So it begins...

Sprout is teething. Definitively. Soaked through several shirts. Chomping on everything, and he’s miserable. Utterly. Hence we are miserable utterly. Didn’t I just say it’s had been easy? What was I thinking? I was asking for it, that’s what. Don’t you ever wonder about those apparent universal laws? When it rains, it pours… you know, that stuff. The way certain things seem jinxed, fortuitous, inevitable. What’s up with that? And also, why is it that negative energy attracts negative energy so much more powerfully than positive energy seems to attract the positive?

Already here

A little bit of photo booth goofiness for your Wednesday. It's how we started our morning, at the counter and on the couch smooching and giggling, me and my two boys. (Don't you just love Bean's little broccoli top?)

It is already mid June. I can't believe it really. How the time blurs once the days warm up. Buttercups are everywhere, daisies, the first wild strawberries in little glades at the edge of the woods.

The goose is broody. Bean stuck two hens eggs into the warm circle of her nest and there she sits, some patient instinct advising her to hunker down and wait for new life to happen.

The New Hampshire reds we got in the mail a few weeks ago are feeling plucky with a new set of rust colored feathers. They’re in an outside run now, scuttling about, catching bugs. They’re fun to watch. I love the way instinct summons chickenness for them. It’s evident in all the ways that they are: heads bobbing, peeping to one another sociably, grooming their new plumage, and to think they’ve never had a mother.

We’re so different, with our long babyhood, then childhood stretching out for years and years. I watch Bean learn new words. He repeats them, uses them in context. I am utterly enamored with the way he is right now: full of drawings and ideas. His pictures are jam-packed with action: wheels turning, light switches, fire hoses, robots, homes for little mice.

On his bike he’s become a daredevil, skidding to a stop, making dizzy loops around the road, cutting tight corners, riding over the bumpiest of potholes at high speeds. I love watching him ride. I love his yellow thunderbolt helmet and his lightening grin as he passes by, legs going at top speed. He is perpetually dirty this summer. Jam on his shorts, on his chin. Mud on his feet and grass stains. He goes through two sets of clothes a day, easy. Sometimes more.

In the garden we’re mostly done planting. Bean comes down with me in the morning while Sprout naps, and we get an hour or so in before we hear him on the monitor.

This year's crop: moon & stars melons, sugar babies, lemon cucumbers, zucchini, yellow crook-necked squash, potatoes, rainbow chard, yellow peppers, five kinds of tomatoes, purple cabbage, carrots, broccoli, radishes, four kinds of lettuce, spinach, ashworth corn, onions, parsley, dill, thyme, oregano, basil, rosemary, chives and sage.

As the short growing season heats up, I’ll be planting more flowers, more carrots, more cucumbers for pickling (DH has a ridiculous pickle habit). We never got our act together with the berries, but Bean and I have scoped out a copious patch down by the neighbor’s pond that we aim to visit in a couple of weeks.

We have fun in the garden. I made Bean a tepee out of slender logs. Then gave him a packet of beans to plant, and sunflowers, and pumpkins all around. Today while I was spreading straw he came down to the garden dragging a quilt to hang over the tipi frame. Inside is a quiet secret little boy space full of packed dirt and small rocks, a pine bow for a broom, a magic door. In his bouncy seat, Sprout watches, pleased as peas.

I realize lately that I haven’t written about Sprout much. I expected to have more to say, honestly. I expected it to be harder, to be more of a fight to adjust to life with two boys, but in truth it’s been a breeze. He sleeps. That’s the main thing. And I say this with utter awe and gratitude and reverence because Bean did not sleep so I know. But Sprout sleeps and he smiles and he’s trying to sit up already. He lies on his belly and watches Bean play with matchbox cars and he’s as happy as a little fat clam. He grins and he giggles when you zerber his tummy, and he mostly just feels like he’s been here with us forever. Four of us.

I know this post is all over the map. I've been working on my book every night after the boys go to bed, more words there, less words here I guess. But I have questions for you today. A little bit of informal research.

What does settling down mean to you?

How does marriage change you?

How do children change you?

If you could chose all over again (or if you have not yet chosen), would you stay footloose and single? Why or why not?

It's on, skunk.

