I'm Still Here, World

In which Stuff Happens, and i don’t write much about it.

              Just reporting in to let you know I’m still alive.  With the warmth and green of summer beckoning me outdoors so constantly, I find that I have little inclination to sit down and write.  I am busy cooking, cleaning, and mothering.  I have begun many new adventures in the art of bread/pasta/yoghurt/rice milk making.  Successes all.  Additionally, I have finally mastered—no, conquered—the art of the seed sprout, after many failed attempts.  It turns out that my wheat berries were bad, or unsproutable anyway.  If any of you out there are interested in such random acts of healthiness, I highly suggest you look into this.  They don’t take a lot of effort once you get the hang of it.  And they are so tasty and healthy—way better than a multi-vitamin.  If I remember, I’ll come back to this topic in later days.

              In my gardening adventures I find myself wondering more and more why I felt the need to try this tomato thing so much—they aren’t happy being almost rained to death here in good old Anchorage.  Part of the problem may be that as I ruminate on the immanent failure of my tomatoes, I end up looking right over their unhappy shaggy shoulders and my glance falls directly on the most beautiful spinach, bok choy, kale, and broccoli leaves.  They are lush, full, healthy, and thriving.  Thank goodness.  It does make me feel better about the whole nearly-dead tomato thing.

              And, my child is suddenly a playground prodigy.  Today she managed a ladder, went down a tall curly slide, and climbed up the side of a jungle gym, all while wearing the girly dress she insisted on today.  When I caught her (gently) dumping rocks onto the head of the little boy who taught her all of these impressive moves, I was almost proud.  She’s actually acting like a normal 2 year old at the playground!  Maybe—just maybe—her days of whiny, tantrum, hold onto Mom’s legs days are over!  Not that I want her to throw rocks at other kids, exactly.

              Also, here are some more impressive photos of the wildlife at Denali:

Tolkat bears: the only place where they come as  true blondes.  Notice that spring had only just arrived by the end of May.

 I know.  Bad joke.

Jack of All Trades

 In which our Heroine falls in Love (again). 

          I have a new love.  I know I’ve already exhausted the topic, but I am quite ardent about my little seedlings.  In a recent conversation with my mother, I was documenting my various successes as novice gardener.  I was astonished to hear her claim no love for planting seedlings.  Now, I can clearly remember her making a very successful go at corn and carrot seedlings in our garden, but I can’t recall much more about the small plants.  Nevertheless, I nearly dropped the phone at her casual pronouncement.  Not like seedlings?  What’s not to love?

          Thus far in my short gardening career, I can find no greater joy than in buying cheap seed packets (or procuring them for free from family and neighbors), planting them carefully, and then nurturing them along.  Each seedling is a fragile little thing, and I’ll admit that there is great disappointment when they sometimes fail, but to see even one thrive is immensely satisfying.  Something in my chest goes all gloppy and mushy when I spot a new sprout.  I can’t wait to see them grow, grow, grow.  There is a possibility that seeing a mature plant produce fruit will be even better—and if so, then I can’t wait!

          I think I’ve missed my calling in life.  I’ve officially announced to Jon that moving to a place with flat land and ample sunlight would be acceptable—especially if he provides me with a humongous greenhouse.  (Wouldn’t it be great to do this all year long?)  His answer was typical.  It went something like this, “Sounds good… I’ll look into it.” I’m pretty certain that he filed my imaginary huge greenhouse next door to my large art studio, complete with pottery wheel and kiln, which is located somewhere near my personal publishing house, my dairy house (so I can make expensive cheeses at home—no busty dairy maids included), the museum dedicated to my favorite artists and named after yours truly, where I will engage in curatorial ecstasies, oh—and my consummate future collection of the odd instrument, to be played at pending “creativity soirees,” (basically, a big, well-catered party based solely on my favorite themes, which may occasionally change from time to time).  Am I really asking for so much?

Digging in the Hot Sun

In which our Heroine searches for her Verve. 

I woke up tired today and stayed that way.  I thought I was done with this nonsense.  I haven’t had a hard day like this since February (when I was battling a terrible cold while traveling through four western states).  Today, even my nap didn’t refresh.  It is so demoralizing to wake up twice within the same day and feel so very weary each time.  I found myself facing a whole day of zombie-dom.  What to do, what to do?

