About a month ago, someone plowed our garden spot. Then he tilled it. Then he harrowed it. Then he marked it into rows. Then he planted and planted and planted. Onions, cabbages, corn, tomatoes, all are out there. Everything is growing. The corn is two inches tall. Last night, I got this gorgeous posy:
It is more than just a clump of radishes.
It is saving and scrimping to buy land.
It is buying and maintaining a tractor.
It is watching weather and planning ahead for planting.
It is keeping a vegetable inventory, to know how much to plant each year.
It is changing diet to fit what grows in our area.
It is walking out to the garden every day to be sure things are okay.
It is stringing irrigation hoses out there and paying for water when the rain refuses to fall.
It is seeding it over in autumn with crimson clover so we either get a cover crop or else some venison.
It is buying and maintaining a small tiller for between rows, later.
It is researching through gardening books for help with pests and diseases.
It is sharpening and oiling the hoe, shovel, and rake.
It is pulling rocks out and chunking them into the ditch.
It is winding twine round and round and round stakes to support plants.
It is shredding piles and piles of newspapers for mulch.
It is staying up late and going out with a dorky “headlight cap” on and covering tender plants before a surprise frost comes.
All of the above, and more, go into the first bouquet of the vegetable gardening season. And here it is, held in the hand that provided it, the hand of someone who, though he doesn’t eat many radishes, knows who does.
The hardest thing about dieting, for me, is that the only way I can really lose weight and stay healthy is to cut carbohydrates. I dread that. I love chocolate-coated sugar bombs with milk and cream on them. I love pancakes with too much syrup. I love granola bars, instant milk stir ins, and smoothies.
The only way I can make myself follow a low-carb diet is to keep telling myself that sweet = poison. In a way, it is true, for me. Sugar sure is sweet and sure is poison. Most sugar substitutes are, also. Since I stopped allowing sugar past my lips, I have been tons healthier. I try hard to stick to only 10 grams of sugar per day, although I often go up to 15 or 20. Still, I try.
Now, lest we be confused, in my book, starch = sugar. If you paid attention in school, you learned that starch changes to sugar in the body, often as soon as while it is in the mouth. So–no sugar = no starch.
Exit: breakfast as we know it. Enter: eggs, the wonder-food.
Long ago when scientific empiricism ruled, children learned in school that eggs are nearly a perfect food. Soon after that, media sensationalism took over and we all became scared of the egg. Impossible! Now, surprise, surprise! the egg is coming back into vogue, probably because if we want, we can circumvent media tripe by watching the computer, instead, choosing to read the research for ourselves, instead of trusting the interpretation of those who have agendas.
Slowly it trickles down and grows to a deep sea of truth. The truth is, I cannot eat the average donut or cereal breakfast and lose. I ate that way for most of my life, and now, the part of me that processes sugar is worn out. It’s gotta be protein and greens for me.
I have learned, from long years of perfecting my breakfast menus, that I cannot tolerate egg after egg after egg, unless I do something drastic about the boredom. So I collect amazing egg recipes. Thinking others may be in the same boat, I have decided to share, every Monday, how I have beat egg boredom. (Yes, I know today is Wednesday. Minor glitch. Just think–you only have to wait five more days for the next installment.)
Today will be the Vegetable Frittata. It is so NOT breakfast-y, that it shocks the taste buds into sobriety while delivering tons of great nutrients to the fasting body, including one of the most easily digested protein sources, the lowly egg.
Here it is, in all its glory. Adjust it to meet your taste buds and your veggies on hand. Enjoy!
Vegetable Frittata
2 T. olive oil or butter
4″ sprig rosemary
1 or 2 green onions, chopped
1 clove garlic, pressed
1 or 2 mushrooms, sliced
1 small tomato, chunked
2 eggs
grated parmesan cheese (opt.)
Warm oil with rosemary in covered saute pan for a minute. Add onion and garlic and saute briefly, stirring, until clear. Add mushrooms and increase heat slightly. Saute, stirring, until mushroom begins to shrink and brown. Onion should brown, also, and garlic should be nearly overdone. Increase heat slightly and add tomato. Stir and fry until tomato just begins to peel.
Just After Adding Tomato
Beat eggs with 1 teaspoon water and add to pan, stirring constantly until done. If desired, contents of pan may be pushed into interesting shapes before egg sets.
