So, this is what you do with leftover grits -- pour them into a loaf pan or some such container and stick them in the fridge. In the morning, slice up the congealed grits, dip them in beaten egg, and fry in butter or bacon grease. Oh boy. If you just happen to have some leftover andouille sausage, invite it to the party.
Not health food, no, but food for the soul.
I bothered the mama hen again, getting a picture of her snug little apartment and two of her chicks. There are two more hiding beneath her, making for a grand total of four! With any luck, there'll be one or two hens in the bunch (if they live, as the old folks would say in a pre-emptive strike at Fate.)
And here, Carol, is the first of my tomatoes -- about the size of the end of my little finger. We have a ways to go.
I have a few volunteer purple potato plants, left from some potatoes that didn't get harvested last year. They are not only blooming, they are also setting fruit.
No, these little green things here below aren't tomatoes. They are potato seeds -- something I've never paid much attention to as we always use sets -- chunks cut from sprouting potatoes.
There's a family resemblance as potatoes and tomatoes ( along with eggplants and peppers) are all members of the nightshade family Solanaceae. (As are tobacco, belladonna, jimson weed, and several other noxious plants.) All are native to the New World -- what did the Italians do before they had tomatoes in their cuisine? Imagine the Irish without potatoes! Or the English or the Germans for that matter.
The broody hen's patience has been rewarded and she is the proud mother of two, possibly three tiny bantam chicks. She was very defensive, not liking the looks of the lady with the camera aimed at her babies, and she hustled them under her feathery skirts right away but I'll try again for better pictures.
The rock work planned for Friday had to be canceled due to rain but Saturday was a perfect day. Over half of the walkway remained to be re-done and the fellas got started early: pulling up the modest-sized stepping stones I'd set long ago (and that had since tilted and sunk, becoming pretty much useless as a path), digging a footing, spreading it with gravel, and laying some BIG stones purchased from the rock yard.
It helps a lot to have a tractor with a front-end loader to deal with some of these giant rocks
and the guys are quite good at nudging these monsters into just the right place in their gravel beds.
By five, the last rock had been laid, the gravel had been tamped down and covered with dirt, and the walkway had been swept and hosed down.
After showers, it was time for the traditional 'gloat drink' as workers and watchers alike sit and enjoy the beautiful new path.
And then the feast -- putting to use most of that wonderful box of veggies that arrived Wednesday from Carol.
While John grilled the yellow crookneck and zucchini squash, along with some of our own asparagus and skewers of shrimp and some andouille sausage, I made cheese grits and fried green tomatoes, as well as a green salad with the last of those sweet sweet cucumbers
There was goat cheese (for those who like it) to stir into the grits -- and for afters, there was Ba's pound cake, sliced fresh peaches, and fresh sweet cherries.
A well-earned reward for a good day's work! Hearty thanks to those rock-layin' guys -- and to Carol for much of the feast!
After a rain, the brimming drops that decorate the leaves and petals in the garden always catch my eye -- whether marching in precise formation along a clematis stem . . . .
. . . dangling from the serrated edge of a coleus leaf . . .
. . . sliding down the furled petals of a Japanese iris . . .
. . . poised precariously at the rose leaf's point or puddled on the iris petal -- a new delight at every turn!
(As always, 'biggify' the pictures by clicking on them for the full effect. Better than bifocals!)
A single flow'r he sent me since we met. All tenderly his messenger he chose; Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet - One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret; 'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.' Love long has taken for his amulet One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet One perfect limousine, do you suppose? Ah, no, it's always just my luck to get One perfect rose.
Dorothy Parker
As a teenager I adored Dorothy Parker's witty verse and memorized much of it. Only later did I learn more about her acerbic book reviews in the New Yorker under the byline 'Constant Reader' and her immortal response to The House at Pooh Corner: "Tonstant Weader frowed up."
Still later I encountered her short stories -- bleak, but beautifully written -- and learned more about her life. Not a happy lady, I'm afraid. But that light verse of hers will rattle round in my head forever.
