April showers brought May flowers, and I don’t need the weather channel to tell me that I “may feel allergy symptoms” this week. I’ve given up trying to keep pollen out of the house, faced with my partner’s protests that it’s far too stuffy to have the windows shut. But despite the fine layer of allergens around the house becoming ever thicker, I’ve decided to actively introduce more, in the form of flower cuttings from outside.
Will I regret having brought in flowers tomorrow when I “feel allergy symptoms”? Yes. Will I need to neti pot twice a day for the foreseeable future because of it? Also, yes. However, May flowers only come once a year, and since I can barely go outside in that thick yellow air, I intend to bring a little May inside to me.
This is probably the third or fourth round of blooms here since winter left (the cherry blossoms are long gone, the magnolias and tulips have turned). But even though I knew spring was here before, May with its unfurled leaves and perky, bright little yard flowers means there’s no turning back. Spring has grabbed the spotlight, with summer running headlong behind.
A world in darkness
But, no! Inky night covers
Not the whole, but half
Sometimes it’s hard for me to actively remember that the earth is round, that “winter solstice” does not indicate mid December exclusively, and that half the earth has theirs in June (hi, Shayna!).
With time differences, it’s a little easier to remember. For example, my sister lives in Vienna, so I often get texts from her at 4am and when I FaceTime her after work in my afternoon, she usually cuts me short so she can go to bed. But when it comes to opposing seasons, my mind stubbornly holds onto what it can see.
Last year was my first “warm” Christmas, at about fifty degrees and sunny. But I’ve never had a long Christmas. As kids, my sisters and I didn’t wake up all that early on Christmas morning (compared to some families I knew), but it was still always before the sun was fully up; and then dark by 4:00, with hours still to endure waking life in darkness. But imagine! The sun shining bright and early, a long day of fun outside, grilling the Christmas ham. I will likely never experience this, as most Northern Hemispherians won’t.
A woman I know always says, “What goes around comes around.” She means it in terms of acts of cruelty and kindness – how we eventually get what we dish out. But, more literally, remember! Though in the dead of winter now, we will slowly but surely roll our pasty faces back towards the sun.
“Have you ever looked at a poppy seed?” I asked my 146 Instagram followers — after some inspiration (instaspiration?) while prepping a cult classic dish of my mom’s, entitled Poppy Chicken — and before a single follower saw it, double-clicked, or cared, I began to blog about it.
If you’ve never looked at a poppy seed, I will describe the experience to you.
First, you see a pile of poppy seeds and your impression is Black. Then, No, blue. And the closer you look, the more variegated the pile becomes, until you begin to see tiny, textured, kidney shaped seeds, each its own color: light gray, charcoal, blue, yellow, cream, brown, pink. It’s delightful, and I highly recommend the exercise.
Welcome to my first recipe post, which is also probably my last.
(most likely brought to you by a 1980s Ritz box)
4 chicken breasts
8 oz. sour cream (or Greek yogurt, I’ve found, to reduce some of the dairy for my lactose-sensitive partner)
10 oz. frozen peas (sometimes I parboil some broccoli and add that, too)
2 cans condensed cream of chicken soup (or equivalent homemade – chicken broth, milk, flour, seasoning; can’t really escape the dairy here. That’s what Lactaid is for.)
1 T. poppy seeds
1 stick butter, melted
2 sleeves of Ritz, crumbled
Cook chicken for 30-40 minutes at 350 degrees Farenheit.
While the chicken cooks, mix everything else except the butter and Ritz together in a bowl.
Once the chicken finishes cooking, remove from oven (but keep the oven on!), let cool enough to handle, and chop into bite-sized pieces. I like to do a fairly small dice; it saves on chewing energy later.
Combine chicken with soup/sour cream/pea/poppy mixture and transfer to a 9×13″ casserole dish.
Mix the Ritz crumbles and melted butter until combined. Yes, you will need to use your hands. Distribute over the top of the casserole. Don’t forget the corners and edges!
Bake for 30 minutes at 350, until bubbly and golden brown on top. Serve!
I lay awake in bed at three o’clock this morning and listened to the wind gusts that left many of my northern friends and family without power today. I could feel a draft swirling through the apartment and hoped the old pecan tree outside wouldn’t disrobe its branches on my frightened little car below.
