morus

A number of things harken me back to my childhood summers in small-town Ohio, but few of them so provocatively as the taste of a mulberry.

My dad has always delighted in free, as in foraged, food, and for several weeks starting around mid-June he, my brother, and I would head out in the mornings to eat our breakfast off one of the several trees that were within easy walking distance on our street.  I suppose it was more of a country lane, really; they grew on a fencerow along a substantial corn field.

Each tree had its own flavor, color, and shape of berry, and all these years later I can still recall the hierarchy of preferred trees on our regular route.  We had only one small mulberry tree on our own acreage, at the rear fenceline of the large vegetable garden, and I remember we disdained it; it had white berries with a markedly insipid flavor.

Mulberries prefer that sort of habitat, fencerow and wood edge; a tangle along an alleyway is always a likely spot.

Despite the song, which has the annoying habit of getting stuck in my head, it’s really not a bush, but it IS a weedy sort of thing, especially when it’s young.  Frankly, there’s little to redeem the tree unless you’re a connoisseur of the fruit, and even as one, I have to admit that when they’re fruiting they make a godAWFUL mess that no homeowner could possibly look on fondly.

So in our more-affluent neighborhood, without a fencerow in sight, any mulberry that might have had the nerve in the past decades to put down roots has long ago been chopped down and bid good riddance.

Used to be there was one only a mile or so away, with nice droopy branches perfect for pickin’, at the corner over there down past the hospital by the transformer station, to the side of a tiny brick ranch that never got mowed much.  But then someone bought it and fixed it up so nice, they tend that yard like a spoiled grandchild and put up seasonal decorations Christmas Valentine’s Easter 4th a July Halloween and all.  And of course they cut that bad boy down faster than you can say Pink Flamingoes.

My, I’ve been rambling all over in this post, especially if you know, not that you possibly could, that I started out to meaning to tell about the truly uninspired undertaking that was my Friday ride.  I couldn’t muster up the least enthusiasm for climbing anything, so after procrastinating all morning I finally headed out on the Greenway, which is flat and until recently was not an official greenway but a tiny little road along the river that flooded out every high rain and was home to any number of mulberry trees.

When they made the Greenway — which I love unequivocally, 100%, don’t get me wrong — for some reason they felt compelled to take out the natural growth and instead plant deciduous hollies every 20 feet or so.  They’re pretty and all in the fall, and they have luscious-looking red berries this time of year, but they are decidedly NOT edible.

So I rode along its mulberry-free length and took the turn at the sewage treatment plant to wend through the neighborhood there that leads to the next section of greenway, and it dawned on me that THAT neighborhood is more toward working-, or these days likely laid-off-, class, and I might just get lucky and find a tree I’d be required to stop to nibble off of.

Following nothing more than instinct, I took a quick turn onto a promising side street and immediately spotted the spoor, a circular spread of black pitterings on the pavement, and there they were:  three spectacular trees, with branches low enough I immediately pictured my girls picking from them.

Along with a smallish dog about to lose its mind, yelping frantically at its fence not five feet away.

And then another one, not small by the stretch of anyone’s imagination and chained outside the house across the very narrow lane, chimed in, basso profundo.  I was relieved to see its chain was short, and strong; but as I stood there astride my bike, in mid-pick, a patterned sheet hanging in one of the windows moved aside to reveal a gentleman who appeared neither particularly clothed nor particularly pleased about having his rest disturbed.

It seemed prudent to move on.

And I did, though not without casting a backward glance at the abundance so temptingly within reach.

All in all I rode about 15 miles, much of it greenway, pitiful in the scheme of training, yet highly fruitful in that I was able to suss out a good handful of trees with branches low enough to pick from.  The girls can hardly wait to head out over the weekend, and I love that their enthusiasm for the harvest echoes mine.

And I can’t help but wonder if they will pass the tradition on to another generation, with memories of their own.  I hope so.  Isn’t that what this gig is really all about?

perfect party

It had all the makings for a major stressaster.  You know, where you’re so freaking stressed out that even if it all ends up going just fine, it’s still a disaster.

We were anticipating 6 or 7 families, with a total of 30-some bodies, to arrive beginning at 4:30 on Sunday for a grill-potluck.

We’d had overnight guests, so some of the mid-morning after their departure was spent picking up toys and tidying.   And since I know good and well that if the kids will be home all day any significant cleaning the morning of a party is destined to be an exercise in futility, not to mention annoyance, because anything accomplished will surely need a major touching up anyway, I didn’t bother with bathrooms or mopping. Closer to doorbell time would be soon enough.

