Trailer Wife

Taking one for the team

In Anticipation of Frontier Life: Canning, Part 5

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I stand in the doorway to my kitchen, which has been selected as canning headquarters owing to its superior counter space, and inhale the heady aroma of our fecund harvest. The following day we will first peel, then slice, then blanch the fruit, all the while engaging in trench warfare against browning, over-ripeness, and the unknowable voodoo of a perfect seal. Scattered around the cardboard flats are five-pound bags of sugar, boxes of brassy lids, and hundreds of sterilized glass mason jars we’ve scrounged from garage sales and junk shops, half of which we won’t need. I don’t know it yet, but eventually, I’ll be stunned when so much fruit is reduced to so humble a stockpile.


But for the moment, at two A.M on a Thursday in July, I feel unaccountably wealthy. I think about my grandmother’s 1954 copy of Ball’s Blue Book of Canning, which I’ve been studying for days, and her cramped handwriting that fills the crumbly margins. Give yourself enough headspace, but not too much. Over tightening may cause seal failure; a dirty rim may cause seal failure; seal failure happens. If a raw egg floats in pickling brine, there is sufficient salt. You always need more potholders then you think you do. Timing is everything. The end.

How True it is...

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This gave me a MUCH needed laugh this morning. With the chaos of moving, I've been seriously neglecting my blog. More soon!


Discovered on Mighty Girl

In Anticipation of Frontier Life: Canning, Part 4

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I stare dumbly at the huge silver cauldron—paying particular attention to its nested wire racks, the crusty pressure gauge, and a sinister looking gasket on the lid—while my eighty-nine year old grandmother looks at me with an expression of hopelessness that borders on malice. It’s not the first time she’s looked at me this way.


She was born on the second day of 1920, in a logging camp outside Bend, Oregon. Her father hauled logs out of the high desert old growth, and her mother kept food on the table during the depression by gleaning the neighboring farms and woodlands for runty produce, small game, and wild berries. At seventeen, she met and married my grandfather, a German Lutheran minister, had ten children, buried four then her husband, and still plays the organ at Holy Cross every Sunday—all without batting an eye. Though I know that her stoicism masks a deep uncertainty that no amount of stacked hymnals or loaves of homemade bread can cover up, I balk at her silent disapproval. I’d rather she railed and carried on, issued her disappointment in one hot rant, after which we could hug and be forgiven. But instead, she crosses her thin arms over her bony chest and quietly judges me.

“You’re enjoying this,” I say, catching a small, indignant smile around the edges of her lips. I’m suddenly grateful that my two girlfriends, who had come along to pick up the canning equipment, are still working on the huge blackberry briar behind my grandmother’s house.
“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m happy to help,” she says, and begins stacking faded, greasy cookbooks into my arms with an enthusiasm that suggests she is all too happy to point out the holes in my training thus far. My sister and I were the first women on both sides of our family to graduate from college. We’d grown to be responsible adults, but her assertions that we weren’t adequately prepared for life hadn’t slackened—even when her predictions that we’d never manage to find husbands without knowing how to keep a house hadn’t panned out, and in spite of my desperate attempts to seek her approval. These included church attendance on Easter Sunday, a concerted effort to avoid taking the “Lord’s name in vain,” while in her presence, and countless glasses of milk she insisted I drink before leaving the dinner table. And now, canning. (to be continued...)

Bastille Day

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I spent France's fete nationale with my favorite Francophile's, Heidi and Greg. They recently purchased a town home that I like to call the Tree House, due to the mature leafy trees visible through a wall of floor to ceiling windows. It's a beautiful place with tasteful furnishings and expensive electronics on low shelves. In short, I am wildly jealous.

Using her imported crepe machine, Heidi served up sweet and savory crepes with salmon, chives, ham, cheese, tomatoes, creme fraiche, "hand-made" blueberry preserves, dark chocolate and strawberries. We started off with Syrah, followed by a delicious Chardonnay, had a quick toast with Champagne, and finished with a 12 year old Oban (thank you Greg), my favorite Scotch of the minute.

With Gus sleeping soundly in the other room, we sipped from fine crystal, listened to Edith and Serge, and generally congratulated ourselves for being so sophisticated and gentile. I'm trying to soak up these moments, since I am guessing I'll find Fairbanks somewhat lacking on the French Wine and truffles front.



On not writing

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Oh the delusions. I have been plagued my entire life with unrealistically high expectations. So when we starting planning our eight week return trip/vacation/move, I believed I'd finally have the free time and a line up of well-rested babysitters to make some real progress on my current writing project.

Ha.

So now my mantra has changed to, "As soon as we get up to Fairbanks..." Isn't this always the way? The start-the-diet-on-Monday mentality is my most infuriating flaw. So - to find a little inspiration and hopefully get my ass to the page, here is some of my favorite advice on the craft of writing from some people who are qualified to give it.

