In the Garden with Gentle Palm

A Walk in the Park

Some Thanksgiving statistics from Old Stone House:

Number present for Thanksgiving feast: 26

Children 12 and under: 10

Trips to the emergency room in a 24 hour period: 2

Average number sitting down to dinner for the last three nights: 15

Numbers of actual walks in the park: 1

Number of stars added to Many Shoes' crown:  innumerable

Time spent with Baby Zen: not enough

Laughs: a lot

Snuggling: never enough

Princesses: 1

Pretty much par for the course around here. 

Happy Thanksgiving

We finished our feast, which we ate at about 2 p.m.  We were aiming for around 1, as our tradition is to then spend the evening with D of L's sisters, exchanging Christmas gifts.   Given that we had 26 people, and a change of plans at 8 a.m. this morning, involving needing to suddenly have oven space to cook two turkeys, we did pretty well. 

It got a little fraught, and D of L and I had some rare moments of tension.  I hate it when that happens. It makes me feel the same way I have the few times I've been foolish enough to go on a roller coaster: like I'm about ten yards behind my stomach for the rest of the day.  Ugh.

But we got back in sync, and by the time of the meal all was good.  Three tables of family and friends:

And I got to spend time with many of those I love, including "the" great Aunt, my paternal grandfather's youngest sister, who will be 89 in two weeks.  She still lives in her own house, drives herself, and I have to call her at least two weeks ahead to get a dinner date.

D of L's parents have been gone for a long time.  Her father since since she was 20, and he was only 42:

And her mother since ten years ago, at the age of 57:

For me, this is the first Thanksgiving without my dad, who died on August 19 of this year.  Perhaps I am odd, but I've spent the last ten years or so - especially the last three years, since D of L was diagnosed with cancer - being excruciatingly aware of how lucky I am that all of my family was alive and well.  Even when D of L was undergoing surgery, radiation and chemotherapy, I was terrified (talk about an inadequate word), but still aware that "we were all here."  Now, from my perspective, we aren't.  I know D of L has felt this way for years.  Despite the losses of all four of my grandparents, especially my maternal grandmother, whom I adored, the loss of my dad has made me feel as if one set of the "bookends" of my life - my parents on one side and my spouse and children on the other - is incomplete.

Here's to you, Dad.

I miss you, and I don't know if I will ever feel that "we are all here" again.

Yellow

The gardening year begins and ends in yellow in my garden.  Our woods, mostly tulip poplars, turns golden behind the house:

The back woodland garden is yellow as well:

Because it has been so warm here - we haven't yet had a hard frost - even the hostas are yellow:

Tomorrow we are hosting the feast.  The yellow won't last long, but isn't it glorious while it does?

Splitting Wood

Yes, I know a three pound sledgehammer can be dangerous.  My parents probably knew it when they taught me.

But competence and self-confidence are made as well as born.

Learning that you can do it, and that a grownup believes you can, is a powerful thing.

Matzoh Ball Soup

I was raised in an atheist household.  My father's parents were Jewish, my mother's vaguely Christian.  We celebrated the major holidays of both traditions, and believed in neither.  We ate kugel and lox with one side of the family, and baked Christmas cookies with the other.

D of L is a cradle Episcopalian, and a learned amateur theologian.  God - if there is a God - is in her bone marrow.

This past April, I wanted to celebrate Passover with a Seder for G.P., as he is old enough to begin to understand the Jewish quarter of his heritage.  We decided on a menu, and D of L offered to make the matzoh ball soup.

D of L is a great cook, but the idea of her making the soup made me nervous.  The matzoh ball soup of my childhood Seders was made by my great grandmother, Bubby.  The soup was a once-a-year treat, spoken of in mystical tones that caused me to be certain that only those women long-steeped in Jewish tradition  - and who were actually from the Old Country - could possibly make it.

I expressed my concern to D of L, that, just possibly, she didn't have the necessary matzoh ball genes.

She replied, in a no nonsense tone, "They're basically just dumplings, how hard can it be?"

I was floored.  Just dumplings?  I tried again. 

"But my great-grandmother, and then my grandmother, always said they were so hard to make.  And you don't have anyone who knows how it's done to teach you.  Where would you even find a recipe?"

She gave me a pitying look, and returned home the next night with a box of Streitz's matzoh meal.  Did you know there is a recipe for matzoh balls right on the back of the box?

She set to work making a test batch.  I hovered, offering advice based on half-remembered fragments of conversations overheard as a child.  I'm pretty sure she wasn't listening.

The soup came to the table, each bowl holding three matzoh balls.  The broth was golden, with bits of carrot, celery and peas in it.  Vegetarian too, of course.  I was afraid to taste it, sure I would have to be polite while being bitterly disappointed.