Yesterday I made a real effort to get out of the house and into the garden before things began to heat up too much. I was rewarded with the sort of slanting morning light that makes everything look good -- the purple clematis, the blue door . . .
. . . the first Japanese iris, just opening in the bed by the greenhouse . . .
. . . sun sifting through the leaves to dapple the path . . .
. . . the first bloom on one of my three-for-ten dollars bargain roses -- and what a gaudy beauty!
But I had a date with the garden -- John had tilled the beds and I needed to get the squash and pumpkin seeds in.
There was one problem -- our wild turkeys have been using that fresh-tilled soil for dust baths -- so I got tobacco sticks from the barn and made little turkey deterring (I hope) tripods and planted the seeds under them.
I have great hopes that these heirloom pumpkins will prosper . . . and I also planted crookneck squash and zucchini . . . still have to find room for some hubbard and butternut squash . . . perhaps in with the corn . . .
The soil was dry as ash and as we ate lunch, we were thrilled to hear the sound of distant thunder.
And just then, there was a phone call. It was Carol -- Writers Porch Carol -- calling from Mississippi to say she'd sent me a package and had just gotten word that it had been left in the pig pen!
(This isn't as weird as it sounds. It's our neighbor's pigpen, near our mailbox and pigless for many a year. It's where the mail carrier as well as the UPS driver generally leave parcels that won't fit in the mailbox.)
Carol wouldn't tell me what she had sent -- just urged me to hurry down and get it.
So, like a child on Christmas morning, I hurried down. The mailbox is half a mile down the road and I took the jeep. Marigold watched me go by, wondering why I hadn't brought her a treat.
It was beginning to splat big raindrops and I dodged through them to retrieve the package from the pigpen.
Halfway back up the road, the skies opened up in a veritable gully-washer -- including, briefly, marble-sized hail. I was pleased to see that all my plantings were receiving a good soaking. Virtue rewarded!
And when I got to the house and opened the package! Oh rapture! Oh bounty! Oh Carol!
Vegetables from Carol's garden -- kept in perfect condition by all the little freezie things she had packed them with. Green tomatoes, yellow squash, green peppers, banana peppers, hot, peppers, zucchini, and cucumbers -- the sweetest cucumbers ever. We had them last night, sliced with green onions, fresh dill, and a light vinaigrette.
I'm planning a feast with the rest -- fried green tomatoes, grilled squash and peppers -- I'll throw some of our asparagus on the grill too and I'll make shrimp and grits -- maybe a little andouille sausage too. The rock guys are planning to finish up the path on Friday and this ought to be just right.
And to cap off a perfect day, it rained again after dark -- over two inches!
Just look at those gorgeous vegetables! Thank you, Carol!!!
All that rain of last week has given way to bright, sunny, hot days and now I have to think about getting my outdoor work done really early before the heat drives me back inside. I got a late start this morning and my intentions in regard to the garden faltered.
So I continued to work on Bear and Molly's haircuts -- not easy work as both prefer to lie down to be groomed. And I bathed Bear -- one way to cool off -- but Molly went to deep cover before I could stop her. Time to go back to work on proofreading the Birdie book.
I was breezing along, making little changes -- a word here, a word there -- and suddenly, over halfway through, I hit a chapter that just went clunk! I kept fiddling with the wording till the manuscript was awash in penciled changes and additions -- which is the point at which, according to the instructions, I need to print out fresh pages to attach to the old ones.
So I have a freshly rewritten chapter and am moving on, grateful I had the chance to fix the clunker. And hopeful there won't be more.
This lovely bloom is, to my way of thinking, as pretty as many an orchid or fancy tulip. Pale chartreuse petals, flamed with orange -- and a mop of cream colored -- what are those? Anthers? Stamens? Whatever -- it's a gorgeous flower. And just now, the forest floor is littered with them -- the blossoms of the tall tulip poplar trees that grow in such profusion here.
That was one thing.
Here's another: A few posts back, Merisi asked who was responsible for incorporating all the changes from the edited manuscript into an electronic copy. I didn't know and emailed my editor -- who also didn't know for sure. ( She knew that she didn't want to do it and I knew that I for sure didn't.) But Herself promised to find out and get back to me.
