Okra and Tomatoes

Fridays Harvest

Yesterday I picked okra, two small zucchinis, three limes, and surprisingly four cucumbers. I also spied a dozen or more kumquats and the pomegranate is blooming. The weather has been too hot for the tomatoes and cucumbers and zucchinis to set but we have had cooler temperatures and some rain. Okra loves hot weather and I’ve had several good pickings with enough from four plants to share, three jars of pickled baby okra, and several suppers. This year the plants have been short although I did not plant the bush variety.  I’m not complaining, okra can grow up to ten feet and require a ladder to harvest. The flowers are quite lovely and similar to Hollyhocks and cotton—all in the same botanical family.

 

Okra plant

I’m not a Southern girl but I’ve learned to cook okra. One of the cooks at a small hospital showed me how. Cutting it into ½ inch slices is the first step and best done by hand. Okra pods become woody and you can’t tell just by the size of the pod—but you can when you try to slice it and your knife bounces back. After you have a sizeable quantity, you cook the okra in a pan—either the oven or in a skillet with some nice olive oil from California—until it begins to string. Then you either dump it into a pot with diced tomatoes (fresh or canned  with Rotel being the local favorite) or add the tomatoes to the skillet, cook just a bit until the tomatoes are warm, and then serve. Some people like some hot peppers in this mix—but I like mine plain. The okra is still crunchy not gooey or slimy. I’ve added sliced baby zucchinis and fresh Roma tomatoes from my garden, scallions and mushrooms from the grocery store to the stir-fry skillet—it makes for a very satisfying supper.

 

sketchbook with okra used as stamp

All those ends of the okra had to be good for something and so I got out an ink pad and used them as stamps. The clarity was surprisingly pleasing and I think I might play with this motif a bit in the future.

 

De-cluttering continues with working on small projects that needed binding or labels or a sleeve. I don’t have the energy yet to launch into a new artistic endeavor but it is amazing how much energy was consumed by all those nearly done projects glaring at me from the design wall or the overflowing baskets and boxes in my sewing room. I used to begin each calendar year with a list of UFO’s along with goals for the year. That list quickly became totally overwhelming but now I can see that list shrinking with an empty box or two and a realistic assessment of what I really want to do. I’ve learned that my best time of year is the fall—that is the time of new starts and the winter is the time for reflection and rest.

If it isn’t fun, I’m not doing it

The past year has challenging with personal health issues, family worries, work concerns, and Hurricane Ike. Art-making was not even in the backseat—it fell off going around a curve after hitting a particularly deep rut in the road. Two weeks ago I had surgery to remove a mass in my chest—only 5 percent of such open biopsies are benign. I was prepared to hear words like primary lymphoma or metastatic. The best I could hope for was a drug resistant mycoplasma. Although the surgeon told me it wasn’t infectious—I chose to pretend I didn’t hear that statement. As it turns out, what I did have was something incredibly rare—and even then rarely malignant.

 

I could say that now I’m turning handsprings in elation—but my arm is still not as strong as it was before, I have some numbness in my fingers, and I tire out far more easily than I would like. While my brain is thinking of things to do, my body is still sitting on the couch curled up with my Kindle, a heating pad, and my Teddy bear—a gift from a dear friend. Creativity is somewhere but not nearby.

 

What I have been doing in the past few months, though, is re-assessing and de-cluttering. I took a long look at some of the projects I had stuffed in bags, fabric and patterns for the business suits that I no longer wear at work, fabrics and projects given to me by well-meaning friends and family, and a lot of ‘I ought to do this so that I can belong’ projects. Then there were all the tiny scraps, the left-overs from assorted projects that in my frugal youth would have been the basis for another project, the things I picked up at workshops that were ‘too good to throw away’. I have filled our trash can—the one that is four feet tall and two feet across and on wheels twice—to the brim! I have burned a pile of stuff twice that size. I have filled a box with lengths of dress fabrics and Vogue patterns and skeins of yarn to send as a donation. I have filled two laundry baskets with

‘stuff’ for the Salvation Army.

 

 My new philosophy is “if it doesn’t look like it will be fun or I really don’t like that color (turquoise-pink-mint green), then I’m not doing it!” If it turns out that I need to wear business suits again, the store will have fabric and I might even just buy something off the rack—and that would be a new experience! And maybe fun!

