No Green Thumb

I love to cook. If you know me at all, you know that. I love the flavor of fresh herbs but hate to buy a wad of cilantro or parsley, use one-fourth of it, and then after a few weeks toss the remainder in the garbage. And I don’t eat tomatoes often, but I do love a BLT made with a good, homegrown tomato. So when we moved to a house with full sun in the teeny-tiny back yard I decided to grow container gardens of tomatoes and herbs. Fast-forward to stunted, little, wormy tomatoes and a whole flock of something nasty eating all the basil. My reaction when I found all those bugs hunkered down and chewing? I yanked the basil out by the roots and did a stomp dance on the few bugs that didn’t fly away. Crushed basil with bug guts, anyone?

I’m not a fan of God’s littlest creepy-crawlers. My brothers were well aware of this fear and routinely tossed garter snakes in my direction. I responded by running, screaming and crying to Mom, which was their goal. Torture was having to pick potato bugs from the potato plants in Mom’s big garden. I trembled and gagged and cried, and still had to pick them. Yes, an abused childhood for sure.

Anyhoo, after the basil bugs (picture me shuddering), I gave up completely on tomatoes and brought my herb gardening venture inside. I had some success for a couple of years, but this past winter nothing would grow in my bright, sun-filled morning room. So—a return to the outdoors.

The basil and sage I planted from seed are finally sprouting, but the rosemary sent up one shoot which quickly shriveled in the cruel South Carolina heat. The cilantro, parsley and others are no-shows. I gave up and bought full, beautiful pots of oregano, marjoram and thyme from the farmer’s market—and after two days on the patio they were laid out like the death scene in Romeo and Juliet.

Recently, MSNBC aired a story about a man in India who had a 5-inch worm swimming around in his eyeball. (Want to see it? Seriously, you do? Here’s the link. Don’t eat first.) http://video.msnbc.msn.com/msnbc.com/48060270/#48060270.

The man told doctors he must have gotten the worm while gardening.

I’m thinking dried herbs are good enough.

The Joy of Junk

My joy in garage sales has dimmed in direct proportion to the number of episodes of “Hoarders” I’ve seen. Houses buried under mounds of unnecessary crap, families torn apart by the sheer amount of stuff; I can’t help but double-think every purchase. I was never one to plan my weekends around hitting major garage sales, but if I saw one in the area and had the time I’d stop in. When my kids were little I bought toys, games and Barbie stuff at garage sales. Now I think twice; do I really need it?

I love antique shops, though, and still plan an occasional Saturday trip to the larger ones. Oh, not those dust-free, polished shops arranged like great-grandma’s dining room and parlor, with matching china place settings and silverware in its original wooden case. I like the shops with nice furniture here and there amidst mismatched dishes, the spice jars my mother used with the same rusty screw tops, and lots and lots of books. Hours can pass while I wander through one of those acres-huge shops. I seldom buy anything—my house is full of furniture, my bookshelves are crammed full, and I don’t need a blessed thing—but the fun is in the looking, not the buying. And I might just find the footed dessert cup to fill out my mother-in-law’s incomplete set.

Once in a while I’ll stop at a flea market, marveling at the booths of worn-out shoes and half-used Avon lotions next to a double booth of cheap cookware and utensils. Again, seldom a purchase, but that wasn’t the point.

Sometimes I worry about my penchant for poking through other people’s old junk. Then I remember a girl I worked with telling me that on the way to church for her wedding her parents stopped at a garage sale, saying, “We won’t be a minute!”

Obviously I don’t have a problem.

I Love Lucy Moments

Okay, now that I survived, I’ll confess.

A couple of weeks ago I defrosted some shrimp to sauté. Before I cooked them I dipped one in cocktail sauce and ate it. Just ate the shrimp, picked up another to dip in more cocktail sauce, and then realized what I’d done.

I had forgotten I was dealing with raw shrimp, not reheating pre-cooked frozen shrimp.

Raw shrimp. In my mouth. Now in my stomach.

I told myself people eat raw fish all the time. They sell sushi in grocery stores for heaven’s sake! I told myself I’d eaten it without gagging so there was no sense in feeling queasy now. I told myself if I didn’t come down with food poisoning I’d take my secret to my grave; my husband and kids do not need more proof that I’m losing it.

I waited to see if my innards rebelled at such callous treatment. Fought the urge to confess the latest in my I Love Lucy moments. Resisted looking up all the dire things raw shrimp could do to my delicate digestive system.

And I lived.

Does that make me want to eat sushi? No. No it does not. I don’t even like to eat poached fish, or fish baked without some sort of coating. In most cases, I demand some texture to my ventures in fish food.

Will I be more careful in the future? Honestly, I might forget and do it again someday. And if I do, one way or another, I’ll carry that occurrence to my grave.

Sticking the Dismount

I like to think I’m aging gracefully; not fighting the aging process with nips, tucks, or other artificial means; letting life etch my face and sculpt my body; and accepting that I’m not a kid.

And then I try to leap over a half-wall and fall on my ass.

Last night after a writer’s meeting I went out to dinner with friends. There were empty chairs at the near end of the table, but a woman who had just sold her novel (Susan Boyer!) was sitting at the far end in a corner and I wanted all the details so I could live vicariously through someone who had achieved what I’ve been trying to do for years. Which meant squeezing between the row of people already seated at the table and the half wall at their backs. As I made it to my chair, I realized I was not going to get through dinner (after a two-plus hour meeting) without, ahem, visiting the facilities.

Run the gauntlet again? No, I would simply go over the half-wall to the walkway that led to the restrooms.

