As soon as we got home from Santa Fe, I ran up to the garden to see what would greet me when I pushed open the gate. Tomatoes! Eggplants! Melons! Peppers! We will be feasting for days.
My basket was overflowing, and I had to use my gardening hat to gather up some Blue Lake beans for supper. I simply steamed the green beans and tossed them with some . . .
You noticed. Yes, that’s a turkey in my kitchen. I have a few exceptions to the vegetarian rule and Family Holiday Dinners is one. Any veering from tradition on this one would break my husband’s heart.
The picture’s a little blurry, but that’s what Champagne and candlelight does, I guess.
Hope your holiday is as full of warmth and high spirits!
Cowgirl Heaven must be the rooftop bar at La Fonda in Santa Fe right after the summer monsoons have cleared the air. Anyway, that’s where Dave and I headed for our anniversary at the end of July. Awww . . .
I love the drive from the ranch to my daughter’s doorstep on a mesa outside of Santa Fe, and I can never decide what is my favorite part of the trip.
Sometimes, I think it’s the very beginning . . .
I tried to keep Miss Jekyll’s words in mind when I looked out at the barren patch that was to be my patio garden. She’d claimed “There is no spot of ground, however arid, bare or ugly, that cannot be turned into such a state as may give an impression of beauty and delight.”
We had just torn down a corrugated metal shed that contained numerous leaking vats of Round-Up. A pad had been cut . . .
. . . is my bible up here. Right now, the garden is yielding copious amounts of summer squash. What to do with such abundance?
Last night, I found a great recipe in VCFE for zucchini with garlic and lemon, but I switched the squash and used yellow crookneck instead. Why? Well, because I had just come from the garden with this.
I thought about getting all fancy and making . . .
The one thing about being “idle and blessed” out here in the country is I have more time to read poetry again. Maybe it isn’t so much that I have more time (you can always make time). Maybe I have quiet—no car alarms, no traffic helicopters, no police sirens or the rushing of the Bart train hurrying people to other, more important destinations. I’d almost (but not quite) forgotten how much certain poems made me feel more alive . . .
Why blog? Well you might ask. There are a lot of reasons, but mostly it’s fun. I love taking pictures of the ranch, because when I take them, I have to focus and be mindful. Those are good things. It’s my way of being grateful.
For the horses in the meadow.
For the Farewell-to-Springs that are now blooming . . .
Summer’s arrived at the ranch!
We sleep under the whirl of the ceiling fan, the cool air blowing on the sheets. I’d forgotten all this long winter how much I loved listening to the purr of the fans in the middle of the night. Soon the creeks will dry up and the coyotes will visit the pond, bringing their haunting cries. But right now, evening surrounds us with the croaks of frogs and crickets. On black, moonless nights, there are a million stars . . .
I’m trying to remember that first year, the one the propane guy thought I wouldn’t make it through.
I have to admit once I’d moved up here, I found myself missing the little boost of self-confidence I’d gotten from living in Berkeley—from living in the trendiest place in the most fashionable neighborhood in the coolest city in America. Berkeley. The city with the highest number of PHDs and MacArthur Genius Award recipients. The paradise of the liberals . . .
Henry James said the most beautiful words in the English language were summer afternoon. But for me, it’s the word rain. Maybe you have to live in the California foothills to really love rain. By the end of summer, we’re parched and dusty, worried about fire and desperate for any moisture at all.
Last night, maybe around four, I woke up and heard the comforting sound of rain falling on the roof. It’s March here, and . . .