Longing for Spring

Rem, Tam and I alone occupied the park this morning, savoring the unexpected warmer temperatures. Suggestive, cold breezes wafted through the park, warning of more approaching cold and forced us to focus on the present. Tam sat on her haunches at the edge of the playground area, her ears perked, and surveyed the dull landscape before her with optimism. This posture is beautiful in a Brittany so full of expectant and harnessed energy waiting to be released. Alert though she patiently stood, no bird or squirrel moved over the deserted ground or through the bare trees to instigate a chase.

Rem's repetitive play as a man on a Mardi Gras float from atop the playground apparatus throwing imaginary beads interested neither me nor the dog. I did, however, raise my arms occasionally as a parade spectator in a half-hearted effort to share in Rem's play. We leisurely followed the creek bed, an endless restoration project due to the persistent winter weather and felt disappointed at the abandoned appearance of all but the creek bed itself. Erosion mats hold the ground at bay and although difficult to circumnavigate, they lead to the newly formed pools in the creek as it meanders through the park.

The empty park only momentarily lifted my spirits and by the time we walked home, the temperatures had dropped even more. The yard presented itself as long suffering and tired. The lyriope lining the walks and empty beds retained the burdened appearance of bearing the weight of snow. Scattered, leafless stands of trees towered over muddy wallows that remained hardened most of the day. Even the trellis displayed a pitiful scene of yellowing jasmine that acted as a sieve to melting snow, dripping icy water droplets onto the walkway below. Tight- fisted rhododendron leaves, in an exhibit of exasperation at the continued frigid temperatures, fade the memories of once lush bushes that filled the yard. Everything looks heavy and misshapened from the continuous pressure of a winter landscape that loses its charm with each new snowfall.

Some years ago I acquired the habit of devouring and scribbling in well worn copies of nineteenth century English novels during my bouts of winter blues. I have been particularly ravenous this year in an attempt to abate an acute case of cabin fever. The restorative powers that I sought have actually had the reverse affect upon me. Winters seem more bearable from within remote, mysterious manor houses and across windswept moors than from my humble hamlet and surroundings. Immersion in the bleak plight of those destined to lives spent in poorhouses or debtor's prisons serves only to enhance the desolate view from the window where I sit reading. Even though the diverse, well-depicted Middlemarchers resemble the personalities of many of my current acquaintances, (I know my share of Bulstrodes and Causabons, a Fred Vincy or two). I am not rewarded with the benefits of such interesting story lines as befell the people of nineteenth century England.

I turn to my old friends who have patiently pushed me through my many phases over the last twenty-five years or so but they are not as true to me as I am to them. The Bronte's, Dickens, Eliot and Austen deviously toy with my waning spirit. Devoutly, I read page after page, longing for the next revelation, a deeper insight into each complex persona, a new understanding of the human condition - while mine suffers. The hours spent each afternoon in the car waiting for children does not afford the same environment for self reflection or growth as a cozy room of thinking yet idle characters happy for lengthy conversations over tea or after dinner (before the dancing, of course). My kinsfolk completely abandon me during the gloomy months of winter so there is no hope of filling the house with family and except for the occasional dinner with friends (that aren't postponed because of impending snow) my evenings are spent as an outsider envious of the gatherings and relationships that unfold in pages. Even Craig, so often willing to humor me, hasn't attempted to profess his love in a hand written letter carefully sealed with wax though I must certainly pierce his soul on occasion. The evenings turn to night and still I read fervently until I am enveloped in a melancholy that only sleep can break.

An enlivened patch of pansies, the sudden appearance of daffodils, the purple fuzz of the redbud trees will release me from my torment. Warm afternoons will raise my yard from its desolate winter's sleep and its unkempt beauty will once again become a haven for me and the center of activity for my family. A day or two that begs me to linger in the direct, warm rays of a revived sun and the gradual return to contemporary literature by way of Henry James (both a nineteenth and twentieth century writer, both British and American) and I will be restored.

Dinner - A One Star Affair

Ah, I believe my children's fate is settled. No amount of outside influence, music or sports, studies or literature appear to sway them from their decided destiny. Such a constancy and commitment do they display in their daily pursuit of perfection that their frequent dissertations regarding my culinary efforts will undoubtedly provide seasoned future food critics for the rest of the world. Acerbic tongues wag incessantly, if not always eloquently, as each day I am subjected to their fastidious palates with only rare instances of unified approval and applause.

