August, a laggard; September, a runner

 

 

                I thought surely when August finally was finished, I’d have time to work in the yard--digging privet, pulling honeysuckle, trimming shrubs, planting new mums—stuff like that. But it was too hot still, so I waited for the promised cooling.

                When the cool spell descended, I found myself tied to the writing desk and computer. First things first. An eye appointment and a morning spent with colleagues to judge our poetry branch contest entries kept me inside.

                The next week, waiting for folks to come over to gather pears for preserves, I did a smidgen of pruning. Enough to fill a wheelbarrow—Carolina moon-vine, saw briars, privet. Of course, my friends had to see the new floors. And we had to have a coffee klatch afterwards.

The next day it rained. Then I had a trip to Conway for the monthly writers’-group meeting.

                Back to the writing desk to compose another chapter for the Hot Springs novel group. And, of course, this weekly blog post.

                Confession time: On the first Sunday of September, I prepped for church where I’d directed/ played until retirement. Now, I was singing tenor in the choir. The director would be back after recuperating three weeks from surgery. The choir would sing, he’d said, a Communion anthem we already knew.

                But when I arrived in the choir room and opened a bulletin, I saw that he was singing a solo.  Turning on my heel, left. My sis followed me to the car with stuff she needed to return. I told her why I was leaving. “Tell anyone who asks, ‘She comes to sing the anthem.’”

                I want to know how many of you can--and will--set your alarm for six on Sunday morning? So you can get to church by 7:45 for hand-bell warm-up before playing in the service? We all do what we’ve committed ourselves to do, and that’s what happened this past Sunday at Bryant FUMC.

                At my advanced age and disposition, I don’t want to have to be at church at 8 a.m., which is why I dropped out of that church’s choir. Been there; done that; retired; don’t want to do it any longer, especially that early in the morning. Call me a wimp . . . if you dare.

                Finally, three hours before the deadline Monday morning, and by setting the alarm for 5:30, I finished another chapter of the sequel. It required lots of research, and was important in tying up one of the subplots.  I expected the writers to call it an information dump, but they did not, thank their sweet hearts.

                Oh, that same afternoon—Monday—I worked in the iris-yucca bed cleaning old foliage and pulling grass. I also manned the weed-eater until the two batteries gave out. So, I AM getting a little done toward keeping the bushes at bay.

The days are getting shorter, aren’t they? Oh, well, I guess so: it’s mid-September already. Wasn’t it still August just yesterday?

Oh, dear, I need a new post—quick!

 

 

                Here it is Thursday and I have no “leading” for a post. Oh, I have plenty of resources, but everything’s sorta’ glommed together right now.

                There’s my “wall of men”--folks I like to look at and remember when I sit down at the computer—Ed Asner, Neil Diamond, Josh Shaw, Ray and Todd and James and Jonathan, Kid Billy. I'll include Bill W. when I print out his picture. Paul Newman and Michael Douglas and Lou Rawls and Ed Ames --  when I find photos.

                Then, I could write about my first experience at picking up trash that either was dropped on my hill or that blew out of an open garbage hauler. Of all the stuff—checks, badges, Christmas decorations, a trapper-keeper full of papers, a sweater, pencils and pens, a letter from the Health Department—from folks with Alexander addresses. I could write a mystery-- but I won’t.

                Also, I could tell about the writers’ conference at Harding University last weekend. I sold two books, bought one, won three places-- two with money--heard three good speakers, one from Chicago, and visited with many folks. Made some new friends and visited with old friends.

                Of course, my journal is packed with observations, questions, comments, tasks-I’ve-completed, poems, names, three-word sentences, places, church and cemetery names, plus items about WW 2 veterans, snippets from obituaries, new words learned by working the crossword every day—stuff like that. Nothing to make a complete post.

                I could list the books I’ve read and stacked close by to write reviews for Amazon—Marjorie Holmes,’ You and I and Yesterday, Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty, which I re-read to see if I wanted to include it as something to read to a sequel character’s toddler, Angelo. No way, I decided. Then there’s Book Lover’s Devotional,  Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle, Porter Shreve’s The Obituary Writer, R. Andrew Wilson’s  Write Like Hemingway, and a poetry book, Solidago: An Altar to Weeds by Charlotte Renk.

                Then, there’s always the subject of cats and my concern as to whether to feed the five black  cats that appeared—and now consider themselves part of the landscape—or to rock them out of my sight. I can’t catch them; there are plenty of places to hide on this hill. I couldn’t kill them, but I would pay to have the vet euthanize them. My three fixed inside/outside males are enough for one person. I’m ambivalent about the others: I don’t want to be hauled up and shamed as being inhumane.