1) Short Assignments: Anne Lamott (Bird by Bird)
Lamott suggests that, when sitting down to write, you choose only a small detail or a fragment of an action to thoroughly explore. "E.L. Doctorow said once said that 'Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.' You don't have to see where you're going, you don't have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice on writing, or life, I have ever heard."

2) 1000 words a day: Carolyn See (Making a Literary Life)
Even if you're copying out the phone book or writing out the lyrics to Tori Amos songs, get the words on the paper. That's 4 pages, double-spaced.

3) Don't plan too much: Charles Baxter (Burning Down the House)
I struggle between writing from an organic, loosey-goosey mind frame and a rigid, pre-determined structure. So now, instead of trying to tie off every stray balloon I remember Baxter: "When all the details fit in perfectly, something is probably wrong with the story."

4) Get real: John Fowles
"If you want to be true to life, start lying about it."

"Why do I write? Because as long as you read, we are together." -Raizel Garncarz

In Anticipation of Frontier Life: Canning, Part 3

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Suddenly, the Farmer’s Market is the only conscionable place to buy produce—never mind that a head of lettuce costs seven dollars. Flimsy stalls groaned with the fruit of the fertile Willamette valley: mountains of green beans, rows of scrubby beets and turnips, thirty-five varieties of tomato. One woman sells free-range eggs out of an Igloo ice chest; another hocks packets of heirloom seeds and thirty-dollar flower baskets underneath a pop-up tent. Betwixt the filbert vendors and county democrat registration booths, eager progressives stroll behind massive strollers and leashed Labradors.


There is a kind of nostalgia being traded here, luring those who pack the arugula-lined lanes. An acknowledgement that there was a time, not so long ago, when things were better. When food was simpler, its nutritious properties easier to recognize. Many of them us, after all, only one generation removed from farmers and ranchers—people with dirt under their fingernails and a full pantry. What those good people preserved was worth preserving, untainted as it was by the uniform banality of contemporary supermarkets. It’s a wholesomeness that’s worth paying for. (to be continued...)

Bookstores, Bottle Rockets and Barbecues

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Let me pause here to extol the many wonders and winning qualities of Portland, Oregon. Brimming with microbreweries, coffee fanatics and people on clunky bikes, Portland is one of the most pleasant, chuckle-if-you're-happy kind of places in the world. It was founded by a guy named Asa Lovejoy, for Christ's sake. Imagine a place where your jeans costs more than your iphone and your T-shirt costs less than the fair trade, organic americano you ordered that morning. Throw in mass transit, boutique pets on REI leashes and the most amazing Thai street cart vendors on earth: near utopia.


But what makes Portland particularly special to me is Powell's City of Books. For a book addict like myself, Powell's is Mecca. My family used to have to draw straws to see who had the unlucky duty of accompanying me to this sprawling paradise. Covering an entire city block, Powell's is home to OVER A MILLION new and used books. Not to mention, a huge supply of funky knick knacks, stickers, every moleskin notebook in existence, and people with amazing tattoos.

Now, I could do some serious damage in a place like Powells. But showing considerable restraint, I got out having spent a mere $90. My shopping basket: Blindess by Jose Saramango (on the hysterically enthusiastic endorsement of my sister), Words To Live By, a book of witty quotes I plan to use in greeting cards, a book on battling writer's block to add to my collection of craft-of-writing books that I'm obsessed with, Corduroy and an Obama Action figure for Gus (who, as you can see, was less impressed than I might have hoped to visit my Favorite Place on Earth), a cool Oregon T-shirt, some sweet book plates, 2 Powell's beer glasses and a beautiful bamboo spoon that I couldn't resist.

After the euphoria of the Powell's visit wore off, we spent the last few days having BBQs in anticipation of the 4th, BBQs in honor of the 4th, and BBQs the day after the 4th just to keep the good times rolling. I missed two July 4ths while we were in Scotland, and I had forgotten the sweet thrill of explosives and charred meat. In our neighborhood in Beaverton, there were so many illegal fireworks going off that a blue smoky haze settled around the moon, though it was a crystal clear night. The smell of charges and stink bombs reminded me so much of the evenings of my childhood, spent barefoot in the gravel while Dad sent up shrieking sparks from a piece of plywood on the grass. The soft white hot dog buns and tangy ketchup around the burnt-beyond-all-taste frank. Falling, exhausted, into a too-warm bed with dirty feet and sticky fingers. Sigh. It's good to be home.



Happy Birthday, Poolie

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We had a fabulous birthday snoshfest in honor of Patty's birthday tonight at Bogotti's, a Portland Italian eatery. The focaccia was evil-good and all-you-can-eat, and the Pear Brandy Sidecar is my new favorite. Patty made out like a bandit, scoring a new zoom lens and tripod for her SLR, an ipod touch, pedicure tools, and an anti-gravity camp chair. So the next time we see her, she'll be lounging fire-side, downloading apps, taking photos of soaring eagles while Julie gives her a foot rub. Yes please.

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