What’s in your Garden?

    

Image: Oregano from my garden. 

 

 

 

 

 My hands smell of fresh oregano, and I like it. I’ve been harvesting my abundance of oregano, cutting sprigs, tying twine around the lanky bundles, and hanging them in the shed to dry.   

        Last summer, the rosemary, tall, proud, and plentiful, was the star. However, the rosemary didn’t winter over well, so I replanted. Every season surprises me. 

      

 "Drying herbs is so simple and so satisfying." 

 

         The reward comes in winter when I open the airtight jar and inhale the savory scent before sprinkling the muddy green oregano in a sauce or stew. It’s brighter than its ugly brown store-bought cousin. 

         I grow hardier herbs like rosemary, chives, and oregano. Sometimes mint. Always basil, which I plant in pots near the house. Basil is popular, and any surplus becomes pesto. For drying herbs, I follow these steps.  

        Cut the herbs before they flower or “go to seed.”  Divide the cuttings into small batches for better air circulation and faster drying. Tie one end together, making a loop for easy handling. Hang the herbs in a cool, dark space for a couple of weeks. Drying times vary depending on the weather. Be patient.  

When leaves feel brittle to the touch and easily crumble, theyyyyyy’re ready. 

        I enjoy working outside for the last steps. * I work one bundle at a time, cutting the string, stripping the leaves from the stems onto wax paper. I have all my airtight bottles lined up, and the labels are handy. Wax paper makes it easier to scoop and bottle the herbs. Clean-up is easier too.   

            

"For a finer oregano, I employ the mortar and pestle, one of my favorite kitchen tools. This brown marble set is one family heirloom that I’m not worried about breaking. It’s a sturdy workhorse."

Image: Mortar & pestle with oregano. 

        Oh, the best part about my homegrown herbs is sharing them with friends and family. Recipes not included! 

*Pro tip: Pick a day that’s not windy to jar your herbs. 

 

My reading life transported me to an adventure in the Middle Ages. I enjoyed being immersed in the culture, customs, and lives of peasants and nobility during this era. 

I felt the fear of being chased by bandits in the forest. I savored the elaborate meals served during the holiday season. And, I experienced the hunger and abandonment of being locked in a dungeon. 

Now freed from the pages, I'll share key warning signs that you may be trapped in a Medieval novel. 

Ten Signs you may be a Female Character in a Medieval Novel

Your home is your castle—literally.

You never leave home without your sword.

Your horse is your most loyal friend.

You worry about bandits when riding in the woods. (That’s why you carry a sword.)

You believe in faeries (fairies).   

Your cousins are getting married to one another.

You worry about your father sending you to the convent.   

You know dungeons are real, dragons are not.

You find reading and speaking Latin useful in everyday life.

Your last concert featured a trio of troubadours serenading you outside the castle.

Summer: Time to Work or
Time to Play?  

    What was your first real paying job as a teen? Did you work during your summer vacation? Or did you play, watching your days melt away as fast as the soft-serve ice cream cone on a July day?

    My mother was certain I would not find a summer job.

    First off, summer had started, as defined by the last day of school, which meant all the cushy, decent-paying positions were taken.

    In my hometown, unless you knew someone who owned a family business, choices were limited to toiling at the degrading, greasy fast-food chains or relentless waitressing at the truck stop. Apart from babysitting, I was out of luck. I had no farmhand experience and was scared of tractors, which ruled out earning good money bailing hay. 

    That’s why I walked into Hardee’s, filled out an application, and walked out excited to be employed. I had a minimum-wage job behind the counter. Easy-peasy. 

    I proved I could find a job. That’s all I wanted. However, my first shift forced me to contend with bossy managers only a few years older than me, work weekend hours until closing, and smile at surly customers. I dealt with nicer, patient people than not. And I learned about Hardee’s unadvertised menu item— cheese sandwiches, ordered by the vegetarian patrons.    

    Employee perks included discounts on any menu item. My favorite meal was a fish fillet sandwich and fries. (I still like fillet-o-fish with yellow cheese on a soft bun.)   

    But there weren’t enough fish sandwiches or digits in my paycheck to compensate me for wearing the mandatory ugly uniform. A muddy brown polyester fabric, which always smelled like greasy fries, was the worst.  Although every Hardee’s employee looked as drab as their uniform.

    As miserable as I was, I worked weekends through the fall. I suppose I needed to prove to myself (and my parents) that I could keep this lousy job. An experience that taught me I had to start my job search earlier next time.  

    The following year, I was wiser in my quest to find summer work. My best friend and I got a gig serving three meals to rowdy campers at the college. No weekends! Afternoons off! Only hairnets, no goofy uniforms.   

    Funny, I can’t remember a supervisor. Perhaps she was out of sight doing important stuff while I was lifting heavy trays, weaving in-between long tables. Back and forth from the steamy kitchen to the dining hall and back. It was hard, sweaty labor.

    The day started at 6 a.m. and I didn’t mind because working alongside my best friend made every hour fly by. The joy and misery of a summer job forged our friendship deeper.

