I got a little braggy on Instagram and posted a picture of my chard recently. My punishment for my garden-bragging is usually the ridicule of my children, who do not particularly enjoy seeing the pictures. They reserve a special disdain for my most favorite hashtag. #IGrewDinner
This week I got a different kind of comeuppance. I noticed the chard was brown and patchy. More watering didn’t help, so I took pictures of the leaves and that night, while sleep eluded me (here we go again), I went down the rabbit hole of my gardening blogs . (As luck would have it I stumbled onto a Seattle Times article, no comment.)
It turns out the brown spots were caused by flies, specifically, beet leaf miners. The little flies lay their eggs on the leaves of the plant, in my case, chard. Then the eggs hatch into green maggots which feed inside the leaves and then poop everywhere. The brown blotches were poop, squeezed inside the leaves. Maggot poop, to be exact.
When the boys were younger and came home with lice, I ran to the drugstore, bought a shaver and sheared their heads down the the scalp. I basically did the same thing with the chard. I chopped the plants down to their nubs, shoved the infested leaves in a bag, and called it a day.
Ok kids. You win.
May is hard. May is happy and sunny and here in NYC it’s even gotten warm (thank heavens, because I was on the verge of a complete and utter weather-related breakdown, the likes of which I hadn’t experiences since I did time in Seattle). But it’s not necessarily an easy month. In addition to the onset of seasonal allergies (please send help, there is Mack truck parked in my sinuses), there’s a lot to do, which for me means there’s a lot to forget, a ton to let slip through the cracks, a mountain to overlook. You see where I’m going…
One day, after a doctor’s appointment I’d failed to calendar and a kid-related deadline I didn’t make (am I beating a dead horse?), I stumbled upon this bottle of loveliness:
I love coffee. I love seltzer. What could possibly be better than a combo of the two? Standing near the checkout of my local market, I felt a little like the guy (or girl) who fell upon peanut butter and chocolate or ketchup and just about everything. I immediately texted a picture to my friend R, who is a coffee drinker and a seltzer aficionado. She was unimpressed. Undeterred, I bought a bottle and drank it on line and texted R immediately: It was delish — like a not-too-sweet caffeinated cream soda, with giant bubbles. Plus, it’s limited edition, which means soon it will disappear, so I am compelled to down as much of it as I can while it is on the shelf.
I have bought a bottle every day since then. Sometimes two. It’s May. I need it.
People in my neighborhood market: I see you looking at me. I feel your judgy eyes on me. I hear you thinking, “Who on earth would buy that revolting looking beverage?” Me, that’s who. And I’ll buy a second while I’m here in case I’m done with this one by the time I check out.
Happy May, people. Do whatever you need to.
I wouldn’t necessarily call it a resolution, but this year I told myself I’d take one picture a week – specifically, a picture which encapsulates the kind of week I’ve had. Last week I wanted to post a cute picture of the minivan as we returned from our road trip to the Great White North, but I didn’t know which picture to post. I had a few choices:
1. The pic of the new brakes I had to put on the minivan before we left. (Not myself, but by Bruce, my well-named and flawless mechanic.)
2. The pic of the fresh dent I put in the back of the van when pulling out my driveway as we were leaving.
3. The pic of the heating vents in the ceiling of the minivan dripping onto our heads as we drove through Quebec.
4. The pic of the tire pressure light which goes on each time the temp drops below 20 degrees. That light all but imploded as we dropped to -25 in Montreal.
In the end I couldn’t bear to post a pic of the minivan – I hardly want to encourage it. Instead, this week’s pic comes from M – in yet another attempt to subtly remind me to replace the toilet paper.
As I have already made clear, I do not believe in replacing the toilet paper. Other things in which I don’t believe: those crappy little snack-size ziploc bags and the half sheets of paper towel.
Consequently, we have all thawed out from our week in the Great White North; even the minivan. It is now 30 degrees in NY and it feels like Maui. Aloha!
I like a good cookbook. If I know what I want to cook, but don’t know how to cook it, I will sometimes search for a recipe online. When I have no clue what to cook and am looking for inspiration, I open a cookbook.
Because I have many cookbooks I don’t use, I try to be judicious in my acquisitions. Sometimes, I am successful. And then there’s this:
I bought this book after I read an article about it, and even used the recipe in the article. What could possibly go wrong?
I had NO business buying this cookbook. This cookbook did not inspire me; this cookbook made me want to hang myself. I had no business buying this cookbook because as much as I would like to, I do not live in a farmhouse in France. I live in a colonial in the Bronx. I had no business buying this cookbook because even if I did not keep kosher, I would not want to eat rabbit. I had no business buying this cookbook because this woman has AT LEAST as many children as I do and she looks like a runway model when she cooks dinner and when I cook dinner I mostly look like the Good Luck Kitchen Witch.
While I am cooking dinner using a dull knife to chop wilted vegetables I have bought at the local A & P, this woman is casually chasing a wild hare around her immaculate kitchen in three inch heels, all while applying lip gloss and making pastry dough from scratch. (And the first person to comment here can HAVE this effing cookbook, free of charge.)
But in preparation for Meatless May (stay tuned!), I bought this book after I heard the authors interviewed on Fresh Air. (That’s right. I am now officially your grandmother.)
I have promised myself not to buy any more cookbooks. Unless of course one of you suggests a title which which will absolutely change my life. Then of course, I’m all for it. Just don’t having me chasing rabbits around my kitchen with a carving knife. Carving knives are for meat (which we will not be eating for a month), and for chasing children, not rabbits.
Spring may technically have sprung, but it seems to be taking its sweet time. Still, it’s already April… which means we get some of this:
I could not for the life of me tell you what this bush is called, but it makes me happy to see it.
But spring also means that it’s time to deal with this:
This is one of two large piles of logs of wood. We had to have several trees taken down when we moved into the house, because our very chatty and pricey tree guy told us they could fall onto the house at any given moment. The tree guy wanted even more dollars (many more than we had) to chop the wood.
And then M had a brainstorm.
He needed some more exercise in his schedule and he did not need to shell out thousands of dollars to the tree guy, so instead, he shelled out 40 bucks for an axe. Yes, that’s right. He was going to learn to chop and tackle the wood himself, killing two birds with one stone. Everybody, including our Sicilian gardener, laughed. They promised he would chop for 30 minutes and then spent three weeks in bed recovering.
They obviously have not encountered the dogged perseverance that is M trying to prove a point to me, while avoiding shelling out money to a tree guy who probably has three homes of the Hamptons because of us.
Sometimes he chops alone. Sometimes he lets a certain 13-year-old help him. Sometimes he has the assistance of an equally stubborn friend.
I won’t say there are no injuries. I believe this morning he went to work with what appears to be a broken pinky.
But I believe you need to take achievement wherever you can find it. And if it lies in a pile of snow-soaked wood that may one day be a home for thousands of flying termites, then that’s where it has to be.
A certain jet-lagged eleven year old texted me from school:
“Can you pick me up from school. Got highlighter in my mouth and now my stomach is really hurting.”
You will be shocked to hear that I ignored him. And then, hours later, another text finds it’s way to me:
“When are you coming?”
I organized a retrieval, albeit only 90 minutes before the end of the day. (Nobody wants to feel like a complete patsy. Least of all me.)
Kid was just fine. Once I got him home, within the vicinity of both the fridge and the TV, I never heard another word about the offending office supply.
I did, however, find him doing some research later that day:
“CAN YOU DIE FROM EATING A HIGHLIGHTER?”
I still have no idea how said highlighter ended up being consumed.