An Earth Day Odyssey of sorts

The nursery opens at 9am. I pull into its lot at 9:01. I tell myself that my sense of urgency is because it's Earth Day, and I want to get going on my celebration of this planet we're lucky to call ours. But honestly, any day I know I'll get a few hours in the garden prompts this same hurried, eager response. 

"Just mulch and topsoil," I swear to myself. "You've damn near kept the nursery in business this past month. Be responsible," the angel on my shoulder says. Or was it the devil?

I don't even get a cart, just a cardboard tray. Just in case. I will myself past the annuals, their colors and whimsy calling to me like sirens. "You are fucking Homer," I whisper to myself. "You do not want to approach the rocky, floral, one-season shores."

But the freshly delivered palates of vegetables in the next tent throw me off; I am not expecting them. I tear off my blindfold and earplugs and jump toward the craggy bank strewn with young tomato plants. I cannot resist their herbal leaves and weeping yellow buds of promise. All I can think about is picking and eating handfuls of Sungolds and Sweet 100s, still warm from the sun, in just a month or two.

Then I see the hot pepper plants. And the Chinese eggplant. Like a thief in a store, I pluck up a few pots and hurry to the registers. "Just these, six bags of shredded hardwood mulch, and two bags of topsoil, please." 

I am kind-of Homer. I head home.

Garden gloves on, a bright sun warming my back, I dig and weed, fill in and transplant, mulch and water. A woodpecker taps assertively in a nearby tree. A happy melange of birds sing songs so cheery that they nearly circle back to irritating. But not quite. I consider that mulch is like nature's make-up; it makes everything look so polished.

"Oh, you are such a good worm. Look at you, Mr. Worm, doing such a fine job. Thank you." Any passerby might wonder about me, but actually, in our lovely new neighborhood, they might not. There are many avid gardeners in our midst. We feel an instant kinship. No one cares about my dirty hands or sweaty hair.

Tom arrives home early. I've hardly seen him since my birthday, and his being home when it's still light out is a nice treat. I seat the kids at the patio table with huge bowls of fresh, steaming spaghetti and meatballs, pour a glass of wine, and, as T gets a beer, ask if he will indulge me by taking a spin in the yard.

"Sure, honey. Where are my shoes?"

Arm in arm, we loop from the front door, around and back. "Look, hon, I divided and transplanted the heuchera! They're a native plant so especially well-suited to this region and also fairly hardy. The Cotton Easter is out of control, but I'll deal with it tomorrow. The azaleas and sedum look great."

"You've worked hard, Em. I like getting our yard in order."

"Me too, sweetie."

I think of how nice a hot bath will soon feel. How the soles of my feet are probably going to stay dirt-brown until September. How I don't care at all because their colored hue symbolizes hard work, investment, deep pleasure and our home.

I think of how I used to smirk at my parents as they made similar treks around our yard. How Mom always saw the big picture and Dad liked to assume tripod position -legs spread wide, one arm planting his torso, the other ready to pick any philandering weeds- to deal with two square inches of grass.

I am a perfect blend of them; eager to conquer and beautify the whole but deeply interested in hand-culling every single unwelcome guest from my plot. I am aware of what I look like in tripod position. I think of myself as Ouiser Boudreaux from Steel Magnolias, with a healthy dose of Imelda Marcos and Nigella Lawson thrown into the mix.

I think about how happy I am to be all of these things: dirty, sweaty, humble, fancy. How I used to hate grass and bugs and sweat and dirty fingernails, about those immature pubescent smirks as my parents spent time together after a long day, about what they showed me about a loving couple spending time together.

How I now talk to worms and don't shoo away bees and appreciate dirt and take my own husband for a garden walk before the sun sets. How I use birthday gift certificates on tomato plants and nitrile gloves. 

I think that really, every day is Earth Day, or should be. And I am thankful.

One bunny hops across the road while another scampers through a neighbor's yard. I know they terrorize gardens, but they are so freaking cute. I wave like a mad-woman at a fat squirrel in my bird-feeder. "Get away, you pilfering beast," I call out, even though he's awfully cute. I go in, he returns, I shoo him away once more, a cardinal moves in. I was rooting for the sparrow but he was too meek, so the cardinal won first dibs on all that the squirrel had unwillingly left behind.

I clean the boys' dishes, spoon them ice cream, pour some more wine and listen as my oldest FaceTimes with his poetry partner. It is the most sincere, darling flirting happening amidst the equally sincere homework assignment. 

"Mom, can K come for dinner one night?" 

"Of course, sweetie. I would love that! She is a wonderful girl." 

It's amazing how time passes and things change. A garden grows, bulbs self-cultivate, children mature, technology enables early attraction in a way I never knew. 

"Mom, can I tell you about our texting? It was so silly!" my oldest calls. And I go to him, even though it's late, even though I'm tired, because he wants to tell me everything they exchanged, which poem is his favorite, which emojis she used.