I watched the skunk leave tonight, burrowing it's little nose into the wet grass, looking for worms. DH and I went out and blocked every hole under the dining room where it seems to live, with great big rocks. Now my clothes reek faintly of skunk. I sit with one knee up, trying to put more sentence on the page, and become distracted again and again by the aroma.

What if that was the mate? What if there is yet another skunk under the house now, trapped. What then?

It makes me laugh, realizing this is what I will remember from June. The scent of skunk will be forever linked with the summer Bean was four and a half, with the summer Sprout began to sit, with the months money was tight and I started working on my book for real. I wonder if it will really imprint like this?

What will you remember June for?

Hmmmm

Skunks. Dear lord, the skunks. What to do about a skunk living potentially under one's house? There seems to be no clever, scentless way to remove them from one's life. Two days ago we found one IN the chicken coop eating corn off the floor at dusk. DH threw rocks at it, missed of course, sent a rock through the window in the coop. SMOOTH. Yesterday evening he hadn't had quite enough of the rock throwing business and lay in wait a twilight and heaved a veritable boulder in the skunk's general direction. The result. SPRAY. SO. MUCH. SPRAY. I could have told him as much. But boys have a thing with rocks.

As a result, we've been stumbling about in a stinky fog with the windows open, knowing that there is a potentially rather grumpy skunk asleep under our dining room waiting for dusk. Thoughts?

Morning comes

I last night I dreamed that I was teaching figure drawing. This morning I woke up smiling, regardless of the world (another day of rain; uncertainty still.) Then there were chocolate croissants. The most perfectly ripe strawberries. Bean's last day of school. A new friend.

And this. She's right, of course.

Tell me: What did you dream last night? What is the greatest thing that stresses you out? What are three things that made you happy today?

And also this.

My hair is falling out, the last telltale effects of hormones snapping back to a baseline after pregnancy, and I find it everywhere: on my clothes, in Sprout's clenched fists, in the bristles of my purple handled brush. Outside it is gray and cold and raining, the second day in a row. On the windowsill the seedlings are turning yellow, needing to get in the ground, but it’s been so wet, our boots sink up to our ankles. The roosters crow over and over. There is dirt on the floor. Around the lip of the blue enamel pot that holds the rubber tree with its shiny dark green leaves, dust, thick enough to write my name.

Last night Sprout was up, squirming around, uncomfortable most of the night. This morning it’s me that is uncomfortable, here in this thin skin, ready to cry.

Everything is always a risk. Loving. Trying to put down roots. Giving birth. Going out the front door. Getting on a plane to somewhere, and having it crash out in the ocean. Can you imagine? Waiting out there, with your terror, for death?

Of course I know nothing of terror, and yet. It’s scary here too some days. Here has its own kind of heartbreak: our financial situation sucks and it’s quite possible we could mess things up, have nothing, throw in the towel, go. To where? To what? Even when there are cyclamens, and stretching, and good poems there is always this. A shake up, a heartache, a fight, an empty bank account, a splinter under your fingernail, a bitten tongue.

And some days its hard to see that there is anything more than this: hormones and exhaustion and possible loss. Ostrich days, where all I want is to burry my head in deep and wait for moments that are better, sweeter, less filled with tears.

My Bean.

He is a delight.

He draws pictures of mice and their houses, of diggers, robots, pirate ships, tractors and us. In his pictures we have long arms and hold hands. We are bright colors, with long fingers. The grass shaggy under our feet, the sun a tangle of yellow rays at the top of the page.

His favorite pajamas are still the ones with colored hearts on them, but today he told me he didn't want to wear blue and brown plaid shorts to school because "people will think they look dirty." When he said this, I couldn't help but swallow hard. I am not ready. Not for this. Not for peer pressure and teasing, for worrying what other people think, for navigating friends and hurt feelings. It happens so fast.

In the morning he still runs into our room, his feet thudding fast on the hardwood floor, and then he's there between us, nestling close, his hair smelling like sunshine. "I love you," he whispers, stroking my cheek softly. Then in the next instant he is pulling the covers off me: they are a speed boat and he is careening around the sea, crashing into my shins.

He is a boy of a hundred expressions. He growls, grins, giggles, laughs. He cries at the sad parts in books, or when he thinks of the sad parts in books. He is thin skinned, sensitive, empathetic.