                I mustn’t forget about the pear harvest coming on. I wasn’t sure there would be a very good crop, but there is. I’ve worked up several batches so far and have a large bowl full ready to be cut  in to edible “meat.” Maybe while I sit and peel and gouge and cut, I can think of something for a post. At least it’s worth a try.

              

Pear harvesting time again

by Pat Laster

 

                This year’s loaded pear tree has done itself proud again.  The fruit, though smallish (due to no selective thinning), continues to fall from the tree. [This picture is from Google Images.]

 I’ve taken a different tack this year when (ahem) attacking the pears. I only cut out the rot and the core and leave the peelings. I don’t even cut them into smaller pieces, but plop them in a pan of ascorbic water until it is full. Then I place the entire pan into the fridge.

After all, the time it takes to cut a pan full of pears is all the time I want to spend on that job. I probably need to check my email. Or take a nap. Or work on a column. Or a story. Or a poem.

The next step to preserving the free pear crop is to cook them. Four years ago, I wrote about a different method of preparing—peeling, cutting into bite-sized pieces, and using the microwave.

This year, I hauled out my Dutch oven and set it on the large front burner of the range. Using a colander, I poured off the water from the pan of cooled pears and placed the pieces in said pot. I added enough tea kettle water to assure some liquid, shook two dashes of salt over, poured white sugar to cover the top and some brown sugar and cinnamon to give it a homey aroma while cooking and a sweet and spicy taste.

With the heat set at 6 (out of 10), I covered the pot and set the range timer for 10-12 minutes. Being cold to start, the pears would take a while to heat. Since it was dangerous to leave the kitchen—the portable timer had a hitch in its gitalong; it wasn’t dependable--I set the oven timer. After the fruit began boiling, I turned the heat lower--to 5--and stirred them every ten minutes or so.

During the cooking, I usually stood at the sink and began working up another batch, either brought in that day or the day before. Reminding me of the sheep and the goats story from scripture, I separated the ones with obvious rot from those whose outsides looked unsullied. (Hmm, maybe that’s not a good allusion.) I laid out the good ones on a table in an adjoining room.

There was another step. After the fruit was cooked and cooled, I poured the contents into a glass salad bowl, covered it with a glass plate and stowed it on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Till tomorrow. Or whenever I got around to it.

After gathering those containers that had been emptied, washed and stored, and buying new ones, it was time to cut the pieces into bite sizes, cover them with juice, seal them and pop them into the freezer. They were already cold so there was no need to cool them first.  When they were frozen, I moved them to the chest freezer on the back porch.

Now, (after thawing) they will ready for compotes, cakes, cobblers, or to eat alone with whipped topping or ice cream. The skins are as soft as the meat, with a slightly different texture.

Here is a made-up recipe for a light dessert: one berry bowl of stewed pears, to which a dollop of whipped topping and a shake or two of sunflower seeds have been added and mixed in. Yummy!

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

 

        The drought ruins a few plantings

                                                 —but not all                                                    

by Pat Laster                                                                               

           The first cooler days of August last week—and the rain, plus a dose of nutrients––prompted a rejuvenation in part of the flora that surrounds Couchwood Manor. Showing WHITE were abelia blooms, an airplane plant blossom and, against maroon foliage, shamrock flowers.

            Different shades and hues of PINK turned up in a few Encore azalea blossoms, the long-blooming crape myrtle, oxalis, and Mom’s old hanging begonia.
           
             BLUE wandering jew, PURPLE monkey-grass blooms and beautyberries, FUCHIA dianthus, YELLOW lantana and lance-leaf coreopsis completed the rainbow of colors.

            Wait! I forgot the various colors of the rose moss/moss rose/portulaca. [See picture: disclaimer: not mine, but similar.]

             Also a community of white tent-capped toadstools sprang up in the lower south yard.
           
               Not everything in this hilltop acre survived the drought. It was easy to water the front and porch plants, but not so much the back where cannas are still green but have not bloomed. Oxalis and monkey grass planted around the yellow ash stump pretty well went dormant/brown or the foliage disappeared, leaving bulbs stacked like miniature minarets.

             For the second year running, two property-edged plants on the west died of thirst. Only one branch of a variegated privet survived. The neatnik neighbors will like that: they can encroach farther into my yard with their mower. Suits me: less for me to mow.

              Grandmother’s rock garden/our pet cemetery under a three-tree sassafras grove, is way out of reach of a hose. Earlier, optimistically, I planted lamb’s ear, a coreopsis, oxalis and tansy to the already- growing, single stalk of pink chrysanthemum and an ancient stand of day lilies.

