this is just to say
i have taken all the money
from our account
in order to buy wholesome food
for our children
for us
for one week
and i wish
that the government
would subsidize health
rather than
corn, soybeans, and wheat
so that perhaps
for more than a week
we could know
just what we were putting
into our mouths,
our stomachs,
our lives.
fruit
Gems and Jewels
some shop for the latest fashion
some shop for gems and jewels
i shop for the gems and jewels
of harvest,
choosing with a critical eye
only the latest, greatest styles:
heirloom potatoes
that melt in my mouth like
smooth cream,
zucchini longer than my forearm
to be chopped and diced
and catapulted into recipes,
red bell peppers to top
hand-tossed, homemade pizza,
tomatoes perfectly plump
to sauce up our lives,
peaches for pies and jams,
carrots (cheap and easy)
to fill the girls’ lunch sacks,
and apples.
apples of every variety,
their taste carrying me through the year,
their travels from the
western slope
filling my bag, basket, bushel
until i work with them
two days straight,
coring, cutting, cooking, canning,
jars of applesauce, apple butter
making the house smell
like a cinnamon dream,
lined up on the shelf:
the shiniest, most fashionable
gems and jewels
of golden red
to decorate my style.
Everything Included
we could walk
but we prefer to ride
they hop in
with three pennies,
jubilant voices,
and a mission.
we arrive at the
perfectly painted plastic horse
covered in vinyl saddle
where they climb up and down
riding like pro cowgirls
when five minutes have passed
they head for the cookie aisle
where disappointment sits
plainly on the empty tray.
instead, we pack on our helmets
to continue our weekday adventure,
the wind blowing allergen-ridden dust,
remnants of summer’s sun
beating down on our backs.
i follow the oldest, who
weaves like a drunk driver
through the sidewalk,
into the street,
everywhere her heart takes her.
a giant, loud-mouthed dog
greets our arrival. we reach
with skinny arms into
the abundantly fat-with-fruit trees,
pulling down ripe green pears,
apples with red dimples.
the dog continues to carry on,
and just as i wonder if he’s here
as a warning for us to leave,
a woman’s voice calls over the fence,
“Take as many as you can.”
And we do, the tangy juice
of tiny homegrown fruits
sliding down the girls’ chins,
dripping into the pile at the bottom
of the trailer, sweetening
our end-of-summer afternoon,
sweetening our time here, now.
everything included:
the bikes,
the horse,
the absent cookie,
the fruit,
for three pennies,
jubilant children,
and a mission.
Relish
What’s not to love?
Peaches and blackberries from here
in JUNE
(I’ve met the farmer, seen the farm)
a petting farm the kids will never forget
the endless two lane roads that
lead to forests, lakes, rivers,
showing off idyllic red barns,
columnar farmhouses,
well-tamed cattle and horses,
and
peace.
What’s missing?
Traffic.
Light pollution.
Unfriendly city slickers.
The rush to get… anywhere, really.
People who don’t know you wherever you go.
What’s next?
Six more weeks of bike rides,
swimming in warm-water lakes,
exploring backcountry roads,
hiking in diversified forests,
and
relishing the place we never
thought that we could relish.
Two Bottles of Wine
He is a lonely old man with frayed jeans and two old dogs who look like a combination between Dalmatians and setters. They come up to the girls as they get out of the van and each of them reaches out for them, petting their ever-shedding white and black fur onto the green grass of southern Illinois.
When we arrive at the door, the hours for the adjacent restaurant are posted, and having seen not a soul in the parking lot, and not being within those hours, we are a bit frustrated that we’ve woken the baby for nothing. As we turn to leave, he rushes to the door and in a thick southern accent begs us to come inside.
His black cat moans and meows behind the counter as we look at the half open taster bottles. Before we can begin talking, he asks the girls to come behind the counter and check out his cat named Whine. He spells the name out for them. They look up at him expectantly, not understanding.
“Where y’all from?”
“Colorado!” Isabella pipes up.
