memoir

The Old Moss Woman

The faint smell of the creek – rotting leaves, algae, fish, and fresh water – was carried on a slight breeze that tickled the frayed prayer flags strung across the fence. Dappled sunlight fell on the garden below, illuminating purple flowers, exotic succulents, and creeping ivy. Fairies lived here. That much was certain.

A small metal tub – like the kind used for washing in the old days – was filled with water, the bottom covered with bits and pieces of broken, colored glass, a koi pond where the fish never died. Animals would come to drink here, a dog or cat during the day, a hummingbird or two as dusk fell, and later, a family of raccoons would descend from their hiding place to play with the glass fish and drink their fill of the cool, clear water.

Tchotchkes and nicknacks littered every pot, shelf, and stair in the yard. Rusted clocks, cracked mirrors, stone frogs, birds and squirrels, crazed porcelain toilet mugs and metal phone booths populated the miniature vignettes curated in whiskey barrels, tomato bins, and terracotta pots.

“It’s so the pixies and brownies, fairies and wood sprites have a place to call home,” she said when questioned about the layers of clutter dispersed around her yard.

In less capable hands, it would look more like a junk heap than a garden where magic thrived. But she took care to listen before she planted or placed anything, communing with the garden spirits and asking their opinion about a particular pot or plant or decoration before adding it to the collection, much like a designer would ask a homeowner if they preferred cerulean or robin’s egg blue in the breakfast nook.

All were welcome here; pets, woodland creatures, birds, men, women, and children. Strangers would find themselves inexplicably pulled off the main road, navigating their rental cars down a pothole-riddled dirt road until they came to a stop in front of her house.

“Can we take a picture?” They would ask. “This place is so lovely. So calm. So peaceful.”

And she would oblige – taking these new friends on a tour of her magical space, pointing out particular plants or decorations as she saw fit. They left feeling uplifted, hopeful, and full of wonder.

So season after season, year after year, magic came to rest in the garden of the woman who listened, thankful that it had not completely been erased from the world. Thankful that someone still cared enough to hold a space where it could rest.

Shortbread

Shortbread cookiesThe thing that sucks about being a person who can bake is that I find myself just whipping up a batch of shortbread cookies during the halftime of a football game. And then I get sort of annoyed with myself because I’ve gone all Ina Garten/Martha Stewart on myself. Because I can’t just stop at cookies. Noooo, I have to package them, too.

Case in point: Saturday afternoon. Here I was just enjoying a leisurely day on the couch watching football while snuggled under my favorite blanket, when something inside of me decided it wanted cookies. The conversation went kind of like this:

“Cookies sound really good right now. You should make some.”

“I’m ignoring you.”

“It’s chilly, and I want something sweet, and you’re not doing anything anyway.”

“How about making just the dough? I don’t know if I’m that ambitious right now. This is a pretty good game and I’m enjoying my first Saturday off in God-knows-how-long.”

“C’mon, just some easy cookies. It’s not like you even have to leave the room to make them. You can see the TV from the kitchen.”

“Hmm. Cookies do sound good now that you mention it. What kind should I make? I don’t really feel like making something boring like chocolate chip or oatmeal raisin. And I still have those chocolate cookies I made for Christmas in the freezer.”

“How about shortbread? Four ingredients. Even in your lazy state you can handle that, right?”

I had a point. The days have been relatively chilly for southern California these past few weeks and I had been drinking a lot of tea in the afternoon. (Hot tea is “thing” for me when the temperature dips below 60 degrees.) Rain was in the forecast for Sunday and it would be nice to have a cookie to go with my afternoon tea. (Or morning breakfast. Or mid-day snack.)

So, I decided to make shortbread cookies – one of the simplest ingredient cookies on the planet – What could be easier than that? And besides, is there any combination better than just butter, sugar and flour? I’m pretty sure there isn’t.

I wrestled out from underneath the blanket, flipped on the kitchen light, put on my apron, pulled out the mixer, and set to work gathering my mountain of ingredients – butter, sugar, salt, and flour.

After dropping two sticks of butter into the bowl, adding a teaspoon of salt and ¾ cup sugar, I set the mixer speed to 4ish to combine the ingredients while I measured two cups of flour. Already, this was more energy than I planned to exert this particular Saturday afternoon, but as the butter and sugar mixture began to stick to the paddle, I slowly added the flour and anticipated “testing” a bite of the buttery dough when it was finished.