Prepared with Love
Sprinkle lightly with parmesan cheese, salt, and pepper, if desired, and serve with 2 ounces of pomegranate juice and/or 1 cup coffee or tea. Serves one.
Enjoy!
Okay, I know it’s a shock. Move to a sunny window, close your eyes, pretend you’re in Italy, and learn a new thing.
A WWII veteran, my dad was a factory worker. He lifted heavy bags of plastic pellets into a machine that turned out knobs, duck calls, and laundry baskets, at high temperatures. He seldom took sick leave and came home exhausted every night. For that he received $100 per week and a party sometime in December.
Yet he had such energy left for tomfoolery! He played with us kids as if he were one himself. Airplane rides (on his feet), jigsaw puzzles, carom games, goofy drawings, and croquet were among his repertoire. He made the stand for our carom board, himself, without any plan or pattern. He also made several bookcases and two desks the same way. And he repaired our toys.
One play activity he initiated with us was about trust. Did he think it through and decide to teach us trust? Maybe not—he was having fun. He encouraged and coaxed us to fall backward into his hands, if we believed he was strong enough to catch us. Was that ever hard to do! And how insulted he acted when we were scared to try it! He never dropped us, though, and we learned something, I think.
When his family grew, he built an addition to the house, himself. Alone. He hired help with digging and pouring the basement, and with the rafters. All the rest he did with our help. We gained a new living room, bedroom, basement, and bath. It was hard, but he did it. He wired, plumbed, hammered, sawed, plastered, sanded, and varnished. And I still can back any nail out of any board, no matter how bent or stuck. Just ask my kids.
He kept a huge garden, too. Corn, tomatoes, beans, and cucumbers, I remember. Sometimes he hired it plowed in spring, sometimes he could only afford to burn it off and attack with a shovel. But he had a big-wheeled cultivator and we pulled weeds. And there is still something about pulling weeds that pulls me into the garden.
How I loved to sit on his lap while he watched television! Mostly I did not watch, but just nestled and played with his hands. I twirled his wedding ring round and round his finger and rubbed the calluses on his palms and ridges on his fingernails. Sometimes he would give me one quarter of one of his Throat Disks from their slender tin he kept in his pocket. He also had a smaller tin of tiny, black Meloids that were too spicy for me.
One thing bonded me to him more than any other. When I was very little, he would give me piggy-back rides. He sat on a big chair while I climbed up to grab hold around his neck, then he stood up and bounced me around the living room. What fun we had! The day came, though, when the ride was over, I slid down his back, and my leg caught on a screwdriver in his back pocket. I screamed. He was absolutely heartbroken. I had never seen a grown-up cry before and it riveted me.
Oh, to be that concerned about my own precious children!
My grandpa used to gather us kids around to play a mouse game with us. He somehow folded his handkerchief into a cylinder shape with a tail and would hold it in his hand and stroke it like a pet mouse. Then he would talk us into petting it, too. Suddenly it would jump up his arm while he acted surprised and we nearly jumped out of our skins, although we knew what was coming, each time. It was the only kid entertainment at their stuffy parsonage, and we loved it, couldn’t wait to go there and beg to play the mouse game. Oh, the giggles!
Imagine my awe and shock when my mother revealed to me the truth: my grandpa never did like children much. Imagine!—Oh, just imagine!—What dedication to doing right prevailed in this man who did not like little children yet took them into his arms and blessed them with a silly game!
Outside of that game, our activities with him were on adult level. He lived in St. Louis, and took us often to Shaw’s Garden and the Climatron. Anyone who has ever been there knows a child can be totally impressed with such a ho-hum-sounding activity. I was. I loved it there; the waterfalls that ended in fish-filled pools with floating lava rock amazed me. That the birds could live there for our enjoyment, that we could climb stairs to be near the treetops, that the birds were used to us, was unbelievable. I grew up to be an amateur botanist and birder.
After retiring from parish life, he took a simpler job as proofreader at a large publishing company. Twice he took me there to see the processes, every step conducted in house, in the good ol’ days. I remember a long set of cover-less books aligned side-by-side with an enormous screw clamp, waiting for their corporate edges to be gilded. I grew up to be a writer.
