beverage of choice

If you live much east of the Rockies, you’ve probably never heard of this stuff. A friend who lived in Denver for a while introduced us to it ever-so-casually a couple years back, giving us a box to take home and try.

Yeah, I hear they do that with crack, too.

addictive? oh, no.

The girls call it “summer tea” — as opposed to the warm stuff we drink in the winter — and clamor for it starting first thing in the morning. No joke.

It’s hard to explain the flavor, but I’m here to tell you there are few things that taste better after gettin’ some sweat on. Not that it isn’t delightful for sippin’ just sitting on the couch with a book, but it’s very… quenching after your workout of choice, even if that might be just running the vacuum. Although, come to think, if that’s your workout of CHOICE, I’d like to start with some other recommendations first. Medication, perhaps, or therapy.

It’s a blend of herbal-y type stuff, if you read the label. It’s not sweetened, but it has a trace of sweetness to it, and I have to say that putting sugar in it would be a gild-the-lily sort of proposition.

Thanks to Al Gore and the miracle of the Internet, you can order it by the case, like we do. You can get it straight from the dealer, or, in testament I imagine to its growing popularity, as of this year Amazon carries it as well. Comes in a four-pack eligible for Free Super Saver Shipping.

It does come in a hot variety as well, but we stick with the iced. Toss two bags into a 64-oz pitcher of cold water and twenty minutes later it’s ready to drink. Don’t ask me how they do it.

Try it. It’s harmless, really.

the annex

Just so you can, as you are moved during your day, visualize me in situ, I wanted to provide you the photographic backdrop of where I’ll almost assuredly be at that very moment.

Plus, since you can’t see too many of the weeds, and none of the leaf-hoppers or the whitefly cloud, it looks right purty and I wanted to share the fruits of my labor.  Visually speaking, that is, though if you want to pop by I’ll be happy to load you up with some tasty chard, or kale if you prefer.

coming through the gate. facing east, for the compass-minded

I wish I took great photos; this is a view of about one-third of the space.  That’s my back-fence neighbor’s house there in the background.  I don’t know her well but by all accounts she is a lovely person and I harbor hope that she finds my garden a pleasant backdrop to her gorgeous yard.

from outside, looking north-ish

Again, not a great photo but you get a bit more scope.  No need to adjust your screen; that’s monofilament running horizontally there.  It’s supposed to confuse the deer mightily, obviating the 8-foot fence requirement.  So far, so good.  Squash in the foreground, looking past edamame onto chard, kale, tomatoes and bean teepees.  Raspberries on the high left.  And my corn endeavor over there on the right, behind the cantaloupe vines.  I’m trying not to get too excited about backyard sweet corn because I know good and well the raccoons have the GPS coordinates all plotted out already.

from the inside high point, looking north-northwest

A slightly different view with my beloved green soybeans in better focus, and the cucumbers hove into view there on the right, just past the pea fence (the peas have flushed, and fled).  I’m trellising the cukes, but the plants are right prolific this year and I’m not sure how exactly that’s going to work out.  I haven’t harvested any yet, but I noticed this evening there’s one looking like it might meet its shaker on Sunday (and if you don’t salt your sliced cukes, you should, if only to appreciate the pun).  I happened just last year on this variety, called Satsuki Madori, and oh my they are amazing.  The long skinny asian kind (you couldn’t guess, I bet) and they can get a good 18″ long and stay tender-crunch sweet.  Yum.

I’m starting to panic just a little over the realization that I will be parted from all of this for like six straight days next week when we make the hometown pilgrimage to Ohio.  In fact, I’d better stop thinking about it right now or I’ll never get to sleep.  Which I need to do.  Promptly.  Yikes, it got late.  Night, y’all.

The Best Meal Ever

A guest post by Reeechard, who has taught me much about biking, and life, in addition to reading every word I’ve ever written here. He’s not really the bloggin’ type, more’s the pity, but I always love what he has to say, so I’m going to share. ‘Cause I’m generous that way. And ’cause anyone still bothering to click here deserves to see something new.