"Mommy, Will got hurt today. He fell off a bike." He told me after I picked him up from school. "Were you worried?" "I was nervous." "Did you help him?" "No. The teachers did. I kind of shut my eyes. It made me sad." I looked back into the rearview mirror to see his face. His eyelashes were wet with sudden tears.

He is currently obsessed with things that are "dangerous." Tornadoes, pirates, bumble bees, moose, alligators, monsters, and sharp knives fall into this category in his head. "Tell me what they can do," he'll say. And then when we half-heartedly list potential dangers he'll lean in conspiratorially and say, "What else can they do?" He wants the down low on danger, this kid.

He loves jelly beans, drawing with fancy pens, writing his name, summer, bare feet, being naked, playing with the hose, eating watermelon, anything chocolate, roasting marshmallows, keeping his vegetables separate on his plate, corn on the cob, matchbox cars, building with Legos, and listening to stories.

He is a kid who makes plans. He designs things in his head--pictures how many boards he'll need, and what size nails to build a particular object. He takes things apart and puts them together. He asks a 'hundred and eleventy' questions. All. The. Time.

He is my firstborn. The one who taught me grace and patience as a mama, the one who tempered my hurdy gurdy heart. And I want to pour every day with him right now into a jar of resin: keep him as he is, golden and filled with wonder. I love him so.

Hello June.

June is one of my favorite months: cloud-torn skies, hail, thunderstorms, and sudden rainbows above the wet curled ferns and the newly shorn woolly backs of sheep, their noses black and soft like crumpled velvet, let out to graze in pastures of suddenly tall grass.

Its easy to be grateful in June, to watch the poplars bend and bend and bend in the wind without breaking, and to feel glad. It’s easy to want to be something in June, to want to be alive, and to be living also: to want to push past whatever was holding things back. Tiredness matters less when the clear air is full of swallowtails and the scent of hyacinth.

June, and there are deadlines. Lots of them, for writing, for making ever minute I have with the quiet clicking of the keyboard count. Dare I whisper the word chapter? Dare I say book?

June, and the baby chicks arrived. We pulled on our rainboots Friday morning and went out to the truck across the muddy gravel drive to fetch them from the hardware store. Bean carried them home in a small cardboard box on his lap, peering in, grinning at their soft fuzzy little bodies bumping up against each other and peeping. Now they’re in the garage in a big wooden box under the red warm circle of the heat lamp. Bean pulls up a step ladder and sits on his feet peering over the edge, naming them, and then naming them again, Betsy, Jemima, Ornament, Daffodil, Sugar.

June, and the mercury is still playing shy, the temperature flirting with warm, barely. At the pond, we’re finding frogs now. They plop into the water when we wade through the tall reeds. Above us, flying in wide swooping arcs that make my heart ache with pleasure, bluebirds, streaks of summer sky.

When we eat cold watermelon on a quilt in the back yard, Bean says, “When you eat watermelon it feels like a refrigerator in your mouth.”

Later, looking at the mountains he tells me, “Mommy, don’t you think a monster's teeth look just like the mountains? They’re all jaggedy like that.”

***

June: reading more short stories, getting more words on the page. On the treadmill and the road, running faster, harder, farther. My body is feeling stronger (it’s the first time in my life I’ve done any kind of weights or jump training. Thank you 30 Day Shred.)

Sprout is trying to sit up. Trying to roll from his back to his stomach. This month will be all about documenting those changes (and about getting my camera fixed!) He is such a smiley little dude. Full of patience and grins and squeals. He is the perfect sidekick, grinning at me from the grocery cart or the Ergo. LOVE. What does June look like for you? What are you planning? Doing? Reading? Watching? Eating?

The New Yorker: "Love Affair with Secondaries" by Craig Raine

It’s about adultery and cancer. Two things that seem kind of overdone especially when combined without beauty in the same story, which is how I felt this story combined them. I wanted to like it, I really did, especially since DH said the story sucked and I wanted to have some sort of cool-kid take on it, some sort of highbrow comeback that I could make in defense of the story. But I didn’t. There were a handful of really beautiful lines.

"The slow thistledown of stars, for example, their drift and cling, was something that struck her with renewed force whenever she removed her spectacles—and was looking over a lover’s shoulder at the Milky Way."

