Tea With Me: 11th September, 2018 Tuesday

11th September, 2018 Tuesday

9/11, eh? Seventeen years of membership in the Terrorized Nations Club. At the time I knew we were going through the death of our innocence. At seventeen we are in the adolescence of the life of navigating the terrorist colored globe. Afganistan’s invasion, Sadam’s non existent WMD cache was the Bush administration’s thinly veiled excuse to try to control the region’s oil, that thing called TSA, Bin Laden, fear of anything Muslim, now the Travel Ban our crazy ass pumpkin imbecile of a President saw fit to railroad through to appease his ethnocentric, xenophobic, fear riddled, gun toting base…how shit has changed. Oh we need that Blue Wave, please, please, please.

But here today there is rain and clouds and sun and chicken tending and more cooking. As I tap my lovely daughters are together in my kitchen performing alchemy, the collection of ingredients for pate and marinara for the pizza feast we are to have tonight with Farmer Sis and Husband Bro. On Tuesday, the Farmers wend their way along the river ribbon to spread the bounty of the Earth they tend with all the city dwellers who have joined their CSA. They come back hungry wishing for a meal to appear, so SIL suggested that we do Tuesday Pizza Feast.

But last night’s feast, oh my, was quite the gift. SIL arrived from weeding at the Farm holding the treasures of his labors. And then he chopped and chopped and chopped, tears streaming from his onions. Purple peppers, a murder of tomatoes, spa massaged kale, red wine vinegar, salz und pfeffer, goat cheese and a bowl so big you could bathe a six month baby in. Voila, a mythical Greek Salad did appear. Then tuna, fresh albacore on the griddle and zucchini butter arrives. Potatoes newly dug and thinly sliced are strewn across two cookie sheets dressed by olive oil, salz and pfeffer popped in the oven at 420 while we assembled the table.

My mouth was absolutely stunned, I shoveled, chewing with great glee. I did tell you what master cooks I have produced, who knew. I get really mad and taxed about the time it takes to cook, I’d really rather do something else. But cooking is their happy place. They do it so well together.

Every plate was licked quite clean and nothing left to store. What a lovely thing it was to experience their spell.

On Monday afternoons, my SIL brings home our CSA. We love the veggie treasure trove arriving in that big black box, but the challenge that it brings us is how to friggin fridge it. An MA degree in spatial use is needed. I attack about a half. I bag the little veg and leave the giant leaves for my husband as he after dinner cleans. Whats in the box, we never know before. And as the season changes so does the cast of veg. Basil, tomatoes, zucchini, pumpkin, scallions, garlic, onions, peppers, potatoes, kale, lettuces all kinds, the cast rotates depending on the bugs and heat. One Monday I was so amazed to find among the rest a melon.

So yesterday’s CSA arrived with all the fixings for our feast. And in it was a cache of little papered beasts. They are named Husk Cherries and somehow tomatillos are in this family too. Let me tell you, after all our feasting my oldest daughter attacked the husks, the youngest and I circled and soon we all were shucking husks and popping cherries in our mouths. Inside their little paper husks little luscious bombs are found. The husks alone are fairy like and then those little cherry bombs are truly gold both outside and in your mouth. So there we were the three of us, popping Fairy Bombs, and there is my loving husband with his phone to grab the moment, all that fun.

My husband is their other Dad, he loves them as his own. He never fathered others until he came to us. He wants to help and waits to find the thing they need the most. He’s always to the side, just watching, waiting with his heart to find the thing to do. He is a doing guy, this man, always the contraptionist. He loves the hug and as he’s big his arms go very far. There was a moment at the prep for feast last night where he and youngest saw each other for first time all day. They just walked into each other’s arm in such a happy joyfilled loving hug, I made them stage it again. I captured their next embrace as they were oh so sweet.

Smells so fine right now, pate is the jars. I got to lick some, oh my god, so frigging great. As the livers were a frying we looked at them and said, “They smell so good.” Because those little livers had never had shit to filter, just the right stuff.

The Wizard arrived home yesterday afternoon. The Zoi and he reunioned by flying all around. In and out the door one zillion times, oh my lord. He taught her the dog door to the open field. He cam back right swiftly but she did not appear. I went outside to check to see if she had flown. No she hadn’t, there she was trotting from a far. She stopped, nudging something in the grass. Lo and behold, it was a tiny form. Wet and somewhat wizzened, its fur was gray, its size was small and hers it was to claim. A prize from dirt, this little mole was hunted. She got him, yes, she did, oh yes. Mommy, see I am the huntress I was bred to be. Malin’s first blood.