Ululate

ul-yuh-layt; yool-

intransitive verb

Photo courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

1. To howl, as a dog or a wolf; to wail; as, ululating jackals.

If Ivan's ululating is a foreshadowing of the Terrible Twos, then bury me now.

Tomato seeds

"Tomato" courtesy of eqqman.

More words on the broad subject of tomatoes:

A New York Times article investigates whether the tomato plant -- a member of the poisonous nightshade family -- is edible, plus a leafy tomato sauce recipe. (Thanks to my sister Kyna for the heads-up.)

Then check out "The night my world caved in" at Blog Nosh, which is a round-up of great blog writing. This essay, written by Dawn Friedman of this woman's work, takes on the issue of body image. I liked it.

And finally, a small fact, which I wanted to include in "Summer flesh," but couldn't make it fit, but now I can. ... The U.S. Supreme Court weighed in on the debate over whether the tomato is a vegetable or fruit. In 1893, it ruled it a vegetable, despite the plant's ovaries, because it's generally served with dinner, not dessert.

Summer flesh

If the woman wants to be a poet,
she must dwell in the house of the tomato.
-- Erica Jong.

Red zebra tomatoes courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

While I was at the seashore, sizzling hot temperatures at home caused my vegetable garden to explode, and upon my return I was greeted by waves of rainbow chard, giant zucchini and the summer's first tomato, a red zebra, rosy with yellow stripes. The season's first tomato is cause for celebration in my family, where we eagerly watch the vines and stroke the warm globes as they ripen and turn red. I'd waited 55 days to enjoy this.

Children's author and illustrator Rosemary Wells is another who knows how a tomato deserves a party (and who, incidentally, grew up on the New Jersey shore where my family spent the last week vacationing). In "First Tomato," which is part of her tiny trilogy "Voyage to the Bunny Planet," she writes: "It smells of rain and steamy earth and hot June sun. In the whole tomato garden it's the only ripe one. I close my eyes and breathe in its fat, red smell. I wish that I could eat it now and never, never tell."

I sliced our first tomato thickly, sprinkled it with sea salt and served it to my family with ceremony. And when the last slice was divided and consumed with relish, I sneaked back into the kitchen and licked the cutting board of gelatinous juice -- anatomically, speaking, the placenta. I slurped up the tomato caviar, tangy, slippery sweetness mixing with the woodiness of the cutting board, then wandered to the bookshelf where I pulled down "Fruitflesh" by Gayle Brandeis, whose book links the act of writing to the heart and the tongue, and offers writing exercises to wake up both the body and the writing. There I found a part of a poem by Portuguese poet Maria Teresa Horta, who was jailed in the 1970s for her explicit poetry:

I am lost to time
I am lost to time

enclosed in my
fruit
with breath inside

Breasts are obvious fruitflesh.

"We humans are nothing more than soft machines built to sustain impossible longings, endless desires. We recognize these things by the sense of yearning they produce: stomachs rumble, hearts ache, minds search lips parch," writes Kim Adrian in a recent Tin House cover essay "How to Buy Peaches." "But to nurse is to be overfull, overripe, literally leaking with that which some else both needs and desires."

My belly after three pregnancies is a ripe fig, yielding, wrinkled. Then there are rounded shoulders and full hips, but what of elbows, toenails, tongue? Author and illustrator Shelley Jackson invites us to explore her body and the result feels like lovemaking.

"I have a gold ring through the little lip of flesh at the bottom of my belly button," Jackson writes. "When I am writing, I lock myself to my desk by a chain through my navel ring. Otherwise I would get up every five minutes to clip my toenails or refill the ice trays."

Go check out her tomatoes.

Gone swimmin'

Avalon, New Jersey photo courtesy of Jeff Weston.

I'm taking time off for sand, surf and salt water taffy, and will return Wednesday, July 29. See you then!

Departure

"Buckled in" courtesy of kcl_seattle.

We made a special trip to our independent bookstore to stock up on reading material for our Summer Vacation. Then each child was tasked with filling his or her backpack with items to keep them busy during the eight-hour flight to Washington, D.C., and from there, the five-hour drive to the Avalon, New Jersey. Here's what I found when I took a peek:

Max

• Aquaphor for perpetually chapped lips
• "The Prisoner of Azkaban" and "The Goblet of Fire" by J.K. Rowling
• Space workbook
• Uno

Sam

• A bag of Legos
• U.S. presidents workbook
• Pocket knife (which was returned to its drawer after he learned backpacks would be searched)
• Coloring pages of pirates
• "Red Wall" by Brian Jacques
• "Stormbreaker" by Anthony Horowitz

Chaja

• Paper dolls
• MP3 player
• "A Wrinkle in Time" by Madeleine L'Engle
• "Stardust" by Neil Gaiman
• Journal
• Scissors, colored pencils and sharpener
• Deck of cards on the 50 U.S. states

Ivan (with a little help from his mama)

• Bubbles
• Animal crackers

In my own pack, I've got my knitting, "The Shadow of the Wind" by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, and reinforcements: books of sudoku, mazes and word searches, as well as granola bars, string cheese, raisins and nuts, and, when all else fails, M&Ms to bribe my babies.

