The Stinking Rose

I've come to realize - even before my first garlic harvest - that shoving a dried out clove into the ground for a bountiful summer crop was, simply put, an act of faith. 


There I was in mid-October, methodically pushing the pointy side up, root side down a couple inches deep into the rich tractor tilled soil. Like guardian angels warding off the winter chill, Jeff and I placed a thick and fluffy blanket of hay over the beds to protect the hibernating garlic from the freezing rain and snow. Then we left.


Unlike a summer garden, I won't see the real fruits of my labor for several more months, or at all, my heart taunts me with the fear of an underground disaster. But the tender green shoots popping through to the sun are a sure sign that spring has come again and with it, the promise of garlic enough to savor and share - garlic with lyrical names like German Porcelain*, German White*, Music* and Linda's, garlic so fresh and flavorful that Linda said I'll never buy the grocery store variety again.  


*Garlic ordered from Peaceful Valley Farm and Garden Supply in Grass Valley, CA www.groworganic.com  

She Said Yes

He planned it all this son of mine. The boy who turned his homework in on time and was well thought of by teachers learned the fundamentals of cut, color, clarity and carat to make a beautiful ring selection for his lady love lizzy. 
The boy who eschewed designer clothes for the cost budgeted his money - agreeing to pay off the ring in six months, knowing deep in his heart that he could never wait that long.  


"How do you feel now," I asked that day in January when he reached us driving from Phoenix to Vegas.  
"Anxious," I heard him say across the miles.
Not the "what did I do - I can't breathe" kind of anxious, but the "I'm so excited - I can hardly wait" kind of anxious.


But wait he did - not the full six months but four. He told her mother, asked her father and let us know his plans. 


"Do you have a speech?" his father asked. 
"No. I know what to say," replied this son of mine who always took the stage confidently singing and acting, while my heart leaped out of my chest just watching him defend Maria's honor in West Side Story or sing for sherry in Pirates of Penzance. This son of mine who brought tears to my eyes crooning Italian love songs knew how to ask his one true love to marry him. At Sunset Point. On the way to Flagstaff. Where they met. And that's all I know because this is their story not mine. 

Cyciley

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wildflower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour. --William Blake


                                           Cyciley Marianthe Cortopassi
                                           April 14, 1982 - April 18, 1982

Before Ozzie, there was...

...Smokey.

 The cat that raised Katie from a cute second grader 

to a beautiful high school senior.

April 11,1998 to April 3, 2008     

                                            

When Life Gives You Lemons...

...make Lemonade?  

What about lemon chicken, fried lemon slices, lemon meringue pie, lemon bars, unsweetened lemon water (a simple pleasure), baklava syrup and the chicken avgolemono (egg-lemon) soup we made for Greek Easter. 


Perhaps the best thing about lemons is how lovely they look while waiting to be sliced or juiced. It's like bringing a touch of sunshine indoors. Post Impressionist artist Vincent van Gogh, a master of color and light, called yellow "a color capable of charming God", elevating the humble yellow lemon to something ethereal and appealing to the senses.   


The very fragrant lemon trees were starting to blossom in March even before the final fruit was picked. By the time we return to Phoenix this winter, there will be hundreds more. Hmmm, maybe I should spend the summer searching for recipes...a tablespoon here, a twist there, slice and grate. 

Easter Thoughts

‘Twas Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees – Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy.”            Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

“Our Lord has written the promise of the resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in spring-time.” 

 Martin Luther 

Where's the "good" in Good Friday

                                                              Growing up, I remember Good Friday services at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church in Phoenix. The Crucifixion of Jesus Christ was less than solemn for children as we followed the flower laden epitafio, or Holy Sepulchre, around the church parking lot. We were dubious mourners, whispering with friends and swiftly running fingers through our candles in a show of bravado. The procession is more awe-inspiring as an adult, but churches are less apt to venture outdoors nowadays, especially in Chicago's unpredictable spring weather.


It suddenly struck me for the first time this year that the term Good Friday is a misnomer. How can the day of Christ's death be called Good if good as an adjective is defined as something pleasing. Death in itself is not pleasing, but if Christ's death is viewed in terms of the resurrection with the expectation of goodness and grace, it is indeed a good and beneficial act for all mankind.


Something else I didn't realize is that "Good Friday" is traditionally called "Holy Friday" 
in the Greek Orthodox Church, which seems more appropriate for the day.