And there were some good, if not overstated ones. "It wasn’t his vanity that drove him—it was his mortality. He didn’t want to remain young. He wanted to be alive before he died. That was all."

And in between there was a lot of sort of clever, obscure, disjointed storytelling that walked around the action, never quite in it.

Maybe it a story about mortality, or about truth, or about how each one of us feels faced with the fact that we are just here temporarily in a body that is always dying . Like mayflies, etc.

Or maybe it is about excuses, or about women and how they use men, or how men use women, or about how everyone is emotional and foolish because all we do is use each other. But the story doesn’t really commit.

If anything, I liked the element of surprise. I liked that you didn’t expect the walloping over the head with the umbrella, the mother-in-law kiss with tongue, or the reveal at the end, “—our kid” and all that. But even though I was surprised, and I like to be surprised by a story, it wasn’t enough. The ending was predictable. Maybe because given the subject matter there are only a limited number of outcomes?

Go read it, will you? Read it and then come back here and tell me what you think.

I guess I wanted to say it was a good story because it was in the New Yorker and it should be good, right? And it did have that distinct New Yorker flavor. Dry. Sarcastic. Afflicted. But I think Raine was trying too hard. As though he’s saying, Look at me. Watch how I say what this story is about without ever saying it. Except it was so completely vague and disjointed that it almost felt like you needed one those secret decoder rings you used to be able to find in a box of cereal: if you are hip enough your allowed to get it. That, or maybe I’m still just not one of the cool kids. (One thing I did love about the piece: KENRO IZU, “STILL LIFE 467." Absolutely Exquisite.)

Flexing my reading muscle.

In college I had a writing teacher who made me type out stories I thought were good. Every sentence. Every slender comma, ellipses, period, paragraph, dialogue, description. She said it would help me to get inside the craft of the story. That I would begin to hear in my head the author's internal dialogue; that I'd understand the choices better: the words, the edits, the way one sentence followed the next. I did it. At first skeptically, then diligently. She was right, of course.

Now it's not so much matter of writing the story out. I write enough, and regularly enough, to feel like I understand how to construct sentences. But there is still something that can be learned from reading a story daily, richly, and then putting it on the operating table, putting your finger on it's pulse, examining what makes it beat.

So maybe for a little while I'll try to read a short story every day. Read it, and try to write about it. Try to put words around what makes it work (or not), until I get to the meat of it. Sort of flexing my reading muscle a bit.

*** This morning's read: “An Old Virgin” From DON’T CRY by Mary Gaitskill.

It is a story that asks again and again: what does it mean to be alive inside a body? Reading it, you become the voyeur. There, touching the frail skin of a father, dying; fingering the charts of a 43 year old virgin at the doctor’s office for a physical, who whispers, “just let me catch my breath” during the exam; at a stoplight next to a Hispanic boy pumping with bravado and “so much light that it burned him up inside and made him dark.”

Gaitskill’s gaze sinks into people. She captures them on the page as both entirely physical and also almost painfully ethereal, their spirits bright and sharp at the edges of the story, tangling with it, becoming for brief moments almost mythical.

“As soon as Laura looked at her father, she knew he was going to die. His body was shrunken and dried, already half-abandoned; his spirit stared from his eyes as if stunned and straining to see more of what had stunned it.”

Inside the narrators head, we go into the secret, morbid, sexual places of her mind and come up against our own humanity: which we learn is something exquisitely fragile and riddled with holes leaking spirit and curiosity and abject sorrow.

“When he answered her, his voice was like a thin sack holding something live. He was about to lose that live thing, but right now he held it, amazed by it, as if he had never known it before.”

“An Old Virgin” is a story about regret and forgiveness, maybe; and about the way these two things are always smashed together inside us, never quite reconciled in the bright, messy, and perverse rooms in our hearts.

*** What if you flexed your reading muscles too? I'd love to know what you think of the short stories you read. What did you read today? How did it move you, make you think?

