Thursday, September 17, 2009

Stovetop


When I was a kid these two things sitting on the stove would send me racing around the house looking for my mother so I could ask her what she was going to bake. My life is full of moments when I feel my mother in my hands; the way I bump the broom on the floor in between sweeps in order to shake off the dust, the way I snap laundry before I fold it, my habit of tearing absolutely everything to shreds before it goes in the recycling, no matter how many times I have had to dig through puzzle pieces of paper for something I needed that I thought I didn't. Putting butter out to soften is one of those things. And yes mum, I save the wrappers for greasing pans, folded into neat squares and piled in the butter compartment of the fridge, just like you. I love you to the moon and back, have I told you that lately?

The weather is turning and turning here. The chickens are laying fewer eggs, the windows in the house are closed as often as open, and the peach tree is sending down stray yellow leaves, long yellow fingers scattered around the front yard. The garden is offering up its last beans and eggplant and peppers, turning back into a sea of greens: kales, chard, broccoli, beets, lettuces, arugula, cabbage, cauliflower. Soon it will be time to plant the garlic again. We hauled home our first bushel of apples last weekend, and yesterday I warmed myself over a huge pot of applesauce, now that is the smell of fall. B and I are tucking into the darkening evenings, playing music after supper until we turn in. It will be flannel sheet time before we know it.

Be warm out there.

4 comments:

Whis said...

Today you brought tears to my eyes.

dig this chick said...

So beautiful. I was all bummed that I am up before 6a when I really need sleep but the sleepy, dark house lets me sip coffee and read. Yours was a good reward. xo

queenbeehoney said...

Mummies and their children. As we came down from the top of the hill where Sally's ashes are buried, Jessie and I sat alone together for a moment in silence. A monarch butterfly flapped amid the yellow greens of late summer, astonishing in the lushness of its velvet black and orange coloring. It circled us, wandered off, circled us once more...

I love you so much, my little Heater.

cake said...

so beautiful.

i feel that way about pie crust. my mom taught me, and she had a way of doing the edges with an elegant pinch. every time i do it, i feel her. and she died over 20 years ago. maybe that is why i make pie crust every chance i get.