Preparations

My family's packing for our Summer Vacation, and I think it interesting to see how my husband and I both achieve peace of mind before locking the door: He buys a packable porta potty. I spend two days washing comforters, sheets and pillows.

Our obsession with keeping dry and clean date back to 2002 when we took our 3-year-old daughter and two 1-year-old sons to Amsterdam to visit family. While waiting to board the return flight home, one son vomited. Shortly after take-off, the second son joined him in what turned into a 14-hour pukeathon across the Atlantic. We ran out of clean clothes, then we ran out of dry clothes. The stewardesses avoided us, a U.S. Customs agent waived us through without an inspection, and as we waited to catch the last leg of our flight, our daughter began throwing up. When we arrived home, we hauled our stinky, damp, exhausted bodies into bed and slept.

Seven years and one additional child later, we're about to board a plane and not get off again for eight whole hours. In the face of such insanity, we take comfort knowing that in our carry-on luggage is a tiny toilet, and in our home are freshly laundered sheets on all the beds. Just in case.

First summer soup

Photos courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

With three pounds of cherries pitted using a paper clip, I made cherry brown butter bars that were a hit at our backyard barbecue (three people asked for the recipe), and a soup that never made it into the bowl. Here's why:

I gave my love a cherry
That had no stone
Steeped in a broth of chicken
That had no bone
I added sugar, salt and pepper
And simmered it on the stove
I called the soup supper
For my love

How was that soup of cherry and chicken broth?
My love took a sip and began to cough
He spat into the sink and cried
It tastes of dirty socks
You're right, I answered

Let's order pizza from Black Rock.

What's NOT in the bowl:

Cherry soup adapted from Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters.

Saving the farm

"MarketFallout" by bepop717.

My street bristles with signs -- a short sale, an estate sale and a foreclosure -- all in a row just east of my home. If this were Monopoly, you'd buy the set and put a hotel on the properties, but this ain't no game. Everyone on the block is watching these homes, checking out the prices on Zillow and wincing as our castles crumble. (My Zip Code area had the second-highest decline in value according to a Reno Gazette-Journal comparison between housing values in 2005 and 2009.) When I play make-believe, my monopoly isn't a row of rentals nor a hotel, but a little bit of suburban anarchy. I'd buy all three houses, raze the buildings, and expand my yard to include a flock of chickens and maybe a goat.

Photo courtesy of Pingu1963.

Gambol

gam-buhl
intransitive verb or noun

Photo courtesy of Max Levy at Dance in the Kitchen.

1. (verb) To dance and skip about in play; to frolic.

1. (noun) A skipping or leaping about in frolic.

Chaja gamboled in the driveway as her brother snapped her picture.

Melting

Photos courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

"The hot days melted into one another like our Popsicles."
-- Susan Senator, "Summer Without Structure"
The Washington Post, 2005

Summer comes and my stash of chocolate sits on the shelf. The recipes are too rich and dense to whet the appetite, and I'd sooner bake my brain than turn on the oven when it's pushing a hundred degrees outside. But this recipe from Karen Solomon's "Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It: And other Cooking Projects" tempted me enough that I temporarily abandoned my spot in front of the swamp cooler and went back to the stove. Little hands, a few stops to fish out Cheerios tossed in by one eager cook, and a short chase through the house with a chocolate-covered spoon resulted in one decadent dessert. Enjoy the illustrated recipe for fudgesicles and have a happy Fourth of July.

Chocolate Fudge Popsicles
Excerpted from "Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It: And other Cooking Projects" by Karen Solomon

Makes 7 (4-ounce) pops

3/4 cup evaporated milk
1/2 cup corn syrup
1 cup water
3 tablespoons golden brown sugar
1/2 cup unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa (I used Hershey's unsweetened)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 tablespoon butter

In a pot, whisk the milk, water, corn syrup, sugar, cocoa and salt. Heat over medium heat for about 5 mintues, stirring occasionaly, until there are no lumps. Remove from heat. (I couldn't get rid of the lumps, so I strained the mixture at this point.) Add vanilla and butter, stir until melted.

