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. 

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.

40 in forty (2.5): eat and eat well

My 40 in forty posts are reaching their endpoint. Saturday is the big day, and I simply couldn't feel more festive. I have a few nuggets left to write about, but this evening, as I sit on a comfy couch, my feet propped on an ottoman and a sleepy Nutmeg unrolled beside me, I want to talk more about food and the eating of it.

He's been trolling the 'hood for hours. Now, it's rest time. 

I've already written about the importance of eating real and also about knowing several recipes well enough that you can throw them together with almost no thought. Tonight is more of a personal musing; it's about the primal need to and pleasure that can be derived from eating well. 

As y'all probably know eighty times over by now, I grew up in Louisiana. I was born in Georgia, shortly after moved to Alabama, and then, when I was five, we settled in Lake Charles, a mid-sized town in Louisiana's southwest corner. This was a fortunate move for many reasons but perhaps most of all because it meant living just a couple miles from Mom's parents, Nanny and Papa. 

If you read Em-i-lis with any regularity, you know all about Nanny. About her megawatt smile and about her grace. About the thousands of cheesecakes she baked for Papa's restaurant while he had it and also those she made for my dad's birthday, until she got too old to do so. About her giving me my first cookbook and teaching me so many things; about cooking but also, and more importantly, about life and dignity and kindness and generosity. 

Anyway, I grew up eating Nanny's food, and Mom's too until she went on cooking strike after making our school lunches daily for fourteen years (I'd have probably struck too). I remember her ancient aluminum pots and pans, battered but functional, seasoned perfectly with years of beans and spaghetti gravy and vegetable soup and smothered okra and roasts cooked in them.

I remember the way the chopped onions in her green beans always looked like leg-less jellyfish. They were totally translucent but never fell apart. It's a wonder really, to cook something so long but have it stay intact. I suspect it's because Nanny knew that often, a long, slow cook is better than a fast, roiling one. She never seemed rushed; I envy that.

I remember the worn, brown plastic bowl, the one with both handle and spout, both abraded from years of use, in which she'd toss the most delicious green salads. Mine never taste quite like hers did. My aunt Renee makes the next best; it's almost just like Nanny's.

I remember Sunday lunches at her and Papa's house. Always spaghetti and gravy and roast, French bread, green salad, Lipton iced tea, a hinged silver cheese bowl full of grated Parmesan, and probably a pie. I remember eating it all with such gusto, Papa with his napkin tucked into his collar, demanding more cheese and happily trading my bread crusts for his bready innards. It was the sweetest deal.

What ties all of these memories together is the happiness and utter pleasure of a good meal shared around a table.

Sometime during my senior year of college, as one roommate started substituting lettuce leaves for sandwich bread and subtly, but not subtly enough, excusing herself to the bathroom after every meal, I lost my way on the food-as-pleasure path. 

The road became more grown over the next year, dark and winding and impossible to navigate. I only wanted to be thin. And so I was. Food was an obstacle and a threat, and I crossed my arms against its beckon with such unbreachable strength. I shooed away hunger with long runs and skim milk. With a chorus of "gosh, you're so slim. You look great!" and bags of baby carrots which, ironically, are whittled from real carrots in the same way I was whittling myself from a real woman.

It likely goes without saying that sometime after my years in New York, which were very fun and very thin and very hard, I woke up. And for whatever it's worth, which is very little except if we're tallying votes in the Eat Real column, I'm pretty much the same size I was when it took strenuous denial to get there. 

Now, I eagerly anticipate each and every meal. I consider breakfast, lunch and dinner to be three daily opportunities for deep pleasure. It deeply offends me to waste one of these chances, either because I eat out and the meal sucks or because I'm flying through the day and am forced to cobble something together. My reaction to either is sincere pissed-off'ness, and really, that response feels wholly appropriate. 

It's hard to articulate the eye-closing, shoulders-dropping, soul-brightening response to a bite of ethereal coconut cream pie, the perfect meatball and saucy noodles, the first great summer peach, a giant chomp into a juicy sandwich. 

Last night, I was lucky to have a babysitter for a few hours. I quickly stuffed some artichokes, put them on to steam, and literally raced out to my back yard. I straddled a big bag of mulch and got busy. Sweaty, dirty, happy as get-out, and, as I'm wont to be out there, distracted.

The water steamed away, the pot scalded, the sitter suggested I check, I got there just in time. More water, more steaming, more mulching and then happy-tired me served up the 'chokes. Tom and I each plucked a first leaf from the globe, turned it over so our bottom teeth could scrape off both stuffing and that tiny, miraculous mound of artichoke at the leaf's base, pulled gently and sighed deeply. 

Sublime. And the heart with lemon butter? I can't. Were there twenty hearts inside.

The pleasure is hard to articulate because it's elemental. So basic the original experience precedes memory but the sensations remain and are, if you're lucky, sharpened over time.

In New York, even as I denied myself this pleasure, I hoped for it for others. I delighted in saving recipes I wasn't likely to make, enjoyed cooking for others, and going out to fabulous meals. 

I once went on a date with a lovely man who said "I only eat because I have to." I knew I'd never go out with him again, and I didn't. The whole food-as-fuel-only mentality suggests to me that said person has a lacking joie de vivre. And even when I'd lost some sense, I hadn't lost my joie. 

And I have found a joie to be real important for enjoying life. Which is sort of the point because life can be awfully tough. 

I learned a lot of this from Louisiana, from my parents, from Nanny. From her pies and Sunday lunches, from my parents' zest for life and because Louisiana throws a party for any and all reasons. There, eating is a celebration: of family, of life, of death, of coming together. Any given meal is a chance to revel in culinary bliss, be it the simplest plate of scrambled eggs or an icy platter of just-shucked oysters, a fresh glass of milk punch or a gumbo that's been cooking for hours.

Eat, drink, and be merry!