Grandpa also had a pump organ and played very well. He would not let us play on it unless we could pump it ourselves and knew an actual song to play for him. My brother was better at that, but when Grandpa took us to the big, old church that had a real pipe organ, when the organist was practicing, it was sublime. I soaked in it and grew up to prefer richly chorded classical organ music.
One activity bonded me to my grandpa more than any other thing: milk toast.
Buttered or Not–Mmm!
For the uninitiated, that is a bowl of torn-up toast, doused in milk, to eat with a spoon like cereal. A-a-ah!
I liked milk toast and none others of Grandpa’s fourteen grandchildren did, that I know of. He liked to eat a bowl of it every night before bed and if we were there, he would make me one, too. We sat together at their antique oak dining table that was covered in hand-made lace, old man and little girl, happy as coons in corn, eating a meal he prepared just for me.
What a difference in these two eggs! Each appeared during this flip-flop season we call “spring”.
Odd Eggs
Spring is such a time of turmoil in our area—flower and leaf buds popping out everywhere, new birth, chickens beginning the new laying season, tornadoes—I wonder how we survive it.
Spring’s natural beauty forces us to love her. The amazing fragrances and forms of blooming things, the pearlescence of eggshells and the fragility of baby chicks, the mew of kittens, the peeping of hidden frogs, all work on us, draw us to that perennial love affair with spring.
So we roll up our sleeves, kick off our shoes, and pull our hair up into ponytails to catch the sun on our skin. We pull weeds, freshen flags, mow too soon, plant too soon—anything to be outdoors, to come inside smelling like spring. We paint lawn furniture, divide potted plants, and attend herbal festivals, filling our lives with projects to prepare us for spring.
But no-yolk and double-yolk eggs most remind me of spring. My dad had a collection of odd eggshells that appeared on the same day as tornadoes. He always said the tornado scared the hens and caused them to lay odd eggs. I think he believed that. Maybe it is true. He labeled each shell with the date of its corresponding tornado and displayed them on egg cups, for which they were far too large or far too small. He always loved curiously humorous events.
He’s been gone, now, about 12 years. So much has changed. I doubt he ever guessed I’d be telling the whole world about his eggshell collection, one day. I doubt he ever guessed what an impact he had, in the daily humor of life.
But I do not doubt he lived life, squeezed everything he could out of it, love it, with one hand held palm-upward, trusting, waiting for some blessing to fall into it, be it only an odd eggshell.
Another reason we practice Spring Cleaning has little to do with clean.
Read:
The next in line for the Spring Cleaning ritual in our home is the bookcase area. We own enough books to fuel a small school, because we were once exactly that. You may wonder why I do not store some of them —
I have.
Let’s pretend, though, that yesterday’s scenario has aged five years, and the three imagined daughters are now 12, 10, and 7. You’ve been practicing inclusion of these girls for five years and now you are ready to tackle these bookcases. Your conversation might go like this:
The Bookcase
Girls, help me get a couple of these bookcases done today, okay? Mary, get the dusting spray, the vacuum, and the paper towels. Hmm, I think we need this table cleared to stack the books on it. Can you take care of that, too, Mary? Thanks.
As we put the books on the table, we’ll stack them all in the same direction and then we can vacuum the tops of them all at once. Oh, yes, we should align the tops of them to make it easier. And keep them in order, so we won’t have to reorganize them. I think this will work.
Okay, let’s see if we can do two units in a half hour. Set the timer. Go!
Look at this old crocheted bookmark from Grandma—I want to clean and starch it. Set it aside for later. Someone make a note; we need to reinforce the spine on the “B” volume of this encyclopedia.
Thanks for collecting all our supplies, Mary. Can you attach the hose and the duster? Good.
Let’s hurry, here. It’s a big job. Susan, can you see the top shelf or do we need the step stool. Go get it, then, Leah. I want you two on the dusting job and I will vacuum the books. Try hard to keep the spray off the floor. It can be dangerously slick. And be sure you wipe the corners well and get all the spray wiped off.
Okay, start handing me books, in order, and I’ll restack them in their places. This is going well, time-wise, but I think we’ll stop in the middle of the second bookcase, so we don’t go overtime. No need to wear ourselves out with such heavy work.