Cool to room temperature.

Pour into molds and freeze for about six hours or until solid.

Twin tales

The 1950s Japanese film is the story of a crime committed and four widely differing witness accounts. The stories are mutually contradictory, leaving the viewer to determine who, if anyone, is telling the truth.

My eight-year-old sons are keeping journals this summer, and this week they wrote about the same topic, then read their work aloud to each other and me. The differences were stark. I enjoyed the stories not only for their detail and creativity, but because so much of their own personalities were exposed in the telling, and for the combined Rashomon effect. Below are the two accounts, verbatim.

The Terable Adventure at the Library
By Sam

One day, me, my mom, and Max and Ivan were going to the library. Everything was just fine. I got books and so did Max and Mom. Ivan liked the puzzles. It was good intill the checkout. Ivan saw this thing for old people. He was screaming his head off and so mom asked us to go outside with him but Ivan didn't. So after Mom was done she came through the detector. Suddenly BEEB BEEB the alarm went off. Meanwhile Ivan was screaming so Mom handed me her books and told me to go give them the books but it wasn't it so she [the librarian] asked Mom to go inside to check our stuff, but Mom said no, so she [the librarian] went inside to check our basket. Soon she came back. Ivan was still screaming so we went to the side of the library to nurse Ivan but Ivan was restless. Finally he nursed and had an apple. Finally we rode home and I started righting this story and now I'm finished. Then End.

The Terrabile Library Trip
By Max

"Why don't we ride our bikes to the library" Mom said.

"Sure," me and Sam said.

So we got ready. Me and Sam started going around in circals. I banged my shin twice! I said "Ow" two times. When we were at the library Iven had a tantrum so we went home.

THE END.

Coruscate

kor-uh-skayt
verb

Photo courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

1. To give off or reflect bright beams or flashes of light; to sparkle.
2. To exhibit brilliant, sparkling technique or style.

Sam plays catch with a coruscating ball and temporarily transforms into an elf.

Soup in a boot

"Boots" courtesy of saracino.

Reno was once a cowboy's town where even the lawyers wore boots. Where the brush was once so thick a rabbit had to climb a tree to look out, now stand rows of houses, and this month's cattle drive through town was made up of a bunch of buckaroos who probably wouldn't have enough trail sense to spit downwind. Most of them paid $1,600 to participate in the Reno Rodeo's annual publicity stunt. I hope they heard some colorful cowboy talk and ate a tasty stew.

"Cowboy Slang"
By Edgar R. Potter

Hard up: His boots were so frazzled he couldn't scratch a match without burnin' his feet.

Crazy: As crazy as popcorn on a hot skillet.

Fast gal: Must think her butt is a gold mine since everybody's a diggin' at it.

Lazy: Quit spittin' on the handle an' get to work.

Hot: Hot 'nough to sunburn a horned toad.

Talking: His tongue would get a real frolicsome.

Coward: All gurgle an' no guts.

Braggart: Had callouses from pattin' his own back.

Women: I don't like to have my haunches spurred by no drip-nose of a gal.

Grub: To make a sonofabitch stew yuh throw everything in the pot but the hide, horns an' beller.

In the bowl:

Boeuf bourguignon

Beef stew with red wine
Adapted from Barefoot in Paris by Ina Garten

Serves 6 to 8

1 tablespoon olive oil
8 ounces bacon, chopped
2 1/2 pounds beef chuck, cubed
salt
pepper
1 pound carrots, sliced into 1-inch chunks
2 onions, sliced
2 teaspoons garlic, minced or pressed
1/2 cup Cognac or brandy
1 bottle red wine (I used a Malbec)
2 to 2 1/2 cups beef broth
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon fresh thyme
4 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons flour
1 pound frozen pearl onions
1 pound mushrooms, stemmed and thickly sliced

Preheat oven to 250 degrees

Heat the olive oil in a Dutch oven. Add bacon and cook until browned. Remove. Salt and pepper beef and toss it into the bacon fat. In batches, sear the beef. Remove to the same plate holding the bacon.

Throw the carrots, onions, 1 tablespoon salt and 2 teaspoons pepper into the pan and cook for 10 minutes. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more. Add the Cognac, stand back, and ignite with a match to burn off the alcohol. Put the meat back in the pot. Add the wine and enough broth to almost cover the meat. Add the tomato paste and thyme. Bring the pot to a boil, cover it and put it in the oven for about 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 hours or until meat and veggies are tender. Remove from oven and place on the stove.