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We all have our microcosm family cultures. Some of it geographic, some of it family, some of socioeconomic, and some of it the personality of the previous generation. If you are from the deep south, you know that lunch is dinner, and dinner is supper. Dinner is the big meal of the day.

As a preteen and teenager I primarily lived with my grandparents during the summer, and my grandmother cooked the same meal every day during the summer. The same meal every day: fried okra, squash, green beans, tomatoes, and corn bread. The same meal every day.

Well, except when corn was coming in, or blackberries were ripe, in which case corn or blackberry pie might be added to the menu.

When you’re a kid, a lot of stuff goes over your head. At the time I thought that it was a little odd that we add the same meal every day. I now realize that everything but the corn meal and cooking oil came from the garden.

We get all giddy green these days about the health benefits of eating fresh garden veggies, but the real deal then was that it was cheap and money was tight. My grandparents were the children of sharecroppers, and truly survived by living off what they could grow.

Of course, as a teenager, I only saw the monotony of the meal. I got so damn tired of eating the same thing every day. It tasted exactly the same every day.

Generations improve their lot, and the children of sharecroppers became migrant textile mill workers, who begat a factory worker, who begat me, the first high school graduate; the first college graduate. My life and socioeconomic status became quite different than that of my grandparents.

My grandfather was third-grade dropout who worked as a mechanic in the textile mills. He taught me everything I know about working on stuff. That knowledge, coupled with an engineering degree, has supported a very comfortable life.

It always saddened me, that my life, my profession, was so beyond the comprehension of my grandparents that I couldn’t find words to convey to them how they had factored into my own personal success.

Late in my grandmother’s life, 30 years beyond my teenage years, I had the occasion to be home. She asked that I cut a tree down in her yard, and while I was doing that, she cooked dinner.

After wrestling a chainsaw for the morning and working up quite an appetite, I entered her kitchen to the smell of fried okra, squash, green beans, tomatoes, and corn bread. It was an overwhelming sensory experience.

I have been wined and dined in some mighty fancy places, but that one meal, flooded with the tastes and smells of a simpler time, will always be the best I ever ate. Up until that day I did not realize that I had not tasted those specific tastes for 30 years. I felt all the love that one woman had put into 70 years of preparing meals for her family. That one simple meal will always stand as a high point in my life.

I know, I know, it’s certifiably weird how a bowl of okra can trigger an emotional epiphany.

The point? The point is that many of us struggle with the day-to-day challenge of raising our children. It’s challenging, occasionally thankless, and filled with angst about doing the right thing. I am sure that I gave no sign of gratitude then. I can only hope that my children will have moments of reflection like this, and it will in some way help them cope with the grind of raising their brats.

I think I’ll teach my boys how to make cornbread tonight, in a skillet I got from their great grandmother.

hey y’all

It’s becoming hard to ignore: I have bloggy burnout. Or something.

Because there’ve been a number of things that I’ve had every intention of blogging about — a rant about insurance “providers,” a family outing and the woman with her doggy jogger, the seasons of friendship, the chagrin/delight that was my early-morning ride with my lovely friend Sarah… all post-worthy, and there are numerous paragraphs either actually written down or running around in my head on all of them.

And no urge, at least not at any actionable level, to put in the time and effort necessary for public consumption of same.

And in truth, there’s a larger piece in play, which is that I’ve realized there’s a price to pay for blogging in this fishbowl of a neighborhood I live in. And over the last months, this blog has, sadly, has brought a not-insubstantial amount of negative energy into my life. That, in turn, has diminished my enthusiasm for investing time putting myself into words. And led me to wonder: Where from here?

It may be that I take a longer, deeper break. It may be that I close the doors here at Fraught with the intention to re-open them in an anonymous location. With all search capabilities disabled. It may be that I turn to another venue altogether for writing. Or that I put energy into other things for a good while.

I honestly haven’t even thought through the options thoroughly yet.

But I just wanted to let y’all know. Because I appreciate that you take the time to read, even if you don’t comment, and I didn’t want to leave you wondering if I’d maybe fallen off my bike and broken both elbows, rendering me incapable of posting.

Love and smooches,
Amy