In recognition of Leap Day, a four-year-old essay

            February 29, 2016, Leap Day, 9:39 a.m.

              I do not leap out of bed today, even though it’s been twelve hours since I hoisted—by sitting, then pushing myself up into a three-mattress (thanks to Daughter for an extra one) bed. With two sheets of yellowing foam between the top mattress and the mattress pad/cover, it’s even a higher climb/ shove/ push. But no matter, I get in bed and sleep well.

            By 10 a.m., it’s already past 50 degrees—warm enough to continue painting the old breakfast room paneling if I’m so of a mind. But I’m not. I’d rather be outside on this spring-like day. 

With coffee, cell phone, LG tablet, journal, pen and newspaper, I betake myself to the side sitting area that faces east. I must have chosen this spot instead of the usual porch swing, either because the neighbor’s dog was yipping or because the subdivision construction noise was too brutal. 

Picture it: A white molded plastic chair, Mom’s old yellow stepstool for my feet, and a side table—a metal stool-with-handles meant for an aged or disabled person to sit while showering––for a coffee mug and newspaper holder.

Behind me within touching distance is the abelia bush I planted ten years ago to replace the deep concrete-barrow Mom had planted flowers in. Eventually, the wheelbarrow had rusted further and listed till it was an eyesore. I hid it in the very back corner (southwest) under the canopy of honeysuckle, privet and the poor, poor bent-by-vines crape myrtle. An iron monger eventually took it off to the salvage yard along with other derelict pieces around the place.

Amid the abelia, japonica that somehow grew within that bee-loving plant bloomed, but those early blossoms will be gone by the time the abelia’s white trumpet-shaped flowers appear. At the foot of the bush, a clump of oxalis blooms pink and the strappy foliage of surprise lilies emerge. Those bulbs, originally from former neighbor and landlady Sally Sarah Dixon, formerly of Arkadelphia but now of Donaldson, must have been in the barrow bed and were buried in the dirt I dumped out.

Henbit carpets the early spring-like weather, while dead sprigs of Bermuda grass sprinkle the green with tan.

Above, yellow maple branches continue to swell in the balmy winter weather. They’ve seen only one snow this year, and though we know there’s likely more winter ahead, flora does what it’s programmed to do: if it’s warm and sunny, begin growing.

Here’s a poem:

 I look around this extra day and see

 the brown and withered stems and blooms of last

year’s mums. As if to nudge them from their space, 

the iris—nursery stock—demand their place

like siblings: “Mother, make him move—he’s in

my way!” A clump of daffodils shoots up,

the tulips, lilies—also nursery stock—

demand some room. New green of mums slips in

as does henbit. . . . “

Happy Leap Day, 2020.

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

  

What’s better than a siblings/spouses’ potluck lunch?

My Arkansas siblings, summer of 2016

What is so rare as the opportunity of preparing a “pot” for a gathering of one’s siblings for a Sunday lunch?

Let’s see, now. According to Sister Hostess, I’m to bring a vegetable. But before we break the phone connection, I blurt out (I’ve been accused of being blunt; is blurting similar?) “Oh, deviled eggs!” I knew she loved deviled eggs. “But eggs aren’t a vegetable!” I said. That was OK, she assured me.

I boiled the eggs the night before. But what about a vegetable? I DO have a head of cabbage in the fridge. Brother-in-law loves cabbage, so I take down from the back hall shelf (that’s half-filled with cookbooks) Irma Rombauer’s THE JOY OF COOKING, a wedding gift from 1960. I’ll have to be careful—b-i-l will NOT touch any food to his lips that has been cooked in wine.

The old book’s back is loose, the pages are yellow, and now and then I see a notation of a date and occasion for a certain recipe.

I don’t cook much now-a-days, (except this past Christmas) but as long as I breathe, children and grandchildren, do NOT snitch that book from my domicile. You may fight over it afterwards if you wish. Draw straws, perhaps. Or maybe no one will want it, preferring to zap frozen foods in the microwave, order out or eat out. OR, as I’ve begun doing, Googling recipes.

The index of this thick book is a work of art--if details can be construed as art. Under “cabbage,” (page 957) are 27 entries. I mark the index with a paring knife lying nearby and turn to “Boiled, p. 275.

Here is Irma Rombauer’s helpful introduction: “Lemon juice is good added to sauces for the cabbage family. The old way of cooking cabbage is to cut it in sections and boil it for hours. The new way is to shred it finely and barely cook it, allowing only 7 to 8 minutes.”

Decision: whether to cut in chunks (as I’d envisioned) or shred finely, which would take as long to do as it would take to boil the chunks. I opt for the chunks.

(I look away from typing this to see what comes next in the recipe and the accursed cursor moves to the end of the last sentence. I move it back. This happens THREE times! The next time, it moves up into the body of this piece. Grrrr! If it were a child, I’d send it to its room!)

I drop the wedged cabbage into one-half inch of boiling water, cover the pot and cook it for 10 minutes “until tender but crisp.” Drain it, the recipe continues. Arrange the cabbage into a 9 x 13 inch baking dish. Dress it with one stick of melted butter (1 tablespoon per cup of cabbage: I eyeball it) into which I shake some croutons (instead of bread crumbs), 3 shakes of dried parsley flakes (instead of a teaspoon of chopped), the juice from an eighth of a cut lemon and several dashes (to taste) of Greek seasoning (my addition instead of salt).

 I pour the above ingredients over the cabbage, then sprinkle a package of bleu cheese crumbles (my addition, not Irma’s) over the top.

‘Twas a hit with those who liked cabbage. The leftovers I gave to two of them, the hostess and the brother-in-law.

Other delicious foods included smoked pork, black-eyed peas, pasta salad, broccoli salad and homemade rolls from our mother’s recipe. This sibling also brought carrot cake and apple pie.

Now, I ask you, which smells up a kitchen more? Cabbage cooking/cooked or a bowl of vinegar sitting out to “take up” the aroma, ur, odor of cabbage?

I believe I’ll take the cabbage.

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press Benton AR USA