The wall was about butt-high, so I sat on it and threw my legs over, expecting my feet to meet floor on the other side. But the other side was a ramp and suddenly I was airborne. Briefly.

You know that moment when life slows down and you have time to think, Oh, man, this is going to be bad? Yeah, that.

When I finally hit bottom my feet didn’t stick the landing. I kept on going and ended up on my butt, my side smacking against the opposite half-wall. Loudly. For a few seconds I just sat there wondering if I’d injured anything important. Besides my pride. My friends gasped, “Are you okay?” I reassured them that I was fine, dragged myself up off the floor and continued on to the bathroom, thanking God I hadn’t peed myself in the melee.

I've discovered there are some differences between Yankees and Southerners, at least between the Yankees and Southerners I know. My best friends (yes, Dee Ann and Marilyn, I mean you) back in Michigan would laugh until they cried, pretend they didn’t know me, and mock me until we all got so old we forgot it happened. They would trot out the story every time we got together, exaggerate it until it was unrecognizable, and wring every inch of fun out of it.

But I live in South Carolina now, and Southern people are exceedingly polite in the face of a person's public mortification. When I got back to the table no one even mentioned it. I’m not sure which is worse, being publicly teased, or thinking the others are meeting in the parking lot afterward asking, “Was she drunk or what?”

Aging gracefully? Maybe not.

Bumper Stickers

Saw one of those back car window “family” stickers the other day. You know, those sweet drawings of the dad, the mom, the kids, the dog, the cat?

Not exactly.

Oh, this one had the requisite cute drawings of a dad, mom, little girl, little boy and a dog. But it said “The Ass Family: Smart, Wise, Kiss, Jack and Stinky.”

Some people shouldn’t be allowed to pick their own car art.  

For years now, I have wanted one of those personalized license plates you put on the front of your car. (I’m so old I remember when you had to have plates both front and back. Sigh.) My favorite so far is “No matter how far you ‘push the envelope’ it’ll still be stationary.”

You think maybe I should keep looking?

Maybe so. And Ass Family, before you decorate your vehicle with signs that ridicule your entire family, maybe you should think twice, too. Your Kiss-Ass daughter will thank you.

Hooked on DVR

I am hopelessly, ridiculously besotted with love for our DVR.

Before DVR, I seldom watched TV. The remote control resides in John’s hand whenever he’s home, oftentimes while he’s sleeping through his shows. He watches sports, Westerns, and precious little else, so I would happily sit in my reading corner and read books. If ever I had control of the remote I couldn’t find anything to watch, anyway.

But with the advent of DVR I’ve discovered there are shows I actually like! Property Brothers, who find and remodel homes that end up in the 700,000-800,000 range. Too-modern style for me, but amazing transformations. (They never would have sold me on the stinky cat house, though. Been there, done that, got the PTSD.) The Middle and Raising Hope, dysfunctional family sitcoms so absurd they crack me up. A couple of cooking shows, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

And then comes the feature I really love—the stopping and backing up of the show! The show is recorded and when a phone call interrupts or a husband snores really loudly or you go off imagining yourself using that amazing outdoor kitchen, you can magically back up the show and watch it again! It even works when you haven’t taped the show. You can pause and start again, or rewind. It’s amazing.

I think I’m DVR dependent, though. I find myself wanting to stop and back up in other areas of my life. The car radio: Should I be getting out of the car and lying as flat as possible in that wet ditch beside the road? Better take another listen. A fascinating conversation partially overheard in a coffee shop? Would be nice to know what happened prior to the point where the police were called on Aunt Phyllis.

I especially need a pause-rewind button for Sunday sermons when the pastor repeats something, repeats something with emphasis, repeats something with a little added part to it. After a few too many repetitions my brain goes off on its own, reminding me I need to stop for potatoes after church and that next Sunday I need to bring canned goods for the food drive. I notice, not for the first time, that the woman in front of me wears the worst scent since Evening in Paris, and those two little boys are poking each other with pencils and why don’t their parents notice what’s going on? Once again I’ve derailed and probably missed the important, the most important, the most relevant and important part of the whole sermon.

What are the times you could use a pause-restart or rewind button? Or is it just me?

Thanksgiving Tree

I didn’t grow up with a lot of family traditions. My parents were so busy trying to keep up with eight kids some of the finer points got missed. We decorated eggs for Easter and danced dangerous pirouettes with burning sparklers on Independence Day, sure. But quiet gatherings around Dad as he read the Christmas story? No, it was never that quiet. Eggnog and cookies while eight kids pushed and shoved to decorate the tree? Would the living room even have survived?

My children, I’m sad to say, were raised pretty much like I was. Oh, I squeaked in a few more traditions here and there, but having three kids in fewer than four years will suck up most of the energy and good intentions you have. Avoiding accidental death and dealing with whining were the major activities. We’re lucky we all survived.

So now that I have grandchildren I pay better attention to traditions. Okay, I pay attention to the daughter who is very conscious of tradition-making. Now we do annual apple-picking trips, visits to the Christmas light village, and try to do vacations as a group.

I wish we had those fond memories to look back on, both in my childhood and my children’s lives.

But I’m very proud to have instituted a new tradition, all on my own. The Thanksgiving Tree. I printed leaf shapes on goldenrod paper, cut them out with a grandchild, hole-punched them, and tied on loops. Then at a recent family dinner (a weekly tradition), we all sat down and wrote the things we’re thankful for. Some wrote three, some four or even more, until we ran out of leaf shapes.

We read them out loud before hanging them on a little tree in the dining room. There are some other answers, but most say, essentially, “family.”

I think we’re doing okay.