Combine 2 tablespoons of butter and flour and stir into the stew. Add onions. Saute mushrooms and add to the stew. Bring to a boil, then lower flame to a simmer and cook for 15 minutes. Spoon into bowls and sprinkle chopped parsley on top.

A launch

"The storm sail" courtesy of Today is a good day.

One Thousand Words is a new series at The Slow-Cooked Sentence. It'll spotlight an unpronounceable word illustrated with a photograph snapped by a someone in my family, and will include a sentence that connects the photo to the word. The series will run until one thousand words have been cataloged.

"How long will that take me if I featured a word a week?"

"Twenty years," replied my math man.

"Twenty years! Oh, wow. I didn't think it'd take that long."

"Yeah. Twenty years. Divide one thousand by 52 and you get about twenty years," he explained.

"That's crazy! Why would I make that kinda commitment? I just thought it'd be fun, playing off the whole picture-worth-a-thousand-words-thing. But I wanna do it. Is that crazy?"

"Yeah. Chaja might have kids by the time you're done, but do it anyway."

Bon Voyage!

Xanthous

\ZAN-thuhs\
adjective

Photo courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

Yellow; yellowish

My sack of sugar nearly sits on the Basket of Gold's xanthous blossoms.

And you can call me ...

"She actually does write with that thing" courtesy of incendiarymind.

Writer. That's what I put in the little box under "employer," and then handed in the medical update form.

"Writer?" the receptionist asked. "That means your self-employed."

"Yeaaah.

I smiled weakly because honestly I can't remember the last time I pulled in a paycheck for my words. No, take that back, I can remember. It was an advertorial for a group of surgeons opening their own clinic, a blow-job that left me feeling icky. Rather than be a word whore I quit.

For the longest time I didn't do anything but write for myself, filling notebook after notebook with rants against my husband (which I won't share here) and sweet bits of conversation with my children like this:

October 5, 2006 -- The little neighbor girl came over in her cheerleading outfit and played. Later Max asked why she was dressed up like a "chili pon-pon." Chaja has a rash that keeps flaring up. She's had it for about a week and I'm beginning to think it may be bed bugs. God help me. I don't need bed bugs on top of all the other crap I'm dealing with. Speaking of bed ... here's a great Italian proverb: "Bed is the poor man's opera."

December 13, 2006 -- Kyna (one of my sisters) asked Max to tell her the names of his kindergarten classmates because she's trying to figure out a name for her baby.

"Jasmine, Jade, Andrew, Logan, Hot Guy," he said.

"Hot Guy?"

"Yeah, Hot Guy."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, even the teachers call him Hot Guy."

Later, after Max is asleep, Kyna's telling me the story and I say, "Hot Guy? Hot Guy? Ooooh, Hawkeye!"

I was writing, but without an editor, without an audience, I never felt compelled to go any further with the ideas so they just sat on the pages until the life drained out of them.

"We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out," author Ray Bradbury said.

For me, the trick has been this blog, which forces me to write an idea to its end and put the finished piece of work out there to be read, if only by fifteen readers (but, oh, how I love you, my fifteen loyal readers!). Why do other writers write? After a lot of asking, author Judy Reeves compiled many of the reasons in "A Writer's Book of Days":

• for the feeling that I entertained the reader, made people laugh, touched someone
• for the feeling of being creative, "in the groove," being an artist
• to tell a story, creating characters, plots
• to play with words, using language
• to have an audience
• to express myself
• to produce something
• to finish
• to leave a legacy, make a mark on the world
• to become a more discerning reader
• to find out I'm good, that there is promise
• for surprises, to find out what happens.
  

This week I'm asking five children why they write. They're coming to my house to participate in a writing camp -- a skill swap between me and my friend Shannon at Arthouse Easel. Every other week for most of the summer our kids will wade into watercolors or scribble stories for a few hours. I've never tried to teach another person to write, let alone five kids. Heck, I've only now started to publicly call myself a writer and doing so at the doctor's office makes me feel like a poseur. But I'm gonna snatch that title and run, despite the government classifying me as a dependent, the lack of dimes, and that three of my five students will be calling me "Mom."

Report card

A fellow writer from Yes, Honey Chyle asked if I'd comment on "The Good Wife's Guide," which allegedly appeared in the May 1955 edition of Housekeeping Monthly, and its endorsement by The Southern Housewife. So let's take a few of the Guide's suggestions and see how I stacked up:

"1950s Suburban Glam Grandma" courtesy of watchumean.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Went on a cooking strike this week, leaving my husband to scrounge around in the fridge. He couldn't find anything because I haven't gone grocery shopping in two weeks, so he picked up pizza the first night and Taco Bell the second.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Our youngest is sick. Having been puked on for the umpteenth time, I had given up changing into clean clothes by the time he walked through the door.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

Kids bicker. Washing machine chugs. NPR's on in the kitchen and Hannah Montana blares from the living room. But as I shove a whining toddler into his arms I tell him, "Thank God you're home."

