Tell Me

Bah! Up! Ber and Be. Mama, Daaahhhhh. Uh huh and yup. There are endless variations on these words and countless others. These "words" are usually augmented with some insane pantomimed hand or head gesture intended to clarify what it is exactly, that the Giant is trying to convey. My boy is in the throes of learning how to speak and it is potentially by turns, the most wonderful, hysterical, ridiculous and frustrating thing we have encountered in our journey together thus far. My son is a little life mimic and he has a mind like a steel trap. Seriously. The child does not forget ANYTHING. He can watch where I put something just once, and from then on, he will go to that place and wreck havoc with his little hands and beautiful diabolical baby mind. So the learning to talk thing has been a riot. He copies sounds, tries to sing in his one toned hum and has full blow conversations with Rufus and I and then, just with himself. It is a sight to behold.

When you have a baby that is growing this quickly, each phase seems to be both amazing and amazingly trying in the same breath. In the beginning he was simply in a very rudimentary way, trying to gain control of his body. I would watch him for hours as he just lifted his arm or tried to touch his hand to his face. His sense of depth perception and crude motor function frustrated him. As the months whizzed by, his development has accelerated at a phenomenal clip. Holding his head up and rolling over, getting up on his hands and knees and rocking his butt back and forth like he's getting ready to ambush us. Pulling up to standing and then with pride and fear, those first tentative steps that tested his independence. Now he is finding his voice. His first voice. I can hear the birdsong sweet cadence trying to find its way out of his mouth and into the bigger world. I can't wait to hear what he is going to have to say. My boy and his words. His mama and her words. We are both a work in progress.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

We've begun planning next year's garden. With the wind keening outside rattling the windows and shaking the bare trees, we are in the throes of imagining planting. We are literally plotting the lush and verdant bounty that will feed us hopefully, not only through the coming summer but also through the winter of next year as well. We have framed out two gardens- one smaller home garden in our backyard and a huge expanse for our family's communal garden out at the farm. 4 tons of black gold tilled into to the ground courtesy of my land loving husband. Two simultaneous composts working their dirty magic awaiting to be folded into the soil with our bare and eager hands. We can almost smell this growing of things, this green and familiar scent.

The last few days have been an exercise in imagination, in thoughtful and deliberate conversation and research. The names alone are enough to spin my brain into a frenzy of delight. The ubiquitous Moon and Stars watermelon is on the list. Plum Purple and French Breakfast Radishes, Hearts of Gold melon and an old heirloom variety of corn called True Gold (oh my!). We are experimenting with German Butterball potatoes and the the blushingly demure Pink Viking varietal as well. Tendergreen Bush beans and more herbs than you could shake a stick at- Chives and Thyme, Hyssop, Spearmint and Borage, Basil and Chervil and Lovage. This list is only partial too with the requests of the extended family needing to be tossed into the mix as well. So it goes. So here we go.

This is going to be a very ambitious project considering the extent of my gardening acumen. I have planted some sort of garden in almost every place I have ever lived. Whether it be a container garden holding one stalwart and noble tomato plant in Los Angeles or a small patch of backyard in a shared community garden in San Francisco, I have always grown something. I always loved not only the idea of growing my own food but also the physical work it required of me in these small endeavors. The zen of gardening. Yes, there is such a thing. The dirt under my fingernails and the sweat on my brow as I bend to weed a too long neglected row. How my shoulders smell like the sun. But THIS, this is another animal all together and we are excited to see how it all unfolds.

With the changing of the light and the press of winter, we have a lovely reprieve upon us- we can take our time a bit in deciding what and how it is we are going to do this thing. The reverie is a beautiful one. A subtle yet enduring reminder that even at the start of winter, it's never too early to start dreaming about spring.

Eating the Dark

Winter is in the wings here. Her chilly breath on my bare neck reminding me to take heed. The trees glow somber in a gossamer gray mist, the few brave leaves left hanging on in futility. Sky a bruised plum, even at 3 o'clock. This coming of winter also means that the darkness creeps in much earlier. Having grown up on the east coast I should be used to this. You know, hearty character building stuff that makes us such a stoic and martyred lot. Having lived in California for 13 years before moving to Kansas though, I sadly realize that am not. I had forgotten how the gears of the seasons downshift- time, the weather, my body and it's clock, all suddenly feel as if they are wading through the hours in slow motion. I am relearning the rhythm of this ancient dance and I am stumbling. But, my feet seem to remember where to tread and I am trusting of this.

Without fail, this happens every year at this time. Even when I was living in Los Angeles and there was no intelligent sense in it. Suddenly, I want LOTS of knee socks and Flashdance-esq legwarmers. I feel this surging and tidal desire to re-learn (meaning really learn) how to knit. I want stacks of books and a howling wind and a big blanket to wrap up in. Then, there is the cooking. Oh the cooking. This is delicate.

In winter, food becomes porn for me. Yes, I said porn. I want to bake and cook insane amounts- bunker house apocalypse style, we have to live in the basement because the end is near kinda crap. More food honestly, than the 2 and a half of us could ever really eat, even on a good day. And not just any food. I want to cook complicated food. Food with recipes 3 pages long that takes 4 days to make. Food that will wile away the small hours between the early coming dark and when I can fall into bed feeling like I accomplished something of merit- even if that something is as ridiculous as making enough homemade sausage to feed a small Bavarian village. But, my husband has threatened to live out in the shed fasting in protest if this mania comes to pass. Just because the bears are going into hibernation and eating their way into a stupor he says, does not mean that we should be doing the same. I agree with him, begrudgingly of course, though the lure of the kitchen is as difficult to resist as a siren's song these nights. Cooking is another vein in creating for me. To make something, even if that something is chocolate chip banana bread or a pot of braised short ribs that slow bubble in the oven all night happily singing and trilling in their red wine bath, is so profoundly satisfying. The visceral raw soul stoking kind of satisfying. Oh yes. It's like that for me.

But because I love my husband, in lieu of homemade lemon cream danish, I will write. It's going to be a long winter.