***

    My retired girl friends, and I were enjoying a gelato in a coffee shop this summer afternoon when in walked a smartly dressed teenager. He wore black pants, a white button-down shirt, and clean black shoes. Our table was close enough to eavesdrop on his job interview.

    “What experience do you have?” she asked.

    He told her he worked in food service, grocery stores, and restaurants. I didn’t hear her response, only his.

    “I’m a hard worker. I understand your loyalty to the people who worked here last summer,” he said.

    He didn’t sound upset, and I thought he had likely faced rejection a few times because it was already summer and job-hunting season had begun.

What can I write about roses that hasn’t already been said? Such exquisite beauty, fragrance, and thorny nature are well known to poets, writers, and gardeners around the world.   

 What does it mean to be lost in your art? 

    Morgan Fleming, a Kansas City jeweler, inspired by Peter Carl Faberge’s work, designed his own masterpiece titled “Morgan’s Egg in Renaissance Style.”

        “I didn’t know if I ever existed before the egg. It totally changed my life,” he told me when I interviewed him in the 1990s.

        He labored for six years on this million-dollar masterpiece. Fleming fit the profile of a mad scientist obsessed with his project who rarely left his lab. His family had tremendous faith in him, though he rarely saw him. Neither did his friends. Or customers. He hired out repairs to focus on finishing the regal egg.

        Every detail he painstakingly perfected for his Imperial Easter Egg. The stunning sterling silver egg features 18-carat gold lattice work dotted with 51 clusters, each featuring four diamonds accented with a ruby center. The gold base is trimmed with intricate white, red, and green enamel designs.

        Fleming thought he’d finish the egg in a year, but he estimated he devoted 4,500 hours. Other jewelers worked with him to replicate the design details. But he reminded me that Faberge employed around 400 craftsmen. His workforce produced one jeweled egg a year for the tsar, who presented the egg as an Easter gift for the tsarina. 

        Despite the setbacks and sacrifices, Fleming told me that he never contemplated failure. He was remarkable in his determination and imagination.

    (Footnote: I’ll work on this mystery to see where this extraordinary egg resides now.)

 

Have you heard about Stop the Sexualization of Children Act HR76661? The American Library Association its opposition to this recently introduced book banning legislation stressing that “parents, not politicians should guide their children’s reading.”   

Protect the Children, or How to Ban a Book in 5 Simple Steps

If you have a child, or know a child that you desperately want to protect, read on. Are you worried that books are corrupting young minds? And by corrupt, we mean ideas and beliefs unlike yours.  

Step 1: Pick a book that you have not read. Any book, genre, or target age. Do not worry if the book is not controversial; your job is to make it more controversial with a fact-finding expedition. It’s never been easier to make any book controversial without even reading it! The goal is to prevent an innocent child from learning something. Remember: Protect the children.

Step 2: Judge the book by its cover, the title, the awards it’s received. Does the title sound suspicious? Does the cover artwork make you anxious? All signs indicate that this book should remain closed. Remember, do not read the book, because this will inject positive bias. Pro tip: The literary award name usually appears in a gold circle stamped on the front.   

Step 3: Read the front flap to understand the book’s premise, setting, and characters. No matter how interesting it sounds, do not read the book. Studies show that if you read the book you cannot argue effectively against banning the book. Trust us.

Step 4: Read the author’s bio to figure out what offends your sensibilities. Maybe you don’t like their name (too foreign sounding), where they live, or that they have an awful haircut. It’s tempting to get bogged down in the writer’s confusing pronouns, religion, or ethnicity but you don’t need to conduct research. Yes, really. Pro tip: Pick one offense and don’t back down.

Step 5: Is this book “required reading” for school? If yes, then storm the school board, picket the library, or harass the parents and teachers who have failed to think of the children’s future. Remember, act outraged that reading books promotes a student’s ability to think for themselves are available at school libraries. Fiery eyes, fist in the air, and foaming at the mouth (kidding) draws more attention to you than the cause. Pro tip: Calmly declare that the book contradicts your family values, depicts real historical events, or uses inappropriate language. Don’t use foul language when giving your opinion.   

Finally, if you are concerned that the next generation will be duly influenced by what they read, expanding their knowledge and understanding about who they are and the world around them, it’s your duty to speak up. But we advise against telling your children about your ultimate book burning, banning plans. Teenagers, in particular, will want to read the very books you are protecting them from. Then, these ungrateful children will challenge you and publicly fight for their right to read all the books.   

Dreams of Winter 

When I greet winter,
I’m in Robert Frost’s poem pausing “between woods and frozen lake.”

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Where I see winter,
it’s a backyard of barren trees, showing off their naked shape,
the fleeting red flash at the feeder,
animal tracks in criss-cross patterns. 

❅❅❅  

What I sense
is calm wrapped in stillness,
an excuse to hibernate, tuck in, peer out.

❅❅❅

How do I dream of winter?
It’s gentle, well-behaved snow,
without the bullies wind, sleet, and ice.

❅❅❅