As a young child, I was convinced the dead tree outside my window would fall onto my room with the slightest provocation of nighttime wind. When I got older and upgraded to the bedroom on the second floor, I dreaded the same thing, but with the ash tree on the other side of the house. In every scenario, the trees, violated by the wind, would crush me in my bed. Sometimes I would die, although more often I would be trapped or my legs would be broken, but the trees never missed. Sometimes I would pull the covers over my head for protection from these scenarios, sometimes for protection from the draft.
I didn’t fear the wind nearly as much during the day. A tall pine that lived behind the stone wall would creak and visibly sway in the wind, but I felt more interested in it than afraid. That’s because the daytime wind has a friendlier sort of wildness, especially when it’s warm and wet and dampens the hair at the base of your head into humid ringlets. Cold wind makes the top layer of snow dance and blows it in your eyes. Though rough, it’s playful. But the wind at night has a wildness that filled me with dread.
Nighttime wind sneaks into the edges of your house, slides under your door, seeps through your window panes. It’s inky and violent. It doesn’t want to play. It wants to fell trees and crush you (and your car) in your sleep.
The weeping willow, which loomed over the back yard, shook wildly in the wind, dropping leaves, whips, and catkins in its wake. When daytime gusts would become too strong for me to continue playing outside, I would race back towards the house, in playful earnest, until I determined I was out of range of the willow tree, were it to get blown over. I knew the day I didn’t make this hustle would be the day the tree crushed me, and I wasn’t about to let my guard down.
However, I was wrong. We were all inside the day the willow tree fell.
In this story, weeping willow is an apt name. When you have a dear friend who is a tree, it is okay to cry when it dies, even if you are fourteen years old and in high school. It had likely been dying for years, as evinced by the shelf mushrooms and spongy wood we found running all the way through its massive trunk; but a tree as anthropomorphized as Grandmother Willow dies the day she falls.
We heard a loud crack, and then a thud. That word thud conjures not only the sound she made on impact, but also a feeling in the pit of my stomach, whenever I remember. Thud has come to mean a dull, heavy sound, but it’s related to an old word that meant “violent wind”. That afternoon the wind had a violent, nighttime streak and knocked down the best tree I ever had the honor of knowing. With a thud, the wind performed a sacrifice that was not its to make.
I still fear the destruction of body and property that a strong wind can bring. At night it still sounds occult, like a wandering poltergeist with a thirst for havoc. The wind in its chaos makes the things you most fear happen when you least expect them to: All those nights of expecting to be crushed by a tree could not prepare me for the thud of Grandmother Willow, bowing under the pressure of the wind one last time.
tempt the shortening days
obscure the seasons turning
over a new leaf
These past few weeks have been difficult for me, but I managed to squeeze out a haiku today after a walk in the swampy heat we’ve been having, in which I was surprised to find many gentle reminders of pending fall. Peace to you.
The house is almost out of food, but my feet hurt too much to grocery shop and it’s too hot to cook anyway, so here I am, writing, prolonging the inevitable.
I had a good week. My car, which had been making a sound that concerned me, was discharged with a clean bill of health (and a mere thirty dollar bill) by my trusted mechanic. My partner and I watched through the new Netflix original show, GLOW, which we enjoyed immensely and recommend.
I planned every morning to get up early so I could make coffee and lunches and have enough time to sit on the couch and drink my coffee instead of heading directly to work…and I made this happen one whole time! Monday morning I had enough time to do all of the above, and to finish a short story by The New Yorker author Yiyun Li, from her stories collection Gold Boy, Emerald Girl. The experience was so lovely, so the rest of the week I continued to set alarms for 5:30, 5:45, 5:55, 6:00, 6:10, and 6:15, but, alas, my half-asleep self has always been a stubborn, brutish fiend. I hope someday to replicate the experience. Maybe when I’m forty.
The heat and humidity has once again turned my kitchen into a sauna, and my plants are loving it. Candice the Caladium seems to have new leaf growth every day, and my partner won’t stop exclaiming about the success I’ve had with my avocado plant. (Yes, it does work! Expecting homemade guacamole in approximately three to fifteen years.) I keep having to incrementally raise the window blinds because I believe Candy and Avi are having a height competition. Finally, my ginger root decided to become a plant again, its only stimulus from my end being disuse.
It just started to thunder. I’m hoping the torrential rain sends a much-needed cool night our way. But right now, as the walkway floods, I’m enjoying the heavy sound of close thunder and fat rain.