And since I wasn’t making much food, just an appetizer and a dessert and a fruit salad, and I got most of the choppin’ and slicin’ done in the morning,  it seemed perfectly reasonable to head out for a ride a bit after noon.  Couple hours on the road and I’d still have almost two hours to clean, assemble and bake, and shower.  Piece of cake.  Put the MPM in charge of the beer tub and the outdoor seating, toss some silverware out, stack plates, line up wine glasses, major swab on the bathroom, mop, quick vacuum.  Easy pie.

Or, alternately, arrive home a tad late at 3p to a weepy child with an earache and a low tolerance for discomfort, and a dire need for attention and snuggling.

Yuh.

The dessert got in the oven and the appetizer got made, but as the minutes ticked by and I sat with Megs on my lap, I realized the bathroom that had been waiting several days for an attentive scrubbing was going to wait yet another day.   And that I should not be surprised if a guest, finding a foot or perhaps two irrevocably stuck to my kitchen floor, called out for help, only to have their would-be rescuer trip over two empty milk bottles and slam into the kitchen stepladder on the way to faceplanting in an unwashed cat-food dish. And that I myself, in biking togs and full post-sweat helmet-head, had little hope of being any cleaner or lovelier before guests arrived.

And as I waited for the stress to sweep over me, it dawned on me that there wasn’t a single person who would be coming through the front door that I cared about how they saw me or my house.  And I mean that in the very best way possible:  that every one of our guests was someone that I was completely comfortable with.  Good friends, and a rumble and muddle of little ones, and a sprinkling of teens, I could wallow in unqualified acceptance and utter lack of internally arched-eyebrow judgment.

And what a lovely, lovely feeling it was.

Interesting to think how rare that is, at least in my entertaining life.  It made me chew on the fact that although I do think I’m generally willing to have others see the “real” me, I’m a far ways from being immune to feeling that my home reflects on me, and thus how others think of me.  And I want them to think… what?  That I know how to wipe my switch plates and dust baseboards and make my bathroom shine?  That I execute such chores with some frequent periodicity?  The former is true; the latter, certainly less so, at least at this stage of life.  But really, what is it that makes us feel so bad if our house isn’t just so when company arrives?  I’m still mulling on it.

In any event, I think every person who came on Sunday enjoyed the evening as much as I did.  And I have utter faith that not one of them thought less of me for the grubbiness of my bathroom.

And just so’s you know, I cleaned it first thing today, before breakfast, because it really did need it desperately.  And because at that moment, no one needed snuggling more than it needed scrubbin’.

And then I wiped some switchplates too.  Just for the heck of it.  Hey, time to plan another party, quick.

did I mention we had live entertainment?

hmmm, a girl at the grill. is that legal?

fun for children of all ages

her fun day

Today was that marvel of parent volunteer burnout, the elementary school carnival fundraiser, known around these parts as Fun Day.

I didn’t have great hopes for it, being generally opposed not so much to fun but to excess, not to mention a surfeit of all things plastic and cheap and 100% sugar.

But it was surprisingly, for my low expectations, well, fun.   And while there was a plastic toy won and several confections consumed, mostly it was about running and jumping and climbing.  And standing in line with the Best Girlfriend and giggling; matching hair color-spray and face paint.  For Megan it was indeed, in her words, Fun Fun Fun Fun FUN Day!!!

heat 1 lineup

on your mark

fast just like her daddy

on belay

summitting

I was going to wrap up with something pithy and/or witty, but I’m still recovering from my volunteer stint in the cakewalk room and I used up all my pith and wit trying to keep a dozen or so boys from gaming the system in myriad ways. So much for the innocent fun of a cakewalk… shysters!

girl. power.

The ride was 7 of us:  5 guys, and 2 girls, bein’ Emily and me, and the pace as we headed out was right at painful, the de facto leader having arbitrarily dispensed, it appeared, with any notion of a warmup.    (Cue Blazing Saddles:   Warmup?  We don’t need no stinkin’ warmup!)

Thankfully, we split apart some for the middle section, keeping it humane.   That section climbs a fair amount, some burningly steep-but-short bits and a couple longer pulls, and then we regroup at the Parkway (yes, it’s always UP to the Parkway).

And after the regroup??  Let me paint it for you:

On the Parkway, as we come to the first extended climb, here you see the air filling with a near-visible testosterone fog as the guys, all in front of us, jockey for position:  standing, out of the saddle, mucho macho effort… and here now you see my Emily take a sweet line slicing through the middle, parting the fog if you will, and then watch as she swings wide left and around and…  GONE.  Pedal stroke smooth and effortless,  I tell you she damn looked like she was rolling on a flat with a tailwind. Never even got out of the saddle.  Just spun right by them.  Beautiful.

