Nanny's influence

I stood for a long while at the sink, washing and trimming the flat of strawberries from Sunday's farmers market. In my left hand, between thumb and forefingers, I held one berry at a time. In my right, I gently gripped the handle of a paring knife and sliced the stem end off with a motion running towards my body. My hands worked together in a practiced way, the repetitive motions so unconsciously deft that when I plucked the last berry from the colander, I was surprised. Nanny did it this way, my Mom does too. Tom always gets nervous watching me, especially because he keeps our knives so sharp, but it's the way I learned and the way I like to do it. As I tossed tops into the compost bin and berries into a large Pyrex measuring cup, I thought of Nanny. I miss her. I miss her grace and kindness and generous spirit. I feel sad that all the good she put into the world is now but memories, albeit important ones that still make a difference to many people.

I thought about the folks I encounter who lack this grace, who act with ugliness, entitlement or jealousy and how disappointing it is that there are people like that spreading ill will rather than goodness.

The stuff I learned from Nanny is the stuff that isn't taught but rather, and more powerfully, modeled. I don't know that I'm as kind as Nanny nor, in some ways, as strong. But much of how I try to be in the world -generous, thoughtful, kind, present- comes from her influence, directly and through her daughter, my mom.

I remember once being in the car with Mom, decades ago in Lake Charles, driving down Nelson Road back home from what was then Delchamps grocery store. Nelson is a busy road, and ahead of us on the righthand shoulder, we saw a woman and young child walking, struggling with heavy bags in their arms and the hot Louisiana sun beating down on their necks. Cars whizzed passed them, but Mom, without considering the alternative, pulled over and asked if we could give them a ride home. I can't remember if they agreed; I hope they did but the outcome wasn't what made such an impression on me that day. What seared itself into my conscience was the act itself and the dignity and respect my mother accorded the duo in her gentle offer to help.

Nanny would have done the same thing. She grew up poor as get out, though better off than Papa, my grandfather, but as with so many who never have much materially, she was incredibly generous with what she did possess, things and also kindness. Her sincerity, her tolerance, her patience and willingness to serve as open ear and shoulder to cry on made such an impact on so many people. She and Papa helped others in every way they could, and I grew up hearing those stories and learning from them.

Though I wish I'd developed a thicker skin after all these years, I am still both upset and offended when I witness stingy and and entitled behavior. Both strike me as fairly selfish really; it's one thing to stand up for and take care of oneself, but it's quite another to act dismissively without reason.

I made a bunch of jam with most of the strawberries and will put up a last batch tomorrow to use up the remaining eight cups. (A flat of berries is 20+ cups y'all.) And I thought about how lucky I was to have Nanny in my life for so long and how the best way to honor her is to comport myself like she would have as best I can.

Symposium, more beach

I cannot believe such a spontaneous idea has materialized into a workable event, but this girl heard just last week about the Mid-Atlantic Food Writers Symposium to be hosted in Richmond on June 20-21 and is now officially registered. I am very, very excited. Thank you friends C & M as well as my MIL for making my trip possible.

But back to the present. We enjoyed another day including two trips to the beach sandwiched around an enormously intense and wonderful rainstorm. By 6p, the boys were not acting as their best selves so we did a hasty march through ye olde bedtime routine and called it a Monday. I made a simple caprese and a roasted Meyer lemon and parsley garnish that we could use atop the salad or on the seafood linguine Pete was whipping up.

All good and satisfying, and then I came to my room and found this precious boy sawing logs.

I'll tell you one thing. Gangly though he is, J is getting awfully heavy. My heaving him up from my bed and relocating him to his was not a pretty sight. But it was awfully dear.

An open letter to readers and writers of blogs

I started this blog in 2011 because I wanted to create something, a space of my own to write about and photograph my interests, record my memories and connect with others. I promised myself that I would be authentic and honest, that I would honor my voice and my truths. My favorite writers and people, those I most admire and feel appreciative of, are those who do that, who live their lives without fear -or too much fear- of what others will say. Having spent many years trying to be what I thought others wanted me to be, say what I thought others wanted me to say, this blog was to be my haven for a contrary way of living. During the past three+ years, I have done just this. I have honed my voice, my writing skills and what comedic chops I have. I have written about what pains me as well as what thrills me, drives me batty, makes me burst with pride. I have figured out so, so much about myself and my rhythms, I know with deep conviction what I believe, what I respect, what I value. I also know the "what I don'ts" to all those. This is all inordinately fulfilling and enriching.

To put oneself out there, to put myself out there, is often scary. It takes courage and a desire to connect, both of which derive from a writerly sense of needing to share via the written word and a belief in the connections that come only when we are open and honest with each other. It has been remarkable to me just how many people - friend, acquaintance and stranger- have reached out to me with thanks, with gratitude for the very openness that at times seems so risky.

As does anyone who writes and shares publicly though, the negative, bad-vibey, condescending feedback can feel disproportionately large at times. It can make a writer's voice shrink from its mean glare, it can make us feel shamed or uncertain. I am lucky to have experienced very few of these comments but they trip me up. My stomach aches, I doubt what I'm doing, I pull back, and then...

And then I feel an anger and a redoubled determination to continue with my work. No one has to read anything I write, no one has to agree or even understand. At the end of the day, I write for me. I think many of us bloggers do. We write to make sense of, to understand our lives, the good and the bad. We write to remember it all, to become more familiar with ourselves. That we do so in a public forum is because we feel certain that there are others out there experiencing and struggling with the exact same things, wanting to read about exactly the plum tart we just made and devoured, dying to find yet another photo of a cat or a garden, looking to laugh alongside another person whose children are obsessed with butts or whose partner has the craziest pecadillos.

Not everyone is comfortable with sharing, but it's my way of better understanding life. It provides me comfort when times are tough, and yes, people, times are tough for each and every one of us at some or many times. No need to judge, no need to condescend.

To all the writers and bloggers forging ahead each day, I say Cheers!

To all the readers who support our endeavors, I say thank you!

And to the naysayers and negative joes who seem to delight in casting dark shadows, I say, Scram! Go rain on your own parade!