 

I’m not done yet; I still have shelves of fabric and baskets of nearly finished projects to sort through. I wish I didn’t tire out so easily so I could get it all done—this week! Today would be better! But I think I can see Creativity standing down the road waving at me.

Is it really mine?

Boy with quilt

(Boy) How long can I keep it?

 

(Quilty Lady) It’s yours. We’ll put your name on it and it will be yours.

 

(Boy) I have to give it back when I leave here, don’t I?

 

(Quilty Lady)No, it is truly yours. See, we’ll put your name on it with this marker.

 

looking over selection

(Boy) Really?

 

(Quilty Lady) Yes it is yours forever and forever. Your name will go right here on the back.

 

(Boy) I don’t have to give it back?

 

(All of the Quilty Ladies smiling and this one was trying hard not to cry) NO!!!!!!!!!!! it is YOURS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

(Boy) long silence

 

I know which one I want. No, I want this one.  I really don’t have to give it back?

 

(this Quilty Lady gives hug to two nearest boys) It will be yours and comes with my hug.

 

setting out the quilts

This past Thursday, several members of the local quilt guild met at Boys Haven, unloaded a trunk full of a dozen quilts, spread them on the dining room table of the home to wondering eyes of seven boys who did not have quilts for their beds. Boys Haven is a place of refuge for boys who for an assortment of reasons can no longer live ‘at home’. They range in age from first graders to high schoolers. This project was started many years ago by a guild member and is one of several community outreach projects.

 

My friend and I have made three quilts—actually she and her mom made one—all from denim, bandanna, and pockets from worn blue jeans. In a flurry of ‘not enough to do with our time so we need more projects’ we actually have enough ideas and fabric for nine more with one pieced and ready to be quilted. This is the second time we have attended the selection process.

 

with their selections

The boys were all excited with preparations for school. Each had been given a budget for school clothing and gone shopping at Academy. They had many end of summer activities planned ranging from swimming to karate to miniature golf and two boys had already started football practice. They were excited about school starting but still there is an underlying sadness about them. One boy told me that another boy no longer had a mother and that was why he was so sad when I hugged him and said something about being a mom to boys and knowing what boys might like.

 

it was a hundred degrees outside but they did not care

They had a hard time believing that the quilts would be theirs and eagerly sorted through the stack repeatedly, each making their selection before the official drawing began. Their choices are always surprising, and they did not need any prompting to wrap up in those quilts despite the 100 degree weather.

Going crazy for quilts

This is the second time I have contributed a piece to the Alliance for American Quilts. The first piece was an odd shape–a square with a triangle on top–looking rather like a very simple house–and the fund-raiser was to put a roof over the Alliance’s heads. Instead of being difficult, I found the shape to be fun and exciting and was very pleased when my piece sold–to a very nice lady in Lake Jackson, Texas.

Now, it’s time for another fund-raiser. This year’s challenge was Crazy quilts–not exactly my favorite pattern or style–but I think I managed to make something that reflects my artistic viewpoint.

 

Here is the website for all 84 lovely pieces. The ebay auction will begin sometime in September.

http://www.allianceforamericanquilts.org/projects/galleries/Crazy%20for%20Quilts/gallery/

Vincent Volume Two

Here I am in the cornfield on the Fourth of July in Wisconsin

Vincent continues to propose rather improbable schemes to his brother including abandoning his job at the art gallery to become a painter, and suggests certain individuals should be coerced into buying his small sketches. He moves about quite a bit hunting the perfect studio and models for his work. Each place is wonderful for the first month or so, then he begins to get into arguments with the landlord and his neighbors, mostly because he’s late in paying his bills. His father dies about mid book as does one of his early painting tutors and this creates a sense of increased urgency about his work.

 

By mid book, Vincent no longer requests his brother to return earlier studies but works directly from either models (which he dresses from his collection of clothing) or the landscape. He spends some time in Paris drawing and painting at the academy there rubbing elbows with Lautrec and trading small studies with other artists. Watercolors are a major portion of formal study and he struggles with them—but it is clear that his medium is oil—try imagining his sunflowers done in delicate water color! “The sea, which I love enormously, must be brushed in oil, otherwise one cannot get hold of it.”

 

Vincent applies his colors so thickly that they drip off the canvas. His orders for paints and canvas and paper were enormous but he was quite particular about the source and their quality. It is amazing how much white he used—ten large tubes of two kinds of white were included in each order but only 1 small tube each of cobalt (blue), crimson, alizarin, three different yellows, burnt sienna, indigo.