              I carried water from the rain barrel (a number ten washtub) at the northwest corner of the house. Eventually, with no rain, I also let that bed go. Only the lilies and the mum stalk still show green. And a community of wild asters. All the leaves of the volunteer dogwood sapling are half ECRU. (Ecru—now there’s another color to add to the ones above!)

           The pear tree is so loaded that on one branch each pear touches another all the way down (or up; I took a picture for proof [for later]. This tree does its thing without benefit of pruning—except what nature does––or spraying. One fellow stopped by earlier in the month to see if I were going to “do anything” with the pears. If not, could he have them for preserves. I assured him I was.

          “You can have what’s already fallen,” I said, but he didn’t take me up on that. My disabled-vet cousin will likely be by again (I don’t see him until pear season) to get “a few for his wife.” He fills a five-gallon bucket!

         I’ve sometimes thought of adding a faucet on the north side, but since I can’t keep the ‘mum bed on the south alive and blooming, why add to my responsibilities?  P. Allen Smith I’m not!!

         Speaking of the south mum-and-lily bed, it is the worst-kept rectangle of them all. Located under the breakfast room windows, and close to the only outside faucet, it is built up a foot high with rock-and-mortar—Dad’s doing, I suppose. What it needs is a complete dig-out. Which may happen after I finish the kitchen painting project.

           Always plant for color, Janet Carson says, but isn’t GREEN a color?

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

 

Food trivia from my in-progress compendium

Crabapple jam-jell made by Pat with fruit picked up from under a tree at an Arby's somewhere. Picker was James, the regional manager, who DID get a couple jars for his trouble.

by Pat Laster

 Here I sit at 9:30 p.m. eating a 6-inch pepperoni pizza––(“Is it too late to eat a pizza?” I asked myself. “Yes,” I answered, but my arm and hand opened the freezer door, pulled one out anyway, thus counteracting my left-brained answer.)––and taking notes from one of the paragons of humorous writing, Dorothy Parker.

           Her humor isn’t rubbing off on me, but here are some facts I didn’t know, and which I thought interesting at the time. Before –and if—I publish this book of journal jottings, I will update each item.

            *As of January 2010, Taco Bell was owned by Yum Brands and is the largest Mexican fast-food chain in the US. (Associated Press, hereafter AP)

           *Paul Newman and A. E. Hotchner, author of Papa Hemingway, started Newman’s Own line of salad dressings in 1982.

           * Two varieties of pumpkins are Jack B. Little (miniatures) and Sugar Pie.

           * Two varieties of pear are Moonglow and Harrow Delight.

           * Two varieties of fig are Brown Turkey and Celeste.

           * Jersey Red is a variety of apple.

           * A ‘butter bell’ is the name of a French-inspired crock to keep butter soft without refrigeration. Now, it is a brand name for such a crock.

 Did you hear about the guy who robbed a Staten Island pizzeria and fled with a bag of dough?

            * Oreos were introduced in 1912.

             * PepsiCo Inc. is the world’s largest snack-food maker. – D Welch, Bloomberg News (2.16.12)
             * Kellogg Co. is buying Proctor and Gamble’s Pringles potato chip business for about $2.7 billion, making it the largest maker of savory snacks sold in 140 countries.

            * According to David S. Bachman, MD, writing in the September 2011 issue of the now defunct Aging Arkansas, bananas are better than apples. He said bananas prevent depression, build brain power, control blood pressure, helps avoid constipation, helps cure hangovers, heart burn, mosquito bites (rub it with inside of a banana skin) and nervousness. Bananas suppress food cravings, help SAD sufferers, aids in quitting smoking, reduces stress and helps prevent strokes.

            * In the fall of 2010, Sara Lee sold its Fresh Bakery to Grupo Bimbo, a Mexican baking giant based in Mexico City, which made it the largest US baker (sic). Sara Lee said it will keep its Hillshire Farms meat and Senseo Coffee, its frozen desserts and deli meats. (S, Skidmore & M. Chapman) Since then, Sara Lee has made other changes, some of which are mentioned later.

           * Statements from a news article quoted the late Julia Child as saying, “Don’t snack. I never snack. The French don’t snack.” Don’t tell me she didn’t lick her fingers or ream the batter from beaters and bowls when she baked.
            “If you eat three sensible meals,” she continued, “you shouldn’t snack.” She didn’t specify a sensible meal, but I’ll bet a bagel it wouldn’t have been the same as Bridgette Bardot’s!          

           *Speaking of updates, here’s one: Sara Lee, long a conglomerate, has further slimmed down to only meat and cheesecake, and has been renamed to Hillshire Brands. For further details, see Emily York’s article from the Chicago Tribune that was published in the Arkansas Democrat- Gazette on July 1.

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press