And then a half-mile up the road she sat up a bit and looked back with an innocent, Oh, gosh, aren’t you all right with me? turn of the head.  Oh, I loved it. The girl can flat out RIDE.

Beautiful.  Just beautiful.  Did I say that already?

All around, it was a fun ride and a lovely evening, and that was just my favorite little part of it, a bit that left me with a huge old grin on my face.

rockin’ some preschooler fashion

Kira has hit the phase of choosing her own clothing, prime territory as we all know for some knock-down drag-out battles.

Frankly, however, I can’t keep a straight face long enough to muster up even a weak argument for something more practical, which means that today we really did go to the store, and the library, in this.  Don’t overlook the purple sparkly headband:

haute couture, baby

And here, let me spotlight that spring runway must-have:

just a few necessities

The purse collections are another current fixation, and probably deserving of their own post.  Stay tuned for more fashion-forward looks.

Blue Moon rising

Friday brought the first Blue Moon Ride of the year, and a fabulous time it was, a quick 20 miles, five strong women pushing the pace a bit through the last five and then rolling downhill for this:

I’m thinking we need to get a sponsor on board. With matchy-matchy jerseys. And maybe a masseuse. Yes, definitely. And bring on the cabana boys while we’re at it.

the real thing

I have no idea how I’m going to fit a new obsession into my life, but I’ve discovered power yoga and I’m already in deep. It speaks to me so wholly I have some faith it’s not a passing fancy.

My introduction to this new love came in March via a personal trainer, in a semi-private session with a couple of other women, as a special treat financed by Christmas money from my mommy. It was intimate, and expensive; a short-lived luxury that made me understand why those who can afford personal trainers do. Contemplating what I could do to finance that little habit, I came up with only illegal and/or immoral options, so, cursing my ethical compunctions, I began to look for other ways to get a fix.

Happily, there’s a small studio downtown that I can not only mostly afford but bike to in under 15 minutes, and I’ve also recently found a DVD that I really like and can make efforts at attempting in the privacy of my home at whatever odd hour may make itself available. Which, hello real life, is huge.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Power yoga kicks my ass physically, which — ah, hubris! — I’ll admit I didn’t expect. And it’s definitely taking me steps on that road to increased flexibility, the one I’d publicly declared as a goal before I turn 45, an event which will transpire very, very shortly. Technically, since I’m in fact more flexible today than on Jan 1, I’ll have met the goal — but oh, there is so far yet to go.

And then there’s the mental part.

The downtown studio has a larger focus on this aspect than do my other venues, and to be honest, I fully expected to have to really fight the urge to jump up and skedaddle on to something more pressing than lying around on the floor listening to my own breath. But much to my own surprise, I love it. I’m not in any danger of attending, say, a chanting circle anytime soon — no, first and foremost I still need to get my sweat on — but at this point in my life I’m embracing that savasana is a very good thing.

“Being in tune with” oneself is so freakin’ trite. But… there it is. That time of quieting my brain, I’ve noticed, is somehow making it easier to choose happiness over pleasure as I go through my days — something I’ve struggled with ever since the dawn of memory.

Like the flexibility, there are vast distances yet to travel toward some optimum. But it’s a start, and I feel like I’m beginning to renew my acquaintance with joy.

grit in your teeth

After days of promise, and of steadily wilting seedlings, the rain FINALLY came.  On Sunday, naturally; the day I’d set up a ride.

In the morning, as it came steadily down, I sent out an email:  Hike ‘em up, gang.  Unless there’s thunder, we’re rollin.

The thunder never materialized.  A few miles in, the sun even came out just long enough to prompt my Skyline ride pal who was still peeling from last weekend to fret about not applying sunscreen.  Then we met up with Emily, the clouds shooed back in, and we rolled on in a light drizzle, occasionally more, enough to send up a roostertail off the wheel ahead.  Back off enough and at least the gritty spray won’t hit you square in the face, but there’s no escaping it entire.

So when I got home and peeled off my (soaking wet) socks, I noticed I had not tan lines, but grime lines:

nope, those aren't freckles

Aside from one slightly sketchy set of downhill curves on wet roads, it was all in all a great ride. And anyone who rides regularly knows that adverse conditions always make for better memories, not to mention better tales.

family-photo Friday

Aren’t hats an integral part of May Day at your house?

"I'm a COWGIRL, Mommy."

These are two of the four that came into my hands illegally a few months back. Can’t say as I’ve suffered one iota of remorse over my transgression from the straight and narrow.

May Day Kira