The end of February— it feels like a time of reckoning.
At last we can see the terrain that lay hidden beneath the snow since November. It is still there. Most of it isn’t pretty, like the sodden tufts of lawn all over town (but not in my mud yard, not yet). The tufts look brown in passing, but when you bend close, you can see the promise of new green, just beneath the ugliness. My wispy baby perennials–the ones I ordered prematurely last March, and didn’t plant in holding beds until just before the first frosts in late September because I was too busy working on the house–are at last exposed. They look bedraggled and perilously devoid of green, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised by winter-worn perennials before. I am hopeful. I need to go out and touch them. Wiggle and flex and pinch stems. Pronounce deaths, congratulate survivors. [continue reading…]
First, at the risk of losing the reader’s interest, I must issue this disclaimer: While the fact that I have worked amongst and even with men is indisputable, I cannot boast Membership in The Men’s Club. Not even as an Honorary Member. Its mysterious inner workings remain, to me, mysterious. This essay simply skirts the masculine puzzle from my feminine point of view. I am not, nor could I ever be, a man. 
I cooked on Valentine’s Day. It was what I wanted to do. Or what I thought I wanted to do (in the euphoria of planning). There were tense moments where I felt hot and overworked and cranky, and happy moments where I thought I might have made major culinary breakthroughs. There was even a long, long stretch of moments where I almost cried in the soup (figuratively speaking: I made sauces that day, not soup) because I was so sure I’d ruined everything. In the end though, it was all delicious, and dinner was a happy, festive celebration.
Andrea Jane is one of my younger sisters. Actually, all of my sisters are younger than me, but only one is littler: Julia measures in at 4’11”, while I am whole centimeters past 5’. These urns are Capo di Montes. Italian, date unknown. I am sure that when and if my mother reads this, she will wonder (possibly out loud) “What on EARTH do urns with naked babies all over them have to do with Andie?”.
Made with my mother’s dress pattern, a pattern she kept from the early 70’s (possibly even the late 60’s). That would make this a vintage dress, in its own way. I love that it fits both me and Maurya (there is no way Michaelyn would ever step into it, as pink as it is). I love that I can remember my mother dressing up in her own concoction made from the same pattern. It was navy blue and white pinstriped, and she wore a red sash, a red hat, and red heels with it. I think I can remember red buttons. Her dress was a little different; the pattern has various length options as well as sleeve options. Her sleeves would have been long and full, and the hemline would have swept the ground. But the same pattern!
Larry is hunting. We’d almost given up on him and Alice as our resident mouse control squad. Considered putting them on suspension for neglect of duty. But lately, we’ve been treated to the spectacle of Larry on the hunt and Alice on the munch. Our confidence in both has grown; they are caressed and applauded continually.
Historically, I have helped the kids with their valentines and their valentine boxes. It’s a beautiful way to bond, mid-February. I have sweet memories. But this year, both Ez and Meisha were radically independent; they had these going and finished before I even really knew what they were up to. I’m proud of their self-sufficiency.