The idiotic part of my brain decided that the best thing would be to go dig things up in the back yard for a few hours under the pretense that the bright sun would jolt the exhaustion right out of me.  The digging part was probably a bad idea, but it is nice to feel like I’ve scored a little against a few hundred of the little chickweed seedlings, which are actually thriving much better than my future vegetable garden, by the way.  I managed to find some flagstones hidden beneath a thin layer of chickweed and I determined to dig them out and slide them on top of the verdant chickweed.  Small progress—it may take me a week to finish this particular job.  I did have some good fun shearing back my lilac bushes with my new titanium-tipped (or something) shears.  Man, those things can really slice.  There’s nothing like wielding a bit of dangerous equipment for putting the verve right back into a person.    

Berry, Berry, Quite Contrary

In which our Lady reports on how Her Garden does Grow. 

Proverbially speaking, wheat berries are quite the nut to crack.  After four, or is it five(?) days soaking, my jar was finally ready to use last night.  Here is my process: I soaked the berries in water for four days, rinsed 2-3 times daily, until there were quarter inch sprouts.  I have done two things with them. I have added thoroughly soaked wheat berries into my second mix of bread dough.  I also just made up a wheat berry cooked cereal for Eva and me today.  It was, of course, mixed with the obligatory yummy stuff all toddlers require: apple slices, brown sugar, some butter, and milk.  It was quite tasty for an (almost) impromptu meal.  To report on the first batch of freshly baked bread, tried from Cari’s recipe (see last post and post comments):  It was awesome.  I really enjoyed it—so much that I almost ate the whole thing on my own. 

My little seedlings are coming along quite well.  The Siberian tomatoes that I’ve been waiting to plant for the last three months are… difficult to seed.  I can now see why my much wiser older brother Todd insisted that I plant the Oregon Spring variety.  Those suckers sprouted right up without a hitch—now we’ll just have to see if they produce.  The lettuce and herbs are also ridiculously easy so far.  Also, my mother-in-law has given me two new houseplants.  (Never say the elder generations haven’t done anything for you).  And I have 4 little starts for houseplants coming right along.  I’m beginning to really like growing things, if only because using seeds and plant starts is an incredibly thrifty way spend a little creative energy with the end result of making my house, and  by extension my life, into a friendlier and healthier environment. 

On the subject of my home: I have friends who are always searching for ways to make their lives more fulfilling or exciting.  They search for more prestigious and well-paying jobs, shop for better clothes, etc…  They spend a lot of time filling their lives with many things, from entertainment to excess clutter.  I sometimes feel that they question my lifestyle choices as a stay-at-home mother who drifts through life baking bread and starting seedlings.  But I will say this: I am content with my little garden.  Cancer really shows you what is important.  My religion, the focus on my marriage, child, and home—along with a little creative outlet—make me happy.  It doesn’t take much besides, health, stability, and love.  May my future be filled with the simplicity of greenery and the deliciousness of artisan bread.

New Directions

In which our Lady espouses the Natural. 

To me, the most beloved of seasons are spring and autumn.  As the times of planting and harvesting, they have such potential.  Because of this potentiality, I believe that spring is the best time to make resolutions.  Not that I didn’t try back in January—but those resolutions have usually been forgotten by the time April and May roll around.  Besides, the real beginning of the year for me is spring.  Today proved to be one of those dreamy goal-making days, a time to gather ideas, buy strange items to put them into practice, and generally make my life just a little more complicated by branching out into a thousand new directions (I have a problem with this... it’s kind of an addiction with new ideas via book-perusal and list-making). 

You’ve already heard about my adventures in greenery.  Below you’ll find some photos of houseplants and seedlings.  Then there are a few examples of some excellent library books.  The Natural Alternatives text is one of those I-can’t quite-believe-I’m-reading-this books that you find strangely interesting, and wish you could feasibly do with a minimal investment of time.  Maybe someday…  Ahem.  The second book, Garden Anywhere is awesome.  It teaches the urban gardener all the basics about gardening, whether in containers or in the actual ground.  (If you live in the Anchorage area, please refrain from putting this on hold at the library.  I need it for a few more renewals, okay?  So, back away, Skippy.)  The third book, Nourishing Traditions, is borrowed from my friend.  It’s a gold mine of traditional cooking knowledge.  I love that it gives me information to help me understand a food’s characteristics so I can use it correctly. 