 

His ‘Potato Eaters’ was done about half-way through this book and was clearly influenced by Millet. At the end he is in Arles trying to figure out how to get enough money together to buy a bed and how best to help out Gaugin. He is no longer wondering at his ability, he is churning out work as fast as his supplies will let him. He goes to the fields or orchards each day and paints although his easel frequently blows away in the wind despite his attempts to weight it down. His brother has already figured out that Vincent cannot manage money and so sends him money twice a month plus takes on buying his supplies. In return Vincent sends Theo huge rolls of his completed paintings and drawings arguing with the rail about the price and commissioning cases to be made for the work.

 

A few letters and notes to persons other than his brother are included—and that is probably the most frustrating part of this set—I would have enjoyed reading some of his brother’s replies—but I’m sure that Vincent could not keep up with them. His letters are full of analysis of other artists, literature, and he routinely describes landscapes in terms of colors and light. Occasionally there are some reprints of his letters with his sketches complete with intended colors. Although he is a prolific letter writer, there are only hints about his actual living circumstances until he runs out of money—-the letters are all about his paintings.

 

Here are a few quotes from Volume Two.

 

“What I try to acquire is not to draw a hand but a gesture, not a mathematically correct head but the general expression—in short, life!”

 

 “painted portraits have a life of their own coming straight from the painters soul”

 

“after a year’s work when the first drudgeries have cleared up, the disposition to meditate, to think and analyze, to feel the beauty in nature and discover you can be an artist for the very reason you possess both diligence and energy” but “in reality I shall never think of my work as finished.”

Answers

St. Basils Cathedral at St. Thomas Houston

It’s been a long week and an even longer time dealing with my health issues.

 

On Thursday, I had what was supposed to be a quick fifteen minute procedure to remove what we all thought was a lymph node in my upper chest. That little varmint turned out to be a rather large Schwannoma, a rare tumor of the myelin sheath originating from my brachial plexus. (for the medically unaware folks, that’s the covering of the nerve and the nerve is the one that runs your entire arm). It was a surprise to everyone including the surgeon who had changed the schedule to put me ahead of the two hearts because he thought it would be something pretty simple and easy. Thanks to You-tube, I watched a surgeon removing one much closer to the shoulder—mine was closer to my neck—and am grateful for the skill of the surgeon who was able to remove it under less than ideal circumstances.

 

I have some numbness in my arm and hand but the nearly constant back pain that I had prior the surgery is reduced by about 90% or more, an incredibly welcome trade-off. I’ve tried to figure out how that would happen but I think I’m just going to say Thank you and concentrate on recovering from the surgery. What’s been most amazing to me (and humbling) is the number of people that have worried and extended their love and concern to me. I can’t lift anything much heavier than a fork or a toothbrush but I think perhaps tomorrow I might try some sketching or painting. My husband is home to take care of me and work thankfully can be scheduled around my recovery time. I feel so fortunate.

 

It’s been hard for me to plan much of anything beyond two or more weeks away not knowing what that mass in my chest meant. And then I truly did not feel well enough to do much of anything beyond work. In a day or so I’m sure I will feel frustrated that I can’t climb up on the ladder and put up the new wallpaper border I just bought or dig in my garden or prune the hedges or go back to the gym lifting weights. But that is in the future and for today I have the letters from Vincent Van Gogh and my Kindle to occupy my time.

Annie Get Your Gun

Remington in lobby of Stark Museum

Last week I had the pleasure of seeing Annie Get Your Gun put on by a local theatre group in conjunction with the college theatre Department. It was great fun and well worth seeing again as I’m sure I missed some of the visual puns. Annie Oakley was an interesting person, someone I would have enjoyed knowing in person. She was a great champion of women being treated as equals in skills and in spending time outdoors exercising. She always wore a skirt or dress that she made herself with special fasteners to keep her skirt modestly attached to her leggings even while riding a bicycle. All of her shooting was done sidesaddle and she did occasionally lose shooting matches.

 

The Stark Museum had a display of fancy guns which included a pair commissioned for her by her husband Frank Butler. I don’t own a gun and have never shot anything more lethal than a black powder rifle aimed at a tin can during my college days. However, these guns were engraved and carved and truly beautiful in the fine details. I left wishing I could spend some time with the artists who put so much love and care into their work.