I wouldn't trade all of this for anything. 

Extremely cool coincidence via gifted cookbooks

Last week, a new friend of mine, J, brought me a gorgeous bag of birthday goodies. Seriously, gorgeous, and also really thoughtful. Included was a cookbook she'd long loved and cooked from but didn't use enough anymore; instead of holding on to it, she wanted to pass it to me.

Written by Najmieh Batmanglij, it's a Persian cookbook called Food of Life, and this gifted copy is the original from 1986. As I thumbed through it, some of the pages splattered and all of them soft from use, an old recipe fell out. Jotted on a scratch piece of legal pad paper now stiff with age (a funny juxtaposition to those supple cookbook pages), it's for paella (not Persian) and is roughly sketched; arrows, underlines, circled words all remind J what she would and wouldn't want to include and do.

I was, and still am, incredibly touched by such a generous, personal gift. I asked J if she wanted the paella recipe back but she said "No, keep it with the book." Old recipes, hand-written, are treasures, and I plan to carefully tape the yellow paper into the front cover of Food of Life. They've been paired for a while now, and I see no reason to separate them.

Fast forward a few days, and another dear friend, M (who is Iranian), brings me a heavy, wrapped gift. "There's something small tucked inside*," she said, as I proceeded to tell her about the "amazing Persian cookbook" J had given me and how I intended to use the book and the barberries M gave me few months back to finally make Zereshk Polo, or jeweled rice, a favorite dish of mine.

M laughed and said, "Well now you have two amazing Persian cookbooks and can definitely make the rice."

Later, I opened her present and found it to be the 25th anniversary copy of, wait for it, Food of Life. Now subtitled Ancient Persian and Modern Iranian Cooking and Ceremonies, this updated version is heftier and contains more photographs. It also includes updated language and recipes which I find fascinating. 

For example, what was in 1986 called Eggplant Kookoo is now, in 2016, written as Eggplant Kuku. The new recipe includes fewer eggs, less garlic, more and different spices, and a yogurt garnish. Where the generic eggplant was originally called for, Batmanglij now suggests using Chinese or Italian eggplant.

Brain Kookoo has been omitted completely, and an option for Zucchini Kuku has been added. I'll be making the latter for dinner tonight. 

Food is such a fascinating lens through which to observe societies, regions, evolving tastes and culinary trends. An individual's recipes, especially those from a person considered an expert on a given cuisine, are a hyper-personal way of studying the same things.

I think of the way I was taught to make gumbo and cranberry sauce, for example, and how I've morphed those teachings into my own ways of crafting those dishes. I don't make my mom's or grandmother's recipes exactly, but the tastes are resonant and the inspiration clear. 

Having these two versions of Food of Life, and having received them at the same time, is like a crash course in one woman's cooking life: eggplant kookoo as a young woman, eggplant kuku twenty-five years later with decades of experience and changing ingredients and a shifting palate influencing the outcome.

I'm thrilled to have these books and will share with you each time I cook from them, adding wear and splats and notes of my own to the pages as I go.

*That little something tucked inside? A packet of saffron! WOW!

On celebrating well, and accepting the challenge issued by a chair

I simply could not have enjoyed turning 40 more. That's really all there is to it. I felt loved and lucky and festive every second of wakefulness on Saturday, heard from so many friends, and was incredibly moved by their thoughtfulness and generosity.

Benedict helped me celebrate, and so did Rogie via Italian friends. Isn't it amazing (and wildly accommodating) that not only my dear husband but also my two boyfriends feted me in such grand fashion? Ben has taken up residence in my office and is really quite a dashing presence.

T gave me the reading chair and ottoman I've long wanted for our bedroom. It is so comfortable and beautiful and has issued a challenge about which I'm thrilled: sit in it and read. Daily. 

I mean, what is the point of a reading chair if not to actually take time with my collection of books and newspapers and magazines? To finally make my way through the list of links I've saved on Facebook and the emails I've repeatedly marked as unread? To rest a little, daydream, ponder?

And yet, such leisure is so often so hard for me. There is always so much to do, and I run frenetically trying to do, do, do because it feels important and mission-critical. And some of it is, some of it isn't negotiable.

But last Saturday, as I welcomed a great babysitter who enthusiastically took the kids to the park, as I thanked T for mowing the yard and tidying the house and urged him to get some quick rest if he could, as I left -guilt-free- for a few hours of me-time (mani! pedi! solo lobster roll lunch!), I realized anew that a life spent mucking maniacally through to-dos isn't a life well lived. 

I doubt many days in my future will include the salon, a lobster roll and my favorite cake flown in from New Orleans, but I no longer believe that I need to celebrate a "big" birthday to rest and indulge a bit either. Time must be found to sink into my new chair and pick something from my grab bag of saved desires. To invest in myself the way I do in others. To set limits and honor them.

Whether this shift was brought about by entering a new decade or finally running out of steam matters little. What's important is where I ended up, and for that I'm psyched.