Monday morning, true to her word, here came the email -- a forward from one of the folks in the Production department who said: "The compositor does it. I think they contract the work out. It used to be housewives in Pennsylvania, but now I think they send it overseas."
I find this fascinating. What are those Pennsylvania housewives doing now -- are they greeters at Wal-Mart? massage therapists? mystery writers?
And where 'overseas' are these outsourced compositors? I guess an in-depth knowledge of English wouldn't actually be necessary -- all the compositor really has to do is understand the proofreading marks (something I'm still working on.)
Further proof that it takes a village to turn out a book.
Yesterday I put in some time weeding the garden and while I was taking a break and sitting in the shade, staring up at the bright blue sky through a canopy of lacy green leaves, I was remembering a story connected with the lady who gave me yesterday's flan recipe.
The Diaz family had fled Castro's Cuba (this was 1962) and were now settled in Florida -- very poor and just beginning to learn English. They were lovely, hardworking people and so kind to us four college girls who lived next door.
At some point I found out that the family had been given clothes by a local church group and were delighted with the windfall -- but there had been nothing in the assorted garments for Senora Diaz. Alas, in a few weeks there was to be a big dance party in the Cuban immigrant community -- and Senora Diaz had nothing fit for such a fiesta.
I went home that weekend and asked my mother if she had any dresses she'd like to pass on. She obligingly made up a parcel of several nice dresses she was tired of -- including a dressy number in mustard-colored, black and white dotted silk. There was a draped effect at the hips and beading at the bosom and, as I recall, a flounce or two.
I'd never liked the dress at all though it had been a favorite of my mother's for several years. But now, perhaps, it was out of style or possibly she just felt like she'd worn it to enough parties. No matter -- it was probably with a bit of a pang that she parted with this frock.
When I returned to Gainesville, and before I got over to my neighbor with the parcel, I had a visit from a high school friend on break from Agnes Scott. Lynn was staying with us for a few days, just in the middle of sorority rush week.
And a plan was formed. Why shouldn't Lynn go to my sorority's rush party? Why shouldn't she present herself as the daughter of the best friend of the National President -- as an iron-clad legacy. And why shouldn't she look and act . . . rather odd?
We dressed Lynn in the yellow silk dress (it was a casual tea -- everyone else would be in Bermuda shorts.) The dress was about two sizes too large and so hideous looking that Lynn could only be convinced to go through with the caper if we had a friend waiting in a getaway car at the back door of the sorority house.
Lynn was magnificent -- she made herself look and act like a sorority girl's worst nightmare. She introduced herself as Mozella Beasley and was loud in her desire to pledge this sorority, assuring everyone that Aunt So and So ( the National President) had assured her that she would be welcomed.
Lynn played the part perfectly till she found herself surrounded by a ring of incredulous sorority girls -- all the sisters had left the other prospective pledges to come see this supposed legacy -- at which point Lynn broke and ran for the back door and the getaway car.
Those of us in on the joke were hiding behind the punch bowl, weak with laughter. The rest of the sisterhood were left looking at one another and wondering what in the world they could do to avoid pledging this social misfit.
"She's so tacky!" wailed one sister, stretching the word 'tacky' into about five syllables. "Did y'all see that awful dress?"
Those of us in on the hoax kept quiet and as days went by, eventually the sisterhood breathed a sigh of relief when Mozella Beasley was never heard of again. I assumed the story would go no further -- certainly that it wouldn't get back to Tampa, especially since the name Mozella was that of a friend of my mother's.
And the yellow silk dress went to Sra. Diaz who was delighted. I saw her wearing it the next weekend to go to her party. She had altered it to fit her plump little body and it looked terrific with her dark coloring and Latina flair -- an amazing transformation.
But imagine my surprise on receiving a call from my mother yet a few weeks later.
"I just had an odd call from Mary Will Eastland. Her daughter wrote her about the rush party that you all took Lynn to. Tell me . . . what funny old dress of Mrs. Lane's was it that Lynn wore?"
