And now, a cooking report.

Today, unlike yesterday, was cloudy. Big clouds, big cloud cover. In a word, chilly. The temperature dropped a good ten degrees from yesterday.

I got up and plugged in the space heaters. Put on my slippers. Made some pancakes. (Pancakes are not just breakfast, they are an epistemology, and don't let nobody tell you different.)

I worked, sort of, on a poem, sort of. I felt dissatisfied with my efforts, and possibly my poetic means, and also my feet were cold.

We went to the store and chatted with our friends the grocers there. We bought bread and a newspaper and some snacks. We came home and made lunch.

I wrapped myself in a voluminous afghan to do a crossword which I did precisely half of and then fell asleep. My cold feet woke me up. I got in the bed. I put extra layers on my feet. Still cold. I got up and put on socks. Yes, the obvious thing, socks. Why did this take me so long WHY. I blame the chilly weather and the gray situation happening in the sky.

Well, I finished that crossword and read a chunk of my French detective novel, then got out of bed with decisive power, because I was going to make a pie, and for a pie you need pie crust. I found a serviceable pie crust recipe on the internet--well, it was better than serviceable--and got started.

DIGRESSION: in the middle of the above paragraph, I got up to fortify myself with a snack and also another small sliver of pie. The historian said, 'Are you finished?' meaning my blog post.

'No,' I said emphatically. 'No. What do you think this is, child's play?'

'Actually, I sort of do,' he said. I wheeled about, nostrils flaring. (Or that's what I think I looked like. I like imagining myself as a very nimble dragon.) 'Not too much revision,' he continued. (More wheeling and flaring.) 'For you,' he amended.

'No,' I said, emphatically. 'No. I need fortifications, so I can finish.'

'Will you read it to me when you're done?' he said.

'Yes,' I said, with emphasis. 'Yes.'

END OF DIGRESSION.

So I made the pie crust. Cold butter. Flour. Salt. A little sugar. Very cold water. I put it in the refrigerator to rest. So that it could dream of expanding into layers and becoming flaky, or else being perverse and leaden. Whatever things pie crust dreams of when it's resting. And we went out for a walk.

We saw a new eagle's nest, and some skittery, unrevealing birds, and then we went down to the water and saw some water birds of an indeterminate variety. One of the birds was diving and coming up with fish which it ate with a great deal of showy flipping and swallowing with its long neck.

When we got back, I took the pie crust, located the rolling pin, and made a smallish, very thin circle on a piece of foil. I have been making galettes instead of pies in pie tins because galettes are, frankly, easier--you don't have to lift and fit the crust into the tin. Also, galettes seem Frenchier, ergo more nonchalant, insouciant, and je ne sais quoi. I ground some almonds with a little flour and sugar and cinnamon, and put that on the rolled out crust.

I peeled four fat peaches and layered them onto the ground almonds. I tossed some more of that almond mixture onto the top of the peaches, then folded up the edges of the crust (so French!) over the peaches. Baked at 375.

While the pie was baking, I took pretty much every vegetable there was and made a glorious frittata. This included onion, a purple pepper, a zucchini, mushrooms, and the remainder of an excellent corn salad I had made back home, as well as the last of a potato, yellow bean, and feta salad. Six beaten eggs and a bunch of parmesan. When the eggs had set on the bottom of the pan, I slid it under the broiler for about five minutes. It was puffy and perfect. (I had to take the galette out of the oven for this broiler magic--then back into the oven it went.)

This, my friends, was an excellent cabin dinner. (The sliver of pie I just ate--research & fortification!--only strengthens this judgment.) We needed it, what with the strenuous laying around we did in gray weather.

Plus frittata for breakfast. Plus toast.

Reset.

Every so often, I find myself in a moment where what I'm experiencing on the one hand, and the words I have on the other, are entirely incommensurate. That is, the words won't do, or the words I can find, or am willing to summon. Visiting and then leaving my daughter and her family, and going up to Idaho with another bunch of children and grandchildren, and my son and his family who are leaving soon to live in Arizona while he does graduate work. I promised myself I would live these experiences and be present for them, and I believe I have, and am.

Interestingly, while we were in Scotland I took a deliberate internet fast, for four days while we were on the road to York and back. And up in Idaho, the wireless situation at the cabin was ruinous. Which is to say for most of another four days, I was for the most part offline.

It's helpful to see, I suppose, that I don't have to be online. But it also means there's an interruption in the words--here and elsewhere--and then, when the means present themselves again, the words seem farther away, and more difficult, and entirely less adequate. I also have the sense that I almost don't want to write--that writing whatever this is would, in some sense, end it more thoroughly. And I still want to have it. I want to have all the experience, the joy and the ordinary happiness and the sadness, too, because while I have it I'm still in it, and when it's over, well, it will be over.

My daughter wrote about what seems to be a similar dilemma yesterday on her blog. She decided to post ten pictures to emblematize what was wonderful about the two weeks we spent in Scotland, and I have decided to do the same--a handful of images of what's been going on for the last month, and a few words about them.

Some of the pictures I've posted before, from Scotland, in one forum or another. Here's one from Alnwick Gardens, at the top of a huge cascading fountain. We spent a wonderful day in these gardens, which were in pretty close to a perfect state because of a long cold spring. These people are among the great beauties of that day.

 

This was one of the best parts of being in Scotland--the every day business, making breakfast and hanging out the wash, feeling the joy of a sunny morning and the promise, perhaps, of a sunny day altogether. We ate breakfast in the garden that morning--waffles, made on a brand new waffle iron. Can you see the children playing on the trampoline in the background?

