Life lines

I don't mean the line that runs across your palm, that favorite of palm-readers the world over. My reference is supposed to be a play on words, a twisting of the utterly inappropriate term "laugh lines." You know, that lighthearted misnomer that some joker created to describe the deep indentations near mouth and eyes that are supposedly caused by too much joviality?

Yeah, right.

Mine are now Life Lines. As in, caused by life. It's been a stressful couple of weeks. I won't burden you, dear reader. But please pray that my family and I will have wisdom and compassion in generous doses.

This painting is a few days old, completed before things became too topsy-turvy. It features a quick rendering of our very own garden-grown, heirloom tomatoes. We've eaten plenty, and will eat more. One must indulge when the indulgence is in season.

Take nothing for granted. Perhaps that will be my new mantra. Can a Christian have a mantra?

Busy, busy

The days fly by during this time of year. There are too many places to be, school- and sport-related tasks for my little dude, garden items to harvest and preserve, a filthy home that begs for attention, a misbehaving cat who may or may not have an intestinal disorder, and the quiet but insistent footfalls of autumn as it nears...

I finished a couple of paintings recently—one a commission of a neighbor's pet kitty, and the other just for me because I liked it (a nuthatch, in case you're not familiar with that type of bird). I made salsa, twice. And froze some tomato sauce. Next on the list? Peeling apples for apple butter, in between layers of paint on an old wooden chest that needs a facelift.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll force myself to get registered on LinkedIn in an attempt to drum up some freelance proofreading. I so prefer the painting and preserving; if only those pastimes paid better. Sigh.

Filtered (and filter) thoughts

Here's something I'm not going to write about: the denial-turned-melancholy in my heart when I walk along our road and see the first leafy hints of autumn, fluttering nonchalantly to the ground, spinning dizzily as they fall.

And the feeling in my stomach when my son climbs on the hulking yellow bus and rides away from me. I'm not going to write about that either, because I don't want to ponder the empty feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with an inadequate breakfast. I choose not to dwell on his fleeting childhood that I am free to witness, but never to slow or delay. The uneasy feeling that time is slipping away from me, and moments are passing more quickly than I can record them—I'm not going to write about that.

Maybe I could write about how I recently canned homemade items from garden produce. That would be a happy post, right? Well, no. Not when I remember how much work and how many tomatoes go into creating a very small assortment of canned goods. Besides, I've already written about it here and here.

Hey, I know! I'll write a letter!

Dear Makers of the Kindle E-Reader:

I am the owner of an older model Kindle Fire. I love it, except for one design flaw—when I'm sitting in reasonably bright light, reading from the Kindle, I have to place the reader in such a position that I see my own, awful, loose-skinned lower neck reflected back at me from the smooth surface of the reader. The sight of that hideous neck skin is so ugly, and so much resembles a turkey wattle, that I am sickened and thus rendered too ill to finish my Kindle activity. I'm guessing that you've already addressed this flaw in newer models of the Kindle Fire, but that doesn't help me as I am unable to part with that much cash again when I have a perfectly good Fire in my hands already. Perhaps you offer some kind of beauty filter? A scrim of sorts to fit over the Kindle surface, something that will soften or alter the appearance of my awful lower neck? I'll hope to hear back from you soon with a solution to this issue.

There, that ought to do it for today. Happy Labor Day weekend!

The incredible shrinking tomatoes

The creation of homemade, home-grown tomato sauce is a journey. From planting, to tending, to gathering, to peeling and gutting and cooking... and the result? Not nearly representative of the amount of work and time put into the creation. That starting pile is only a sampling of the mound of tomatoes with which I began. The second photo, of the naked tomatoes in the sink colander, is the real number of messy globes that were destroyed in this process.

And yet, the flavor is luscious. So, I suppose it is worth it, sort of. It's not as if canning is really difficult work, only hot and time-consuming. And you can wander around while the stuff cooks down, and stop by for an occasional stir and taste... There are far worse ways to spend your time.

Yeah, I'll do it again. Next week. I'll freeze some, too. Much easier. But canning is a sure thing, just in case the power grid goes out, and honestly? Those rich, red jars are just plain pretty—and far more satisfying to regard upon completion.

Two treats in two days

I’ve always tried to embrace simple pleasures. They’re cheaper, I’m more likely to find them, and I feel a little closer to being the person I’m supposed to be when I engage in that type of joy vs. highfalutin joy. And the past two days have delivered in a big way on simple pleasures.

In honor of simplicity, I’ll try to be brief:

• In a freakish and miraculous occurrence, my son slept until nearly 11:00 am yesterday. This is absolutely unprecedented. It is the latest he’s ever slept, and probably one of only 4 or 5 times this year that he’s slept past 8:00 am. He just doesn’t sleep late. But he did. I had time to watch the "Today" show, drink my coffee while it was still hot, get online for more than 2 minutes at a time, and do chores. Ah, blessed chores. I first scurried, then slowed a tad, and finally savored the laundry, the bed-making, the loading of the dishwasher, all performed at a leisurely pace and without guilt. Why would I normally feel guilt? Because typically, as I complete these daily tasks, there’s a small voice near me saying, “Mama, come play! Mama, let’s read this. Mama, come build a tower with me! Mama, come ON!” And I hurry to do the minimum amount of duties as quickly as possible so as to sooner satisfy that insistent little voice. As I meandered about the house in silence, I kept thinking, “This is how the other half lives. All those parents with sleepy children, this is what they get to do every day.” I was momentarily irked, but it was such a blissful time that I couldn’t stay irked for long. Then the little guy awoke, and my quiet retreat ended. However, we were both truly refreshed.

• In the midst of summer, when you’re overrun with tomatoes, you forget that a day will come when the tomatoes are gone. We had several grape tomato plants that flourished last summer, and for weeks, perhaps months, we had lovely little grape-sized fruits on them every day. We cooked them, sliced them, ate them like grapes (hence the name), put them in salad, grilled them on sticks, even shared some. But we wearied of them. We took them for granted. They were so plentiful, you see—we couldn’t imagine a world where the wonderful little red and yellow gems would be a distant memory. Still, I did organize myself on some less than stifling days, and I gathered large amounts of them and cooked them down for several hours to freeze. I stashed them in the freezer and thought no more of them. Until today. Today, I pulled a bag and thawed it. I mixed it with little bay scallops and garlic and a sprinkling of Romano cheese, and I plunked a large amount of it over some thin spaghetti. And you know what? It was divine. The rich, sweet, thick tomato blobs were not of this world—they made my mouth sing. They brought back all those hot days, standing in the son with my little boy, both of us picking from the prolific plants and tossing our loot in a big tin bucket. Those dear tomatoes honestly made me forget, if for a moment, that I’d shivered my way across a windy, snow-covered parking lot earlier this morning. I’m so, so thankful that I made the boiling effort last summer.

Go find some simple pleasures, people. They’re out there for the taking! Well, they are if your early riser sleeps in, or if you took the time to boil last August. Maybe you’ve had some of your own simple pleasures of late. If you can share them here (tee hee—family friendly pleasures only, please!), then feel free to do so.