We gardened our way through the weekend in a frenzied and hysterical way, as we have done all season really. I can only account for it in terms of the horrendously cold winter. Even through June, most all the baseball games have been blanket worthy, sometimes even winter coats. I haven’t bothered to take any of the coats and blankets out of the back of the car because you never know when a sudden wind will descend and spoil your day. So every speck of a free moment, and even some that haven’t really counted as free, we have been in the back, digging and planting as if the Assyrians are breathing down our necks (you know, as if our very lives depended on it).
On Saturday morning, Matt complained that this little tiny tree that we bought in the spring had no “social and cultural context.”
“You mean it looks lonely,” I said.
“Sure, whatever. I’m going to dig up all around it and connect it to the path.”
And so he did.
Yesterday he dug up the other side, and then extended it even further toward the slab (that’s what I call the flat cement place where we eat all our dinners now, if it’s over 55 degrees).
Well, I should have said that before any digging at all, we mushed all the kids in the car for a fun family outing to first one and then a second garden store. This entitled, baseball saturated generation was surprised and unhappy to find that not every outing we take all together is about their personal fun and a good time. No fancy treats, no concession stand, no gum even, until they broke down and bought it themselves. Just lots and lots of plants and their two parents standing around discussing mulch and roses and money, and then we didn’t even go out to lunch or anything. We came home and they had to make themselves chocolate sandwiches. Oh the humanity.
“But look,” I said, standing in front of the vast array of plants the bunnies have not yet had time to consume, “look how much your father loves me. This rose is so beautiful.”
“And, since you’re harshing my mellow (is that even a real thing? I’m not from here. I missed the 80s and 90s.) you can go in and clean up the house while I dig and plant and weed.
Not just roses! A little daisy.
And this. I already don’t remember what it is. But it’s supposed to spread and be really pretty and stuff.
There. Context. Community. A sense of not being quite so horribly alone.
“Don’t walk on the stones!” we cry every few seconds.
“You’re going to dig up the whole thing so we won’t have anywhere to play” Alouicious whined.
“Yes,” said Matt. “Yes…but, if any of you decide to get married, in a few years, this will be a nice enough place for you to have a party.”
“Eww! Ewww! Ewww!” he cried and ran away.
“We should at least let them have a sand box” I said, “or something. It’s going to be a long ten years of moaning if we don’t throw them a bone.”
Still, everything in their lives is all about them. The whole world is their play area. I’m tired of looking at toys and broken bits of bikes. It’s time for the flowers. Let them grow up and even, horrors, be bored for a few moments of their lives.
I’m not a complete monster, though. I indulged the luxury of corn at 25 cents an ear. It’s going up.
I’ve moved on from boiling it or whatever it is that I used to do. I hate trying to lather six chunks of corn with butter when everything else is ready and I just want to sit and eat one tiny morsel myself, during the actual dinner hour. It’s why I won’t be doing biscuits and soft boiled eggs until everyone can do their own egg. My new preferred method (and I think it’s delicious) for corn, is to olive oil and salt them, wrap them in tin foil, and plunk them on the grill. That’s it. All the hard work is done up front. The olive oil and salt is so delicious, you don’t miss the butter….not that I have anything at all against butter. Not anything!
Then last night we grilled little baby breakfast sausages and nestled them into potato bread buns (is that what they’re called? I don’t really know because I bought them instead of truly and rightly making them myself. “You know,” I said to Matt, as the children were finally quiet for thirty seconds, “remember how I used to bake all our bread and grow the wretched corn and make mayonnaise and jam? All without sleeping or anything? And now, when I probably have more time, objectively, and I get 8 hours of sleep, I don’t do anything. They’ve beat me down. I just don’t care any more.” “I know,” he said, “I’ve lost my will to live.”)
To console ourselves we just ate a few more of these. These are the real glory.
Matt, as you all know, won’t eat potato, or any other kind, of bread, and I shouldn’t either. So for the last month we’ve been wrapping everything, practically, in lettuce. And may I just say, lettuce, as a vehicle for grilled or roasted or baked or sautéed meat, is just felicitous. In this case, you grill some hot Italian sausage and you take a hot pickeled jalapeño and a couple of pieces of mint, and goodly measure of mayonnaise (Aldi even, that’s how far our fall has been) and you wrap it up tight in a little lettuce leaf. And it’s so so good, you don’t worry about the fact that you don’t care any more, nor about the Assyrians, nor the winter, nor anything.
Preventing Grace
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In