It was ambrosial.

The matzoh balls were firm and light and actually tasted like matzoh.  The broth was delicious.  How could this be?

My Bubby made matzoh balls that were the size of golf balls, and just about as hard.  They were chewy and the taste didn't resemble actual matzoh. I thought that's how they were supposed to be.

I must have been muttering to myself, because D of L smiled.  "I told you they were just dumplings. And if there's one thing a good southern cook knows how to make, it's dumplings."

 

Zen, Mrs. Zen and Baby Zen

I just got some great news.  My cousin Zen and his wife will be visiting us Thanksgiving weekend, so we can meet their three month old daughter!

A little over a year ago, Zen made us all happy when we received invitations to his wedding.  Here was the "Save the Date" notice:

Yes, done in a photo booth.  Is that cool, or what?

The wedding did not disappoint.  They had it in a funky old building in a hip small town in a neighboring state:

The presiding official was a friend of theirs, who, thanks to the 1st Amendment to our Constitution, was able to be certified as a clergyman by a, ah, "non-traditional" religion:

Here he is during the reception. 

Oh, and that photo booth?  The one that they used for their "Save the Date" notice?  They had it at the wedding for the guests to make mementos!

Here we are with G.P. and Pacman:

After the reception, Zen and his new wife, Mrs. Zen, changed into comfortable clothes, took everyone outside, and spun fire for us:

(This isn't them, but is by way of example.) Lest you think they are just crazy kids, Mrs. Zen is actually "Mrs. Zen, Ph.D."  I guess that should actually be "Dr. Zen," shouldn't it? Needless to say, I can't wait to meet any progeny of these two.  She will undoubtedly be a pretty great kid.

Driving Gentle Palm

Sunday, G.P. and I went to Nana's to help her clean up her vegetable garden for the winter.  On the way there, we drove through some beautiful country.  Because of our record-breaking warm October, this weekend was probably the height of our fall color this year.

As we drove along, we pointed out to each other the brightest red, yellow and orange trees.  He asked about why some of the big sycamores we passed had white bark, while the ones he is familiar with at the conservation center have mottled bark.

We talked about how we would tell D of L about the color of the trees, since I didn't have my camera.  G.P. said that describing the red trees would be easy. "Mom, they look like frozen fire in the shape of a tree."

One cold night

The moon-flower didn't make the night.

But it had three more weeks than in a normal season....

It has finally gotten cold here, which has resulted in the conversation D of L and I have every year.  Should we replace our heating system?

Old Stone House still has its original hot water radiator heating system.  I love the system because it is absolutely silent, but it does have some drawbacks.  Chief among its less desirable qualities is that there is only one zone for the whole house.  This requires careful management, because the thermostat is on the first floor, which is much colder than the second floor.  We have discovered that we have to keep the temperature at about 65 on the first floor in order to avoid having the bedrooms too hot.   

We therefore spend the winter in at least three layers when indoors, and every chair downstairs has a lap robe of some sort within easy reach.  I also spent the first two winters we lived here building about 18 radiator covers - and there are still some radiators I haven't gotten to!

I often retreat to the upstairs to work, where it is much warmer (and usually quieter).  Tonight was the first night I had the urge to go upstairs because it would be warmer, and it struck me how this old house, with its old house quirks, affects my routine from season to season.  I actually like feeling this influence, especially since I work in a tall building with windows that don't open, which makes me feel like I'm hermetically sealed off from nature.   

Of course, things can go too far, and this winter I really must seal up the holes in the wood floor in the back study - since there is nothing under the floor but 18 inches of air, and then dirt.  I guess that's why it is so cold in there in the winter....

First Frost and Poetry

The weather predictors were actually right.  The view out our bedroom window this morning:

All the creatures seem to sense the coming winter, and the move to spending the evenings inside.

G.P. decided to test D of L and me tonight on our knowledge of Mother Goose rhymes, which he had recently discovered and is finding completely engrossing.

Doesn't he kind of look like Little Jack Horner?  Especially with the mis-matched PJ's?  I think he was impressed at our memory of the rhymes, especially since he told me this morning that he wanted to memorize them all, but was afraid that his brain would get full.  I told him I felt that way when I was studying for the bar exam, but that he had plenty of room in his brain for all the poetry he wanted.  He was greatly relieved.

New Member of the (Extended) Family

This is the year for black puppies.  Supermom and family were so sad to lose their dear Newfoundland Nala, that it has taken them over a year to get another dog.  But into every life a little puppy must come - if you're lucky.

This past Sunday they picked up Gracie from her breeder:

These pictures are from Supermom, as we haven't had the pleasure of meeting Gracie in person yet.  It's hard to believe that this cute little ball of fluff:

- will be as big as a bear by the time she is a year old!!