On Saturday morning He Who Wears Plaid Shirts took my favorite Chicago knife to the garden and came back with Chinese cabbage, regular cabbage, broccoli and the snowiest cauliflower heads I’ve ever seen. We’d already bought 2 gallons of strawberries and a pound of snow peas at Howard’s berry patch so after I tried another… Continue reading Sumer is icumen in
Our Carolina Piedmont springs and falls are almost obscenely beautiful. That’s the swap we make for having to endure the almost unendurable steamy summers. As I write, we’re moving toward Amazonian rainforest temperatures and humidity. The wisteria is trying, once again, to yank the deck from the house. The roadsides are morphing from Monet-scapes of… Continue reading Rosemary is for remembrance
We had quite a show here last night. The sun set red over the Blue Ridge and its rolling foothills, and hours before it got dark, mists rose from the hollows, the warm fields breathing steam after a pounding rain. By 9 o’clock, fireflies spangled the veils of moisture like sequins on “Dancing with the… Continue reading The stars at night
My friend Julie was right: The blue, green, white and freckled brown shells slipped off the eggs like little socks. I’d called to ask if she had any eggs more than 3 weeks old because, any fresher, and you can’t remove the shells after you hard-boil them. Julie’s got something like 70 chickens, roaming freely… Continue reading The devil made me do it
In only 4 days, I got hornswoggled twice by restaurant salads. You’d think I’d have learned the first time when a signature chopped salad amounted to hundreds more calories and fat grams than I figured. But, nooooooo. Last night He Who Must Be Obeyed and I had a early light supper, meeting halfway between where… Continue reading No fair!
“Pretty soon I won’t be able to see you,” said my husband when I told him the scales showed 26 pounds gone in seven months. “Let me hug my disappearing friend,” said my friend when I stopped to pick up green and brown eggs for Sunday’s church-wide picnic. And this, of course, is one of… Continue reading The invisible woman
My poems are in jars I keep saying I’m going to do another kind of writing The kind that involves stanzas and tropes But then the strawberries come in at Howards’. In the silken sunrise One picker’s pink sweats, another’s shirt And the ripening berries Stand out like traffic lights. The sweet smell in the… Continue reading My poems are in jars