His bushy white eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Y’all drove a long way then!” He puts his hand under his chin, only half believing us. “Where in Colorado?” he inquires, somewhat suspiciously.
“Denver.” Isabella shoots me an accusatory look, whispering, “We’re from Aurora.” I explain in a similar accusatory whisper, “No one has ever heard of Aurora.”
“I’ve been to Colorado. Boulder. I liked Boulder, all the nice bike trails.” He has already examined the bike rack, trailer, and Bruce tells him of our ride today. “Yep, Boulder is a beautiful place.”
We stand for a moment like old friends who are recently reacquainted, the years and comfort level lost somewhere between then and now.
“Are y’all just looking, or would you like to try some wine?”
Bruce jumps in with a quick yes and I stare out onto the beauty of the vineyard. A small wooden bridge over a stream leads to its presence on the hill, where the grapevines grow as thick as a leafy forest of taste on this early summer day.
We taste three wines and pick two to take home, but before we can even hand him our credit card he says, “You’re in education, aren’t you?”
We hear the story of his math-teaching career, his superintendent position. Even after we have closed the sale, he identifies with perfect accuracy the ages of all three girls, and proudly shows us an aerial view of his wine bottle shaped pond, pointing to its location on the other side of the deck.
I am walking down the steps toward the car, baby in arms as Bruce clutches the bag of wine, but he beckons us to tour the restaurant.
It is a perfect wedding reception. White linen tablecloths, a wraparound deck, a fireplace in the center of the room, vineyards on all sides and the pond in the forefront. He offers us a somewhat grease-stained menu that is filled with random fonts and what I’m sure is a pathetic web site.
“How long are y’all visiting your sister?” because of course by now we’ve explained the whole situation of the four girls instead of three.
“The whole summer.” His eyes light up, eyebrows rising again, this time in hope.
“Let me show you girls a barn swallow nest.” It is built on top of a security camera, the babies’ yellow beaks opening and closing expectantly amidst the typically fluffy black fur. They are mesmerized. He knows them well, my girls, children.
“Maybe we’ll come back sometime for dinner,” Bruce says aloud, partially to me, partially to him.
But I am thinking of the hour and a half drive, of the trip to Tennessee, of camping and swimming and all of Kentucky that we haven’t seen, of the Frost poem, “knowing how way leads on to way…” and even with the imperfectly edited menu that seems to boast some delectable treats at somewhat reasonable prices, I know that we will likely never return.
We finally part ways from the man who perhaps hasn’t spoken to anyone in hours, days. The gravel road leads us back to the miniature highway, absent of cars, and as I look back, I say, “What a perfect, private place for a wedding.”
“I’m going to have my wedding there,” Isabella replies. “He was such a nice man.”
We come to a small chapel, and I smile back, “Sounds good.”
The two bottles of wine dance together in the back seat, waiting for the right moment to be opened and cherished on the tongue, tasting all over again this day on the road not taken, the road that led us here to brighten someone’s day, to brighten our day.
If I Were Rich… Oh but I Am…
I opened my last jar of applesauce this morning. It may not seem like such an important event—I know what you’re thinking—you can go to Wal-mart and buy another jar for a dollar or less. But it wouldn’t be my homemade super-cinnamon sauce made from the organic Colorado-grown apples that I picked out ever so carefully from the Pearl Street farmers’ market. Grabbing a jar from the Wal-mart shelf will never bring to mind the beautiful bike ride through drifting autumn leaves, Riona in the trailer singing to her Barbie, a bike trail that eliminates all traffic and weaves its way through the city I love, and the arrival at the tented block that holds everything my heart desires. If I were rich, if I had all the money I ever wanted to spend, I would never buy a mansion or a Lamborghini—I think I just might spend it all, week after week, at the farmers’ market.