I let the ingredients mix another minute or so – until the dough held together – and then turned it out on the counter and rolled it flat – but not before popping a teaspoon of dough into my mouth. Not bad. I might have decided to make shortbread cookies after all, but I certainly wasn’t going to take more time than was necessary to make them. Rather than stamping or shaping the cookies, I decided to roll the dough into a log shape, wrap it in parchment paper, freeze it for a bit, and then slice the rounds into ½ inch thick pieces and plop them unceremoniously on an ungreased cookie sheet to bake.

But after I put the dough in the freezer, I sort of lost track of time. My mom called and we chatted for a bit about her new dog and the weather. The football game I was watching got really exciting and I looked out the window and noticed it had gotten dark. It was time to bring Jackson, my pet rabbit, inside for the night.

At this point, I was long past wanting cookies, and this project was taking longer than I had anticipated. I was beginning to regret making cookies in the first place, but also didn’t want to waste the dough in the freezer, so I forged on.

While the cookies were in the oven, I had a change of heart. I figured that if I was going to take the time to make these cookies, they should at least be packaged appropriately, right? Typically, I skip or ignore the instructions that add additional steps to what I consider a pretty basic process of making cookies. What’s the point in wrapping the cookies individually in cheesecloth, or placing them in neat rows in an airtight container, or sprinkling them with six kinds of imported sugar when they’re just going to be eaten in a matter of days anyway? (This recipe did not call for that, but I do get tired of recipes that demand I run down to my local organic grocer for some authentic moon-grown cinnamon.)

So, I decided to make an exception to my step-skipping, (besides, what else was I doing on this lazy Saturday night,) and get fancy with the packaging. I found one of my round, metal tins – the seafoam-y colored one with the polka dots – and used the lid to measure four circles on the parchment paper I had frozen the dough on. I placed one on the bottom of the tin and once the cookies had cooled, I layered the paper and cookies until the tin was full. I placed the tin on top of the refrigerator where I store my baked goods, (making it easier for my brother to find when he visits once a week,) and mentally patted myself on the back for a job well-done, only slightly annoyed with my over-achieving self.

I had overcome the Saturday lazies to create a baked and packaged masterpiece worthy of Ina or Martha’s kitchen. I was sure of it.

Inner Peace and Martinis

Hampton Beach (13)I took this photo towards the end of a two-week trip to New England in September 2012 . It was one of those “bucket list” trips, (even though I despise that term,) and I had spent a week in Boston shopping, visiting museums, going to Red Sox games, and eating – instantly falling in love with the city and its’ people. On the second half of the trip, I drove around northern New England – through western Massachusetts, Vermont, coastal Maine and New Hampshire – taking pictures, exploring towns, sleeping in Bed and Breakfasts, meeting interesting people.

I used to be the kind of traveler who planned trips to the most minute detail – hotels, flights, sightseeing, shopping time – but over the years, (and after several thwarted itineraries,) I began to relax and let the trip take me where I needed to go. I still make sure I have a place to stay each night – because really, who wants the stress of driving around in an unknown place looking for lodging on a rainy night, (which trust me, you do not want to do, especially in a small town in central Ireland,) but now I just open my eyes and ears to take in the world around me. Most of the time.

This photo sort of represents that idea perfectly. Sometimes I over think and analyze people, situations – just stuff in general, really – and at the moment I took this picture, none of that mattered. It was one of those instances of self-reflection where the inner critic has been silenced and I was able to just experience that moment.

I remember pulling into an abandoned parking lot next to a seafood shack that had closed for the season just to watch the sun set. There was something about the way the light reflected off the windows and the grass shifted in the breeze that caught my attention. I could hear the seagulls squawking behind me and I felt completely at peace with myself and the world around me. I had left behind a stressful sales job, crazy family, and strict routine to just be. It had taken some time to finally relax and settle into the lazy pace of driving and discovering, but once I did, it seemed to awaken something inside of me that I hadn’t felt in years – a sense of inner peace and knowing that I was okay.

Later, I headed back to the Bed and Breakfast where I was staying and drank too many martinis while getting to know a few of the locals – which to be honest – was just as enlightening as my experience earlier that afternoon.

However, I experienced no inner peace the next morning.