Time's Fun When You're Having Flies

This past week saw the two-year anniversary of my return to Maine. The preceding 26 years had been spent living on the Gulf Coast of Texas--first on the Island of Galveston, then Houston, and finally in Humble. I left just before sunset on a Sunday evening and arrived just after sunrise on Thursday. I rode in the cab of an over-sized rental truck crammed with all the detritus of a happy, comfortable Southern life that I hoped would soften the transition to a spartan Northern one. Among the treasures were my four cats: Jezebel, Scarlet, Delilah, and Vanya. No residence would be home without them. I left a balmy 80 degree Texas and arrived to discover there was still snow in some places despite the 45 degrees of warmth. Living at sea level for so long I had forgotten the sensation of ear-popping and assumed I was experiencing fatal brain implosion. No doubt caused by endless country music and evangelization over the radio.

If I had known then what I was coming back to I would probably have turned around. But the truck was unloaded and returned before the full impact of my decision to come home revealed itself.

I love my home state. It's wild and it's raw. There's a simplicity that touches my heart. People don't expect much here. They don't whine about what they want. For the most part they are satisfied with what they have because they have earned it by hard work and determination. They take making the most of what they have in stride. I think Winter has a lot to do with it. In Texas I rarely experienced more than a few days of bone-chilling weather at a time. Even all the hurricanes that rearranged my home were warm blooded. But here, months of subarctic temperatures and falling snow really develop your sense of appreciation and gratitude for the simplest luxuries--heat, warmth, wool, flannel, soup, and companionship. You don't have a lot of leisure to lament. You do what needs to be done and then you rest, grateful and self-satisfied.

I came back with the best of intentions. To make life easier and prolong independence in her own home for my then 91 year-old mother. Somewhere along the way...between my last visit and my permanent return....she had transformed from Mother Theresa into Leona Helmsley. It's been difficult. Two very headstrong and independent people under the same roof. Her body slowly but steadily betraying itself and mine in full vigor. Her mind slipping into resolute misperception and mine aching to be heard. Neither of us are demure people. We are too much alike to ever be the best of friends. It's like living with Miss Haversham on Wuthering Heights only without the wedding dress. I trust Dickens and Bronte' will forgive the allusions. Her tongue and appetite are still as sharp as ever so I must be doing something right though I will never be told so. This is, I believe, penance for all the wrongs I knowingly committed and unwittingly contributed to during the happy years travelling the world between leaving and returning here.

But Maine is the great elixir. Breathing the air and drinking the natural beauty is a soothing compress to a blistered brow. No matter where I was living Maine was always home to my soul. I have returned to behind the back woods on the tundra of my birth and, all things considered, it is good to be here.

Fancy's Fevered Flight

To mow or not to mow; that is the quandary. Whether 'tis nobler in the noggin or more solicitous to the soul to tickle tender tootsies in vibrant verdant vegetation or, like a grasping Gallic gardener, take up blades against a sea of dandelions-- madly manicuring mossy margins into sterile perfection. To partake of Persephone's pastoral pleasures and Primavera's pass times or to make war with weeds; churning, chopping, and chucking nature's overabundance.

Daffodils dance dizzily, narcissus' nod knowingly, hyacinths huddle happily, and Rhododendrons rhapsodize while wisteria wander wistfully. Is it necessary to negate Nature's notions of nuance? Is a lavish lawn less lovely than a a driver's dream or putter's paradise? Nay, non, nyet! Banish the bothersome burden of baling and be free from frivolous forestry. The lilies neither spin nor weave nor do the birds sow or reap. Gather ye cozy comforting catnaps while ye may! Treat yourself to transcendent trivialities and tea!

Besides, it's too late and too wet to mow now anyway. More's the pity. Sigh.....

Wellbourne's Easter Feast

Ingredients:

Three to four pound pork shoulder
1 18oz jar of apricot preserves
1 14 oz can of whole berry cranberry sauce
1/4 cup chicken broth
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon of ground cloves
1 large onion
Several potatoes
Several carrots
1/2 head of cabbage
1 summer squash/zucchini
Cauliflower/broccoli crowns, about a handful each

Trim fat from pork shoulder while being told that you're doing it wrong. Mix the apricot preserves, cranberry sauce, Dijon mustard, and chicken broth together until well blended even if you're being told you've stirred it enough already. Chop the large onion into small pieces while being told you've wasted half of it. Score the wrongly trimmed shoulder in cross cuts and rub the ground cloves into the slits while listening to how whole cloves would be a better choice. Place the chopped onions in bottom of slow-cooker and place shoulder on top of onions while listening to how it's on the wrong side. Pour the apricot/cranberry mixture over the top of shoulder while listening to how much of a waste it is. Set slow-cooker to low and cook for 12 hours. Be prepared to listen to how it is either too much or not enough time.

Next day, about 90 minutes before you wish to eat, peel and cut the potatoes and carrots into 1/2 inch pieces while being told you handle the peeler and paring knife incorrectly. Boil at the wrong temperature setting in the wrong pot. Cut cabbage into wedges and summer squash/zucchini into 1/4 inch slices which are all the wrong size or shape and place with the cauliflower/broccoli crowns in a large strainer which is too big over a pot of boiling water that is too small and steam for as long as it takes which is either too long or not long enough.

When the potatoes and carrots are 'mash-able' mash them together with whatever flavouring you prefer...understanding that they won't be as good as how someone else makes them. Remove steamed vegetables from over-sized strainer and place into a dish which is unnecessary and extravagant and season to taste knowing all the while that the flavour has been cooked out of them.

Remove the over/under cooked shoulder from slow-cooker and place on platter which has never been seen before and is therefore deemed unlikeable. Transfer the mashed potatoes/carrot combination into another wasteful and extravagant serving dish. Set table with non-styrofoam plates which will involve wasting water and time to wash along with heirloom silver and vintage linens that once belonged to a disagreeable ancestor. Place large salt shaker at center of table to off-set the blandness of the cuisine.

Sit down. Remove wads of cotton from ears (dispose of discreetly) and enjoy!

Happy Easter from my world to all my Gentle Readers!