A new productive

Hi. It's a rainy Friday, and sadly I haven't posted nearly as much as I'd hoped this week. Excuses: my camera is broken (alas, DH accidentally dropped it) and every available minute at the keyboard was spent finishing a piece I want to send out today. Also: 7 baby New Hampshire red chicks in a box arrived this morning at the hardware store for us; and in spite of the rain and the rather unseasonably chilly weather, I spent yesterday morning putting seedlings (chard, more lettuce, cabbages, broccoli and herbs) into the ground with Bean. The chicks are now in a big wooden box in the garage huddled under a heat lamp. The garden is a mess of mud. And I'm feeling all kinds of quivery about sending writing out. I love to write. Love to be published. But god, submitting work feels a lot like perpetually hearing the sound of nails on a chalkboard. It's so anti-climatic and off putting to work so hard on something and then to send expecting to maybe hear something back in ninety days or never. Still. If there was just one thing I could do in the world, it would be this.

I've been thinking about my time and how I use it this week. How I find myself many days in a state of harried heartache wishing I were writing while I'm doing everything but. How some days, especially rainy indoor days, the repetition of folding laundry and putting glasses away, making snacks and attaching treads to little Lego vehicles feels just about as futile as a hamster on a wheel.

I think there will always be this. It's what motherhood has come to mean for me. This push pull. This tug, this feeling of being pulled asunder, this way and that by the deep drum beat of my creative self and my love for my boys. And I do love them. Adore. Nothing makes me feel quite the way they do, with their smiles and long lashes. It is just that still when I'm asked about what it is that I do, the word "mother" rarely comes to mind, though this is what I do for a great part of every day.

And because daytime is typically boy time, I've decided to stop wimping out on the couch at the end of the day after they are asleep. Instead I've been writing furiously, and then running three miles on the treadmill. As a result I've felt insanely more productive this week. Maybe more sleep deprived too. But who cares? A piece is finished, and I ran 2 miles in 17 minutes last night, so it's all good. Right?

When do you find time? How? What are the non-negotiable things you feel like you need to do in your life in order to be really living it? How do you fit these things in?

Frustrated.

I cannot figure out any other way to do it, to make my heart stop thundering with this crazy need to write. So I'm up now, near midnight, revising the same damn paragraphs I've spent all day on, interrupted.

Do people really do this?

A list happy inventory

In January for my birthday, inspired as always by Andrea's awesome lists, I wrote my own: 32 things to do before I turn 32. But then I forgot to post it, until now, when I was cleaning up the post-its on my desktop (how I love the post-it widget!) and found the list again. I was surprised by how many things I've already done, or started to do. Something about putting stuff on the page makes it happen. And I love that.

I'm thinking that maybe as I accomplish things on my list I'll post about it & link to the list in my sidebar. Aside from the sheer glee of writing them, nothing beats crossing stuff off lists. You too should make your very own list. I would LOVE it if you shared. Here in the comments. Or share the link to your list on your blog.

The thing about making a relatively long list of things to be completed in a relatively short time (a year) is that you have to really think about your life realistically. What do you really want to do this year? What do you want to accomplish? What are some of the small things that you have been meaning to do, that will likely get pushed to the side by bigger more consuming (and not necessarily on the list!) things unless you write them down?

this, in my heart

The birds don’t care about the stock market dips.The weather is unknowing of the forecast: clouds, even when there was call for sun. Things keep right on brazenly living, bursting, growing, with such a stark indifference to the tumbling of our souls.

Some days we’re just on this earth. Other, truer days, of it.

We have forgotten this. How to speak with our hands close to the ground, our fingers whispering with worms, our hearts wild like the hearts of salmon spawning. They swim upstream. They know how to leap, and to leap again, upwards, improbably against the current even as bears wait.

We are the only ones that are caught, feeling so much, trying for so much, for flint against stone, for a spark, or for a thousand bucks, for a cleft, a notch, a hold on all that we cannot hold. So much that on some days we’re deaf and busy in our little boxes, and on others, the song of the vireo is enough

and everything breaks open.

Springtime boys

Trying to get focused (and it's not really working)

It’s been like pulling hens teeth to get words on the page here lately. Life is happening full tilt and I’m all over the map. Things are busting out everywhere: dandelions, rhubarb, fiddleheads, grass. We have allergies, Bean and I. We are a display of loud, honking nose blowing, in the morning We eat fresh bread with tahini and honey; drink lattes over ice; and make our way to the mail box, the four of us, Bean on his bike, Sprout on me, and our goose bumbling behind, orange feet fwapping the gravel. We foray out, Bean ahead of us, wearing his yellow thunderbolt helmet, knees going around as fast as they possibly can, sneaker to the pedal. He is a whir, a blur, a sudden mess of limbs splat on the gravel. He gets up, brushes the gravel off hands, grins, rides off chattering.

