Saturday, August 24, 2013

eating day lilies & cinnamon rolls

So this week the sunflowers bloomed.

Here’s one with a bumblebee.

And there’s a nest of wasps in the compost pile and this one stalk of Queen Anne’s lace has been on my mind.


You see it’s bent there in the middle, got itself a little bump, a little bulge, a little curve, a little sidestep and get-along, kind of like it swerved when half-growed and then swerved back—trying to right itself? It’s right there alongside the trail to the river so I see it every day, every morning, and then again in the afternoon, those afternoons later this week when the heat and the sun and the sweat from all the hard work drove me to the river and, guess what, I finally got upriver to the island, to where the island used to be, to the bend in the river, and I’m not kidding you, the water is so icy cold and so perfectly clear I can look straight down to the ripples in the sand and the pocks in the rocks and the pebbles and the sticks and the logs and the fallen branches that are slick with—I don’t know—algae?—and it’s three feet, four feet, six feet down and clear all the way through as the water moves by in cool ripples. There are deep placid pools and swirling little ponds just fine for settin’. All week has been fine for settin’—porch settin’, river settin’—porch settin’ in the late afternoons and evenings gazing into August blue skies daubed with streaky white clouds and I’m still dripping with coolness having just come from a set and a float in the icy cold river. And every time I walk by that stalk of Queen Anne’s lace I wonder about its bend, its swerve, ’cause all the other stalks are just so dang straight.

On my birthday, rather than cake, I had cinnamon rolls. This was at the farmers market.

Can you believe this whole pie tin of cinnamon rolls only costs $5?

I always try to get my neighbor to share the rolls as it feels crazily indulgent to eat them all myself.

My neighbor at the market sells goat milk soap.

Earlier in the week, after a friend reminded me that I could, I began eating day lilies. First, I looked it up online and got way too much information, meaning, I suppose, that all this stuff about digging up plants, sauteing this and boiling that, just sounded like too much trouble. So, instead, one night I snipped a flower off a Stella de Oro that’s blooming alongside the porch and, after brushing off an ant, chopped it up and tossed it in a bowl with mushrooms and croutons and chick peas and olive oil and broccoli and pasta and Parmesan cheese. I would say the lily brought to the dish a hint of sweet nutty flavor and a splash of sunshine.

After the farmers market I came home and went down to the river to set for a while.

Those might be my toes.

Now, I am staying up late to write this. The stars are out, and an orange moon, just past full, is rising. It is warm, and a stiff west wind rustles the trees. I guess I’ve been thinking about turning 56 and how now I can remember fairly well things that happened half a century ago. I suppose next week I will be thinking about something else.