  

The night before we left, we had planned to have an unbirthday party, since we are almost never together on birthdays. The girls took over the party planning, so it turned into a more straightforward farewell. They constructed a list of activities, which included a "Neatest Drawing" contest, a game of Pirates, Musical Bumps and Musical Statues, Hide (and find) the Book, Bite the Donut, and enough other games and contests that it would have taken days to properly execute them. So we did the best we could. They decorated and assembled prizes. A wonderful time was had by all. (Although the historian did his best, he did not win the Bite the Donut game, in case you're wondering--Raymond, my daughter's husband, who is a champion of many things, won the prize.)

  

In between the Scotland trip and the trip to Idaho, I visited my friend in Sonoma County. In a whirlwind trip, we talked about everything, ate beautiful food, saw the ruins of Jack London's Wolf House, ate some more beautiful food, talked about some more stuff, saw some movies, got me started on The Killing (which is killing me), and bought some stuff. In other news, I wore a dragon necklace that was a hit with the entire city of San Francisco that day.

 I drove with Deacon and Will to Idaho. This is a tradition, I think, since we have done it three years running. The last two years, my daughter who lives in Louisiana was my companion. We all missed her this year, since she needed to stay and work this summer. This year, my youngest son drove with me. I loved the conversations and music of this drive. I loved the company.

One of the sweetest things to me about being up at the cabin with my children and grandchildren is getting to see them with each other. At this point in my life, I can't even track how many moments I've observed. But I do try to notice, still.

Deacon has great confidence in his basketball abilities. With good reason.

Van is the little big man. He likes a ball for all purposes.

Everyone played ball (except the photographer, this time). Here's Lesley, planning her next slashing cut to the hoop.

William having his way with a swing.

 

Deacon makes an awesome action hero.

William wanted to hold Gwen, which he was able to do with a little support.

Here's Gwen having a bath in the basin in the sink, which is also traditional for new babies.

 

Yesterday, Father's Day, we went down to see my folks. My brother and his wife were in town. Both my sisters came over, and some nieces and a nephew, and my aunt. I'm feeling the preciousness of the time I get to spend with these people, and my parents especially.

That's fourteen images. It's been wonderful. I might cry at any moment. But the people, I plan to share more updates, more frequently. So check back soon. Tomorrow, even.

Fields of wildflowers on the mountain.

Awhile ago, when my daughter decided what day would be her very last day of work as a manager of sandwich artists, we planned a trip to Idaho, her last before pressing the eject button on her Utah life, landing in Louisiana for her shiny new full-of-possibilities life. I checked to see if the other kids and grandkids could come, too. They could, but a day or two later than her possible dates.

Then a brilliant thought occurred to me: what if she and I drove up a day or two early with the oldest two grandsons? Then their parents and the historian could join us, after we'd had this small adventure. All agreed to this splendid plan.

So this morning, my daughter and I scurried around: she cleaned out her rabbit's quarters. I wrapped a birthday gift for a soon-to-be seven-year-old who lives in Scotland. I packed, she went to buy rabbit food and mail the package. I gathered together a bunch of comestibles. We picked up one grandson. His mother affixed his car seat into our car; we stashed his little suitcase and plush puppy. We drove to the other grandson's house across the valley. Car seat, back pack, Spiderman action figure. A quick trip through the Wendy's drive-thru, then we were on our way.

The boys chatted back and forth to one another, occasionally exchanging toys (good sharing, boys!). We talked about where we were going and what we would do there. Along the way we pointed out horses, cows, farms, motorcycles, trucks, lakes (reservoirs), the huge sprinkler pipes in the fields. We stopped in Malad for a bathroom-and-snack break. In Ashton we bought some sundry groceries to add to the mountains of food in the trunk. In the grocery store, the boys made a break for it after hours in the car; we raced after their shrieks, collected them and had our only stern--brief--moment of the day.

When we arrived, I showed the boys how to turn the water to the cabin on. We took out the store of antique toys to play with. We ate dinner, we walked over to the park, we gave the swings a whirl. My daughter and I served as regulators of the teeter totter.

When it was time for bed, we took the boys upstairs. They hadn't slept all day, and they were both tired. With the smallest of protests, each nestled into his bed. The younger, Will, said, "I want my mom and dad." I told him that for tonight, it would be just us--his aunt, his grandma, his cousin, and himself--and in about a minute, his breath slowed, evened. Asleep with the plush puppy in his arms.

The year in pictures (part 2)

[In which we carry on with a scintillating retrospective of my life me me me me me in the months of May, June, July, and August. Attentive and regular readers of this blog will supply a counterpoint to these blithe narratives about the impending end of the sabbatical. WOE.]

MAY.

There were a lot of grandchild birthdays. A LOT.

Eden's, for instance.

And Deacon's.

And Alex's!

JUNE.

In June, we were in Idaho, first with my folks to refresh our memory about opening for the season; then with my oldest dear friend. Nothing like it.

JULY.

We were in Idaho. Wildflowers, rivers, birds. Sun moon rain. I wrote, slept, read. There were bats. The filth and the fury! It was Miriam's birthday, in Scotland, her fifth.

AUGUST.

We went to Seattle to visit the historian's daughter, and it was beautiful and amazing as ever in that excellent town.

I had a birthday. Jenna and Rachel had a birthday (where are these pictures? Inquiring minds want to know!)

I had to go to work again. No, let me try that again: in times like these, I was pleased to find that I had a job still waiting for me. With students! and grading! and, more to the point, commitments I

had made when blithely still overestimating my enthusiasm

and/or capacity for extra commitments. No, let me try that again:

Back to school! Pencils, notebooks, my colleagues. WORK, hence

paycheck.

TAGS: retrospective, photos, Seattle

Glimpses.

Dinner for the boy



















asleep in the car



















Moon.