Along the edges of the road the grass is growing tall. Pollen everywhere. The other day Bean was covered head to toe in hives after playing outside all day long in the windy, pollen heavy air. The kid is still throwing us curveballs with his health. With everything actually. This is a new phase. FOUR. Years. Old. He’s a big deal. “Look how strong my muscles are!” He tells us, flexing his bean-pole biceps. “I’m a superhero!” he yells, as he runs to fetch a diaper for Sprout.

Everything is a big deal. Everything is confusing and complex and full of danger and delight and curiosity. Everything is worthy of negotiation. He has an opinion about everything. It’s exhausting, sometimes. It’s a totally different ballpark parenting a kid than it is parenting a baby. In some ways, it makes the whole baby thing a piece of cake. Things are simpler when they revolve around four things: eat, sleep, poop, smile.

Sprout is three months old and brimming with gummy grins. It happened so fast, these past three months. With Bean I remember practically crossing off the days on the calendar, waiting for the three months, waiting for a time when he would be less fussy and I would get more sleep, but with Sprout, the days have just slipped by. He is a sleeper, a grinner, a delight. He lights up when he sees his big brother. He coos. He rolls over (tummy to back) and grabs things tight in his hands. In his sleep he practices laughing now. His little rib cage rising and falling with giggles about things without words, smiles fluttering about his face like humming birds.

Bean is ALL BOY now, no shred or scrap of toddler left in him, except for in the secret soft scent of his hair when he wakes up from a nap. He draws detailed robots , and pictures of people with many toes and big smiles. He draws alligators and diggers and suns with bright rays and monsters with many teeth. He writes his name on everything. He knows all his letters. He is obsessed with things that are “dangerous.” “Beavers can be dangerous,” he tells me matter of factly. “Because look at their big sharp teeth.” Other things that are dangerous according to Bean: moose (they can step on you!), monsters, earthquakes, alligators, tornados, bears, and pirates.

When he comes downstairs from a reluctant nap (he still needs them, but fights every. single. one.) his cheeks are rosy, his nose snuffly with allergies, his feet bare. He curls up in the crook of my arm as I type, and notices that I don’t use my left thumb as I write. “Why?” he asks. He asks why about every little thing in the whole world lately, and it’s a challenge because somewhere in the human brain there is a bit of hardwired code that makes a person compelled to answer that word.

On our way back from our walk, we trundle up the driveway hauling Bean’s bike and two day’s worth of Wall Street Journals. We stop at the coop to collect a half dozen smooth eggs in pale blue and brown. The chickens are finally starting to grow in new feathers after molting and looking generally ridiculous. We have more chicks coming in the mail next weekend. New Hampshire Reds and ‘chocolate layers’ that supposedly lay gorgeous dark brown eggs.

Spring is in full tilt. The garden beds are tilled. I’ve jumped the gun and planted some seedlings, and got my comeuppance immediately: the thermometer dipped, and the poor melons, I’m afraid they’re not going to make it. I must have been afflicted by a case of severe optimism to think I could get away with putting crookneck and honeydews in the ground before memorial day. I live in zone 5b after all. Last frost date: May 25. Sigh.

This week I’m determined to get back into posting. I can't honestly put a finger on why the cat’s got my tongue recently. Maybe I hit the delete key too much? I’m editing two short stories, and my time to write comes at me like a bone tossed at a dog: whenever, wherever. I’m not always prepared to gnaw the marrow of new words. I need some inspiration!

What does spring look like where you are? Tell me things. What are you doing this week? What are you planting? Eating? Listening to? Reading?

Topographs::9

Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running through the streets looking for you. ~Hafiz

Adventures in food:: a perfect spring dinner

Hi. Happy Friday! How was your week? Mine was full of serendipity and unexpected gifts from strangers. Finding things in common. A date at a french bistro, shiraz and lively music. A dreamy Sprout. A bike-riding, giggling goofball Bean. Lots to tell about, when I get more than a half hour to write. In the meantime, here is an absolutely perfect dinner I simply had to share. I used to be so afraid of cooking/baking. Gradually I am discovering how much I love it. Especially when food is simple, like these recipes are: just a few ingredients, fresh, local, in season.