There you can buy almost everything you need. Fresh baked pies from the berries grown in the Wash Park community garden. Beef from eastern Colorado raised by ranchers who have replaced their corn with native prairie grasses, saving the earth, our health, and our economy with each delectable bite. Handcrafted soaps whose “factories” don’t require regulatory trips from the state environmental inspectors. In the spring, green onions, spinach and snow peas that crack when you snap them in half and can please any three-year-old who gets a taste handed to him from a basket in the arms of the farmer. In the summer, peaches and tomatoes that will fill in the absence of every meal and every remaining jar in the storage room. There will be peach cobbler, peach pie, peaches and ice cream, fresh peaches dripping juice down our chins. There will be tomato panini on fresh-baked homemade French bread, homemade sauce on homemade pizza, tomatoes to mix with the greens we bought today to make the salad that all the girls love.
And when the harvest really comes in, during the end-of-summer and early-fall months? We will stock up on winter squashes, filling our pantry with butternut and acorn and pumpkins that will make soups and stews and casseroles and pies that will fill our holiday tables with more than just warmth. They will complete a meal that would otherwise have forgotten its roots.
Any day of the market, you can buy Colorado wines, fresh-baked gourmet breads, hand-made pastas, even jewelry or candles. But what brings me there, what makes my heart yearn from week to week, is the crisp taste of the autumn air on my tongue that will soon linger with the crisp taste of a Swiss Gourmet, Jonathan, or Gala. I will eat them every day for months, I will cut them, chop them up in my processor, Riona will help pour the unmeasured insanity of cinnamon in, and we will remember the joys of this time, this life cycle of food, until the moment comes when the last jar is empty, and nothing can replace it but tears on my cheeks and a longing for fall.
Apple, My Love
Why are you chosen as the evil fruit, the one that Eve plucked in search of truth, the one that destroyed the fate of humanity, filling us with sin? I don’t understand it, because I see you so differently. First, who can resist your variety alone? I haven’t seen too many types of strawberries, and they are pretty much all red, aren’t they? When do you ever hear about a Granny Smith versus a Mackintosh mango? But with you, my apple, I couldn’t even count on two hands how many names, shapes, colors, and sizes that you offer. In fact, upon a simple Google search, I came across a web site that listed at least one, and as many as fifteen, types of apples for every letter of the alphabet, even q, u, x, and z. What other fruit can compete?
Oh apple, that is not why I love you (though who doesn’t like a little spice in their life?). What I love is your durability—how, unlike other fruit that shrinks and stinks and rots, you hold your tough skin for weeks, months even. I love how I can buy American-grown apples every month of the year, and that in June they taste as fresh and delicious on my tongue as in September. I love the crisp semi-acidic taste that accompanies the sweetness of each bite. I love how you fit into so many molds—homemade cinnamon applesauce that flavors my morning oatmeal, apple cider and juice that kids worldwide live for, apple pies and tarts and cobblers, baked apples, apple dumplings, apple butter.
I could go on, but you know how precious you are to me—part of your grace, your ultimate inner beauty, is how unassuming you are. Most people wouldn’t bring apple straight to mind when they are labeling their favorite fruit—they would pick something more phallic, like a banana, or more exotic, like a pomegranate. But nothing in my mind, on my tongue, can taste more delectable, and at the same time bring so many happy memories, as a freshly picked apple. What other fruit can boast that it grows in every state of the nation, in every country of the world? I’d like to see a pineapple planted along the shores of Lake Ontario, a kiwi cropping up in Sweden. But you, my fruit, will be there, wherever my travels will take me.
People all over the world cherish you, and you ask nothing in return. You become the name of companies. No one says, “She was the orange of my eye,” or, “A grape a day keeps the doctor away.” It’s all about you, apple, with your teeth-cleaning pulp and fiber-filled skin and your ever-glistening beauty, glorious on a teacher’s desk or as the first fruit a baby mashes in his mouth.
Perhaps Eve didn’t know what she was doing. Perhaps she didn’t realize that one bite would lead us to millennia of endless bites. But I think, rather than walking us into a world of sin, she was simply taking the first bite of the world’s most perfect fruit.
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