This brings us to the last photo, where you see that I’ve put beans and wheat berries in jars filled with water.  It turns out that all that fresh ground wheat flour I’ve been using actually has a natural substance called phytic acid still intact in the seed/berry that blocks enzymes from acting to my benefit in the body, gets rid of carcinogens, and inhibits absorption of calcium, magnesium, iron, copper, and zinc.  Phytic acid also makes it difficult to digest beans and whole grains (yes, I am talking about flatulence).  To counteract this phytic acid thing, I will soak my stuff in water for a couple of days before using it in hot cereals, soups, etc...  Soaking my beans and wheat berries in water will cause them to sprout.  Germination brings out the best in seedlings—they produce more vitamins (C and B’s, carotene), and get rid of that phytic acid, a protector of plants in nature, but a digestive nightmare in my kitchen.  Warning: do not eat alfalfa sprouts, because they are bad for you.

The other thing I will do to neutralize phytic acid in my already ground wheat is to use my friend Cari’s traditional bread recipe found at warmhomemadebread.blogspot.com).  It’s the established way to make bread by soaking.  It uses less yeast and involves no kneading of dough.  (Industrialized breads have done so much damage to the once well-known art of bread-baking.)  You can also stick your extra dough in the fridge and use it throughout the week for fresh homemade loaves of chow-down goodness.  How cool is that?

My Childhood Home

In which our Heroine grants the Title of Maven of all Growing Things to Another. 

          My adventures in horticulture have me thinking back to my childhood days of wonder and greenery.  You know, I look back and can only now see that we had a gorgeous house and yard, all due to my parent’s hard work.  The vegetable garden alone was a wonder of production.  I also took my mother’s skills and her ability to teach for granted.  For awhile here in Anchorage, I searched for a local elder teacher, wise in the knowledge of Alaskan ways.  I would stop old ladies in their yard and ask them questions about their flowers, etc.  Once, I met a woman out walking her dog.  After engaging her in conversation, Eva and I had the temerity to follow her home to see her little patch out back.  (We did have to follow her through her whole house to get to the back yard).  We talked shop, and I was disappointed to find that I knew at least as much as she did—it turned out my mother already had the grand title of maven of all growing things, and unbeknownst to me, had already taught me a considerable amount.  All the names of the plants were familiar, and I already knew the intimate details of how to grow a potato.  This is when I first learned that most of what will grow in Idaho will flourish in Alaska (except for tomatoes, sadly).  Fortunately, the conversation still yielded fruit despite its lack of fresh encyclopedic knowledge—I found this dear lady at church a few Sundays later.  It turns out she’s in my Ward. 

          Lest you disbelieve my assertions of descending from the very glorious line of greenest of all thumbs, I have included some photos of my childhood home as it looked when it was sold 5 or 6 years ago.  Upon parting from her home of two and a half decades, my mother snapped 30 or so shots of the inside of the house, and over a hundred of the yard.  You can see where our priorities lie as a family.  Do please remember that this was nothing but a patch of gravel and sagebrush when my family first moved here years ago.  Sadly, the vegetable garden hadn’t been used in a few years, and the flowers were all but gone, but I think you’ll get the point: 

          The House, Front Door: the brick walk I set down twice in back in high school, dogwood, tiger lillies, and bishop’s weed (actually a weed anywhere else).  Also, a hose because there are no sprinkler systems here.

          The Russian Olive, with various flowers, asparagus, and goose berries somewhere underneath.

          Trees permanently leaning due to ill effects of the wind.  Fruit trees and large spruce: home to the robin family.  This tree used to be small enough for the cats to get into and steal those sky blue eggs.  My great grandmother's white French Lilac is somewhere over there too (transplanted).  Note: the fence is 6 feet tall.

          Side of house: Virginia Creeper (weed in other locales), and sweeping branches of the sweetest Crabapple tree.  At lower left, you can just see the flower box that used to hold chives and marigolds (to keep away pests).  Sweet peas belong to the left, by the basement window.  Once I planted Chinese Lanterns in the flower bed as an experiment (super weed).  Oops.

          Things my step-dad used to tinker around with, made out of cheap scrap wood.  Turns out he had an artistic bent, and no one knew it.

Maven of Propagation

In which our Heroine desires to become the Maven of all Growing Things. 

                The people in my family tend to be natural green thumbs.  I am used to back yard havens filled with a million kinds and colors of green, domestic places that are an oasis for both human and animal.  Of course, my apartment lifestyle has steeply hindered my progress at becoming the maven of all growing things (an ambition held close to my heart), but nevertheless I have tried my utmost to continue this legacy with houseplants, at least.  With the exception of my nemesis-plant the geranium (a plant with an innately pretty-princess attitude that apparently clashes somehow with my green persona), I have had considerable success with other objects of leaf and petal.