Best Springtime Salad Ever 1 bunch fresh asparagus 1 large handful sugar snap peas 1/2 head red lettuce 1/2 head romane lettuce (or improvise with whatever are the freshest best salad greens you can find!) grilled flank steak

Just barely saute asparagus & peas in a little lemon and olive oil. Turn the heat off when the asparagus is just tender, but still a bit crispy. Throw veggies onto a bed of fresh lettuce. Add one whole avocado sliced. Grill the steak until just medium rare. Slice thinly and add to the salad just before serving.

I used Brian's delicious vinaigrette. I used a seedy dijon mustard, thyme, tarragon, and parsley. Apply lavishly. Toss. DELICIOUS.

Inspired by Nigella's Hearthbread from How To Be A Domestic Goddess. So easy. And it turned out perfectly. Light, soft, flavorful, crusty.

3 1/2 c. white bread flour (I have found that actually using bread flour as opposed to substituting with just anything, really does make a difference!) 1 T. instant yeast (I used SAF Instant) 1 T. salt 1 1/3 c. warm water 5-ish T. olive oil 1-2 heads garlic 1 T. fennel seeds 1 T. herbs de Provence 1 handful parsley more olive oil

Preheat to 400. Mix flour, yeast & salt. Add water and olive oil. Stir until dough forms, add more liquid as needed. Make dough into a ball & knead until it feels really soft and supple. Put into a oiled bowl, cover with a tea towel & put in a warm place (a sunny windowsill is my new favorite spot for rising dough. In the winter, by the wood stove.)

While the dough is rising: peel heads of garlic, put onto tinfoil & drizzle with olive oil. Wrap loosely to make a little package & roast in the oven at 400. In a food processor pour a good splash or two of olive oil & add parsley. Give it a whirl. Then add the garlic once it has baked until it is golden and soft.

Reduce oven heat to 375.When the dough is double in size, deflate it, divide dough in half, put parchment paper on two baking sheets, and roll out dough to form a bulky rectangle or oval. I used my hands to stretch the dough. I found it very supple and easy to work with--no rolling necessary. Transfer the breads on their papers to baking sheets, cover with tea towels and let rise for 25 minutes until they are puffy. Then poke your fingers all over the tops of them to dimple them. Spread the garlic/parsley/olive oil mixture on one. On the other spread the fennel seeds, herbs de Provence, and more olive oil. Put them into the oven and bake at 375 for about 20 minutes until breads are cooked and golden.

The only way to eat this bread is greedily. With bare hands.

For dessert, fresh rhubarb grunt (also a Nigella recipe.) I use this recipe a lot, with any kind of spring or summer fruit (I described the peach version here,) but rhubarb in springtime is quintessential and utterly grand.

Grunt: Cut 4-5 stalks rhubarb into slices and place them in the bottom of a pie pan with a few dabs of butter and a sprinkle of sugar. Mix 1 cup flour, 1/3 cup sugar, and 1-1 ½ cups whipped cream together until it becomes a sticky dough. Place dough in mounded spoonfuls on top of peaches and bake at 375 degrees for about 40 minutes until the top is golden brown and the rhubarb bubbly.

*** Do you have any favorite spring recipes to share?

Smitten

I couldn't imagine this beforehand. How I'd be this head over heels. Entirely smitten. This boy, how I adore him.

tonight

In the pale crook of a birch a robin threading its song through the fluttering green of newly furled leaves makes my heart tremble.

Things are up in the air, and I’m holding my breath waiting for unrecognized brilliance. It’s like I’m occupying the thin space between air and water in a drinking glass, where the whole world is reflected in a line.

I spend whole days skimming, flitting, careening. In my molskine I’ve started writing again, finger bones gripping in quiet concert, the lead becoming a rush of loopy js and ys, answering the same questions each morning: what do I feel? What do I want?

Today I don’t know how to get myself started with the rest of my life. Today I am trying to catch up with myself. Trying to be something.

Across the sky clouds the color of cinnamon remember the fiery circle of the sun, then draw together close like stitches over a wound; gathering indigo, gathering twilight, gathering the night.

*** What do you feel? What do you want? Right now. Today. Right this moment.