I moved the little camp stove to a dry spot beneath a fir and made coffee, then delivered it to my sister to help her get a move on. I wish I could say this is a bad picture of me, but I think it's what I really look like.
Today was cold and rainy, but here is where I spent yesterday, so I couldn't be too upset.
While my youngest daughter and I were in the San Juans, the garden exploded. The roses looked like this,
and these feathery little mystery plants popped open sweet blue stars to cleverly hide the ripening blueberries.
What are they? I think they came courtesy of the birds who sit on the telephone wire above the garden. Thanks, birds!
In spite of the cold, rainy day our homecoming was good for other reasons, too. A loved one's biopsy came back negative (I want to say "came back happy"), my husband was home from a conference in Denver and my oldest daughter from a trip to Mount St. Helens with my mother. With all this garden blooming, good news and being happily reunited from our adventures we decided to celebrate in the best way possible - with a slab of pork big as a mud flap. Dinner was ham steak all crispy and caramelized from the pan, fresh corn on the cob, Wild Wheat's Swiss Peasant bread and buttered peas from our garden.
That golden head is my daughter helping me pick some peas.
Then, we shelled them. It took time. It took two Session beers' worth of time.
After we shelled, pretending to be captive kitchen servants in the castle of the evil queen, we had a lovely bowl of peas.
A small bowl. Shelling peas is a bit of work. Back in the day women must have either loved doing this because it meant they could sit themselves down and chat for a bit, or they hated it because it took forever and there was so much else to do, like beating rugs and churning butter.
I've got a Hoover and my butter comes in fridge-door friendly little sticks, so for me shelling peas was lazy fun.
I heated a pan and melted some of that butter, adding to it just a little olive oil. When it was bubbling hot I put the peas in. With them were a few snow peas for those visual taste buds. After a minute or two I poured it all into a bowl, squeezed some lemon juice over it and sprinkled on kosher salt.
They were so good. They were extra good with the ham, the corn, and the hash browns Joe made. The bag of empty pea pods and corn husks sat by the front door, waiting to make the worms in our bin wriggle with happiness, I ate tangy peas pinched in a piece of soft bread, Ruthie told stories of Mount St. Helens, Iris ate about three ears of corn and Joe told stories of jumping into a river with his colleagues in Denver. Rain drops fell gently against the windows but my shoulders felt toasted from the Island sun I lay beneath yesterday. We were home again, home again, jiggety jig and all we love are well. It doesn't get much better than that.