I hasten to defend myself. After all, I am no stranger to the kitchen and enjoy cooking (or used to), offering a diverse mix of Louisiana staples, ethnic specialties and fresh, healthy preparations. I happily frequent the farmer's market and have learned to discern the freshest ingredients in an aim to provide seasonally appropriate dishes crafted from scratch for my undeserving brood.

Lately, the long winter and economy have led me toward hearty comfort foods that would seem to hold great appeal to hungry children. But, alas, the burgeoning critics refuse to be quieted by such shameless bribes. Contrarily, even these offerings succumb to the superior tastes that inhabit my home.

Pasta, for instance, while generally supported as desirable, must also adhere to very particular preparations for consumption. Critic A enjoys pasta with a traditional red sauce and Critic B will reluctantly concede to the potential tastiness of such a dish but only if served once (leftovers tend to be universally scorned in my house) and with an accompaniment of Caesar salad and garlic bread. Baked macaroni appears appetizing to all except the youngest critic who uses no words but prefers the dramatic display of spitting the uneaten pasta back onto his plate. The addition of fresh vegetables tossed with the noodles apparently degrades the delectability of the pasta no matter how satiated with cheese or olive oil.

Critic B despises all but the most expensive of cheeses (save for the ones with visible mold). Critic A will obligingly consent to domestic slices on sandwiches but loudly shares her preference for brie and Camembert (and would easily consume an entire wedge in a single sitting if required). She steadfastly holds to the belief that cheddar causes dreadful headaches as does mashed potatoes and Gatorade.

Pad thai will receive positive reviews if half of the ingredients are left out. And the appearance of broccoli in the sweet and sour pork sours dinner for everyone. Gumbo produces cheers that are quickly supplanted with longing for my dad's richer, tastier gumbo and by day three this once acceptable dish prompts groans and complaints when served.

Although they have probably never seen a whole chicken (I tend to buy skinless, boneless pieces that require little trimming and no carving) the critics claim an expertise in poultry. The only acceptable way to prepare chicken is the one that requires the most attention. Actual boos arise when I bring forth a platter of chicken unless it has been through the process of having been lightly browned on the stove to which chopped onions are then added and sauteed in the pan. This is followed by a de-glazing with sherry and a sauce is created with some stock to be poured onto the chicken so that it can finish cooking in the oven under low heat and constant basting for another couple of hours. The grill, a favorite of mine for quick, tasty meats and fish, receives no praise and is often chided as taking the easy way out.

I dread the inevitable question each day when I am marooned in the car with these disparaging connoisseurs of good cuisine. "What's for dinner?" is never left unsaid or forgotten. I take a deep breath and using only the most favorable adjectives tally the dishes that will sit before them on the dinner table later that evening. Yesterday, I slowly listed the items and braced myself for their response. Critic A focused on the sauteed chick peas.

"With spinach?" she asked evenly without a hint of her desire.

"Yes," I answered happily. This is the child who ate spinach pie for lunch at least two times a week in her pre-school days.

"I hate spinach," she surprisingly declared. "I'll eat it in a salad if I don't know about it but never cooked. I can think of better ways to use chick peas."

A sharp pain in my chest caused me to swerve the van a little.

"Anything else?" Critic B asked, hopeful with an underscored dread in her voice. "Dessert?"

"No," I answered defeated.

Later, I surveyed their plates and noticed that both critics had separated the chopped garlic and the individual spinach leaves from the chick peas and with most of the chick peas left untouched, they formed little piles of rejection on their plates as if their words hadn't been painful enough. I looked over at the youngest critic. Fresh fruit and bread products make up most of his diet but I continue to offer a variety of foods. He openly dropped his dinner to the dog sitting alertly at his feet. With a defiant air he asked for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I watched the dog relish Rem's dinner and lick the floor before getting up to make the sandwich. At least Tam indiscriminately enjoys my cooking!

Our Mardi Gras in New Orleans

Down in New Orleans where my folks all meet

My Asheville crew joined in their beat

Waiting on St. Charles before the sun

Soaking up some Schexnayder fun

With the Mardi Gras Mambo, mambo, mambo...

Down in New Orleans, unlike the days of old

Mardi Gras colors are black and gold

With Brees and Peyton doing their thing

Everyone knows the Saints are king

Doing the Mardi Gras Mambo, mambo, mambo...

We partied each day into the night

For beads and doubloons the kids did fight

Sitting on the ladder, running into the street
To the others and Rex with screams they'd greet

Singing the Mardi Gras Mambo, mambo, mambo...

Down in New Orleans!