                Perhaps due to my farming childhood, I often take it for granted that everyone would naturally feel this compulsion to lay down roots, so to speak.  Oddly, this is not the case, even in an age of successful urban gardening.  Gardens are few and far between in the South Anchorage suburb—and by the way, Alaska has a fantastic growing season because of the impossibly long daylight hours in the spring.  Strangely, I lack all empathy toward this deficiency of gardening zeal.  I know it’s a lot of hard work, but how can all these people resist?  Can they not feel the pull of the earth beneath them?  Do they not wish to lay their fingers at the base of a swiftly growing plant?  Do they not get sucked into standing aimlessly in front of seed displays at the grocery store?  Have they not seen the green shoots of grass fighting their way through thick thatches of brown?  Why?  How?

Alaska gardening is not that hard.  You just have to start seeds indoors and choose plants that prefer cooler rather than warmer weather.  Berries, pumpkins, cabbage, broccoli, carrots, lettuce—these make a successful gardening plan.  I am doing a container garden this year, because I am easily overwhelmed by the state of my decrepit yard.  Basically, I think the chickweed is stronger than I am.  Except for when I decide to harvest it because it is highly edible.  (I can’t help it—I have a gardening gene somewhere deep within). 

Last night I used 50 or so Dixie cups and some dirt to start some seeds in my kitchen.  I chose all Alaska growing plants, and then added a few tomatoes into the mix.  These do not grow well in Alaska without a green house.  But I am convinced that my last three summers here were but half-shadows of the season partly due to the lack of fresh tomato—they just smell so green—and without them, it is just not summer.  I would really like these tomatoes to work more than any other plant.  In fact, back in January, I specially ordered a Siberian tomato named Sasha’s Altai .  This, with Yellow Pear and Oregon Spring, will be my great experiment this summer.  Also, I plan on doubling the number of my houseplants (3 so far—they’re expensive, okay?) Yep, its spring, and I feel the need to propagate—you know, with green stuff.

Gypsy Season

In which Springtime seduces our Lady. 

Dear Diary,

Here in Anchorage it feels like the heart of winter, and yet some mysterious biological clockwork inside of me claims it to be spring.  This week I have organized various parts of my house carefully into various Sterilite/Rubbermaid boxes.  Anything from batteries to lightbulbs, canned goods to art supplies, has found itself fitted snuggly into a new home.  I also have piles of items set aside for donation to Value Village.  Since moving into our house last year I’ve had no time to put things in order, and I found out the hard way that my physical state of disrepair was made much worse by the disreputable state of my house.  It is terribly frustrating to lose certain books or art supplies in a nearby room and not have the energy to search them out.  And so I am now driven to extreme house makeover, expending more energy than I really have into this mundane task. 

Besides this curiously overwhelming urge to organize, I have lately been fantasizing about gardening.  My brother Todd has drawn up a detailed plan of how my yard should look after several thousand dollars and ten years of work.  It is good of him, but meanwhile I keep my gaze firmly locked on hanging baskets and perhaps a few more houseplants.  I long for warm sun and growing things.  I have seeds already picked out, and nowhere yet to put them.  Story of my life: I make plans, and have no way to make them happen.

I am a flurry of activity whenever I find the energy to put toward it.  I am excited about spring.  Right now this is where most of my creative energy is going.  I’d like to tell you that I am 100% sure that a healthy and green spring full of health and vitality is just around the corner.  Unfortunately, an inexplicably chill breath of winter stirs in my heart as I wonder what the results of my MRI will be tomorrow.  It is very possible that all of my hard organizational work will have been done in the service of a sick and frustrated me rather than a biking, hiking, jogging me. 

In conclusion, I am really dealing much better with this round of uncertainty.  The last bit of MRI-stress nearly took me over the edge—it being the first time I had to face my future by 3-month segment.  But I could really use some fortune-telling gypsies camping out in a nearby copse of wood ready and willing to give me just a hint about what this next season will bring.   

"Next Blog III"

In which our Heroine contemplates her Binary Existence, take III. 

                Third time, and then I’m really done.  I’ve wrested control of my blog from the internet, finally.  This time, I got fashion (twice), vintage, origami, cinema, jewelry, literature, hippies who garden, and a crafter from Italy (okay, this last one was a surprise… I only have moderate control…).