No, I think we’d better stop short of that. There’s always tomorrow. Let’s call it done for now, and have some tea, okay? Then I want to show you all how to wash a delicate piece of crochet. Mary, you take care of the vacuum. That’s my girl.
Oh, how good it is to have all your help, girls! I don’t know what I’d do without you.
Can you see how, since the girls have received diligent training, they have become like extra arms and legs for the mom? Not only that, but also, they are learning good, quick, efficient work habits they can take with them into their futures.
In exchange for all the training you gave them before, you now are reaping great helpers. They, in return for their help, are receiving a gift many people lack: the ability to be diligent, reliable, trustworthy, hard-working members of their future worlds.
Wherever they go, whether into marriage or some other career, they will be ahead of their peers and rise quickly to betterment at every possibility.
Okay, girls, today our fast-clean project is this stuffed coat closet. Oh, we have so much to do to make it better! Here, Little Mary, you can play with all these wonderful wooden hangers. Can you pile them onto the couch for mom? Great! Thanks!
Hey, Big Sis, look at Daddy’s old umbrella–it needs mending. Write that on the list for me, will you? First write “mend”, then I will spell “umbrella” for you, okay? Thanks!
Oh, look, here is the glove you were looking for, Leah! I’m so glad we are cleaning this closet out. Maybe we’ll even find some MONEY hiding in here. Run and put the glove with your other one, okay?
Oh, I wonder what is in this box–Would you look! It is empty except for one cap. What a waste of space, and just when I was thinking we needed a bigger closet! Are you back already, Leah? Take these road atlases over to the couch beside the hangers. Yes, that’s right. Thanks! No, Little Mary, those are grown-up books. Good girl.
Okay, this other box has candles in it. Can you tell from the lovely perfume coming from it? Here, everyone sniff and tell me what it smells like . . . Right! Just like flowers, isn’t it? Good job! We’ll set it on this big chair, and don’t you let me forget to put it back, when things in there are dry.
What else is up on this shelf? Daddy’s two good hats are dusty. Big Sis, do you know where the whisk broom is? Get it for me, please. Thanks. I didn’t know I would need that in here. Leah, could you bring me back the big box? Yes, that’s the one. Let’s put Daddy’ good hats in it, since he doesn’t wear them often. That will keep them clean and keep bugs off them. Oh, here’s that broom. Good. Now we can clean the hat before we store it. Won’t Daddy look sharp in this new, clean hat? What? You want to try it on? Okay, but let Mommy help you–Whoa! You look just like Daddy!
You know, I think I will pull all the coats out of here before I wash the shelf. I don’t want to get soap on our good coats, if I spill. We’ll lay them across the back of the couch. There. Much better for the coats, and you help me remember to take this graduation gown to my closet, okay? Okay!
Big Sis, how are we for time? Fifteen minutes? We need to hurry more.
Little Mary, would you like a job? Can you carry out all the umbrellas off the floor in here? You can? Great! Leah, you help her with that huge one. Yes. Good.
Big Sis, hand me the step stool. Thanks. Let’s see if Mom can fit up inside this little closet. Oh, sure, I see we need to wipe the shelf, so here goes. Can you fetch the fan from the dining room? I want this to dry fast so we can put everything away before the timer goes off. Do you know why it should be dry? Yes, the box could stick to the shelf. That would be a big mess. I think I will clean this door, too. Somebody handled it with grimy hands. Too bad!
Now to sweep the floor right quick . . . There!
Let’s put the coats back and let’s be sure to check all the collars. Uh-oh, Daddy’s trench coat needs dry cleaning, see? Look at that. We’ll take it out to the car in a while. Everything else looks good, so back it goes, into its place. Hey, Little Mary, I’m ready for you to bring me the hangers again. Thanks, Baby. You are such a helper. Okay, let me get the candle box. Now the hat box. We are almost done.
You two put the umbrellas back except for the broken one. Mommy will take care of it. Whew! All that work made me hungry! Who wants a cookie?
There you have it: one session of the new Spring Cleaning plan, in a one-sided conversation, with three imaginary girls helping. Of course, your children are not exactly like these and your words would differ, but do you see how it might work to incorporate children into this job?
They SO need the attention and the teaching. Let’s go for it!
Home's Cool! 