 

My accomplice and I ate at the Old Orange Café housed in an old dairy plant and open only for lunch and on theatre nights. The chef came to each table and inquired about the quality of the food (excellent!)

 

There is a life and vitality in things created by those who enjoy their work and share it with others. Theatre, art, music, food—all are better.

Summer Doldrums

Zucchini

In sailing there is a time of day that the wind dies and you must simply wait. You occupy yourself with small tasks, chat with your companions, enjoy the scenery, and wait. When the wind picks up again, it is usually gentle just riffling your hair a bit. Sometimes, though, it is a late afternoon thunderstorm with gusts of wind and driving rain or even a bit of hail.

 

It’s been a long time since I’ve been sailing—I’m not a very good swimmer and racing about decks littered with lines and knobby things, dodging the boom and struggling to lift heavy sails was never much fun for me. My husband and boys loved it and participated in racing events and even delivered sailboats along the coast.

 

Life for me, is now in that afternoon doldrums. Not much is happening of great portent. I’ve been tidying up my sewing/work-room and working slowly on a few household projects. My garden is still producing tomatoes—alas, most of them have peck marks from thirsty birds—and cucumbers. The zucchini is thriving and the okra should be blooming shortly.

 

The dining room ceiling has been repainted, and I took down the curling border print to flatten it and re-hang later today or tomorrow. New blinds have been ordered and I’m contemplating the design of a valance. My washing machine died after twenty years of hard labor (three sons and a spouse who all loved to be outdoors) and so a new one is arriving tomorrow morning.

 

I spent today cleaning out my play-house while waiting for the air conditioner repair-man to arrive. Organizing all the bits and pieces left-over from assorted projects, putting all the materials for screen-prints in one box, recycling all the cardboard boxes and peanuts, labeling everything, and most importantly putting lots of things in the Good-will box or trash means a tidier and more inviting place to create.

Celebrating the Fourth on the farm

No doubt it was a foolish thing to do.

 

I just drove 1400 miles and back again hoping to see a hometown parade, eat bratwurst and homemade pie, and watch fireworks. Rain chased me in and out of Wisconsin, provided sloshy driving through road construction demolition derby lanes but welcomed me back to Texas. Traffic was not as heavy as I expected confirmed by national news broadcasts announcing travel was down another 2.6%. I suppose economic woes are convincing people to stay home.

 

Unfortunately I missed the parade—and the brats—and the home-made pie with ice cream—and watched the fireworks from a distant viewpoint for only a few minutes before tumbling into bed.

 

The two days I spent were short but oh so wonderful.

 

Here I am in the corn field

Each morning began with drinking coffee while sitting on the front doorsteps overlooking the bean fields with the fog rising from the distant Wisconsin River. I sat and gossiped with my good friend while plucking dill heads to freeze for pickle making and snipping the leaves for dill-weed spread. Raspberries were ripe and I had grand intentions of picking them for a batch of jam but I ate them all while I worked on thinning the patch. Glen and I rode out to my favorite spot on my farm—through waist high grasses, surprised a deer, caught our feet on firewood hidden under the grass, and hacked our way through head high blackberry bushes. We also toured the Villa Louis, a mansion on St. Feriole’s Island, ate lunch at the Depot bar overlooking the Mississippi River, and came home to pull weeds in the garden and pick leaf lettuce.

 

Thistle blooms

The farm house is slowly moving along; I inspected the cupola on the barn and the interior pigeon proofing—and while chatting with my youngest brother was thrilled to see a bald eagle circling high above. We took pictures of us standing in the corn—to have a good crop it must be knee high by the Fourth. Flowers were in bloom everywhere including thistles. These are considered noxious weeds and I am supposed to have a plan to work on eradicating them on the farm—but the blooms are so beautiful.

 

Things seem to grow so bountifully and without the effort I seem to need here in Texas.

 

It is good to be home; but already I am looking forward to a return trip.  

 

 As usual, more photos can be found on smugmug at

http://ysr612.smugmug.com/gallery/8846284_buEE2#586290503_Bdvso

Wild Garlic

Wild Garlic

In a moment of over ambition, I signed up to swap a flower quilt. Work and a lot of other things caught up with me and I was nearly two weeks late in sending this to my swap partner. It isn’t exactly the kind of flower associated with Texas, however, wild garlic is so thick that my eyes water when I mow. The flowers are a lovely spidery purple on top of pale green stems.