “car jar” and splurged on an airline ticket to Mazatlan, Mexico.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 15, 2011

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