Some fabulously old quotes

Elizabeth Cady Stanton, one of our founding feminists.

"Four things necessary in a house are a chimney, a cat, a hen, and a good wife."
-- John Florio (1553-1625) royal language tutor.

"No sooner are (American women) married than they begin to lead a life of comparative seclusion and, once mothers, they are actually buried to the world." -- Francis Joseph Grund (1805-1863), author.

"While I am about the house, surrounded by my children, washing dishes, baking, sewing, etc., I can think up many points, but I cannot search books. ... I seldom have one hour undisturbed in which to sit down and write."
-- Elizabeth Cady Stanton (1815-1902), women's rights advocate.

A brief history lesson

Excerpted from Ann Crittenden's "The Price of Motherhood:"

At the turn of the twentieth century, the women's movement contained two contradictory strands: one that denigrated women's role within the family, and one that demanded recognition and remuneration for it. The first argued that only one road could lead to female emancipation, and it pointed straight out of the house toward the world of paid work. The second sought equality for women within the family as well and challenged the idea that a wife and mother was inevitably an economic "dependent" of her husband.

For the rest of the twentieth century, the women's movement followed the first path, and that led to innumerable great victories. But in choosing that path, many women's advocates accepted the continued devaluation of motherhood, thereby guaranteeing that feminism would not resonate with millions of wives and mothers.

Oatmeal in the crosshairs

Oatmeal brulee 3 courtesy of chotda.

My first 10 years as an adult I walked the path of a feminist: put myself through college, earned my bachelor's, landed a job in newspapers and loved it. Along the way I fell in love and married, the personal and the professional paths running side-by-side. When I gave birth to my first child the distance between the two courses widened, and yet I managed to straddle them for a while as a freelance writer. When I discovered I was pregnant with twins, the paths split and I made the decision to stop earning a wage and follow the course that the founding feminists had abandoned: Demanding equality within the family.

"Something about a baby encourages the resurgence of traditional gender roles," Crittenden wrote. "With the arrival of a child, a mother's definition of accomplishment becomes more complex, her work load goes up, and her income and independence go down."

For the last 10 years, I've followed the less trodden path, and this week it led me into the bathroom where I stood, hair dripping, wearing only a towel. My husband entered, smiled, kissed me, and left a cup of coffee on the counter and a dirty diaper on the floor. I took a swig of hot coffee, rinsed the diaper and, still following that trail, walked to the desk and began to write as my husband cooked oatmeal.

Then I sat down at in the intersection of these two paths and ate breakfast.

Git along, lil' kitties!

Image courtesy of DrBacchus.

Alone with our children, one on one, we have a chance to see and hear and accept them as they really are, right now, in this moment. We see them not in relation to their siblings, friends, or peers, or as a piece of the larger family puzzle -- but as unique individuals, each with a particular destiny to fulfill on this earth. Such recognition is a basic human need.

-- Katrina Kenison
"Mitten Strings for God: Reflections for Mothers in a Hurry"

This is hard for me to do. I try to steal moments -- Cub Scouts offers an evening walk with one son, a half-hour later bedtime allows for one-on-one with my daughter -- but being a time thief is a challenge. On most days I feel as if I'm herding cats.

The walrus and the carpenter

One young oyster ...

"The time has come," the husband said,
"To talk of many things
Of water-guns and woolen socks
And other summer flings,
And whether we shall all survive
My mother visiting.

"But wait a bit," the woman cried,
"Before we have our chat
For I'm out of breath from cleaning
And haven't even sat.
"No hurry," said the husband.
She thanked him much for that.

"Bottles of wine," the husband said,
"Is what she'll chiefly need.
Nesquik and Lays potato chips
Are very good indeed.
Be prepared, my darling dear,
For she's coming in great speed."

"Two weeks!" the woman cried,
Turning a little blue,
"We'll be so busy thinking
Of things for her to do."
"It may rain," the husband said.
"Look at those storm clouds brew."

"It was kind of you to come!
Your stay will be anything but dull,
For we've soccer, skating, swimming
And, of course, shopping at the mall."
The mother-in-law took a drag on her smoke
And said, "I'm ready for it all."

Four young children hurried up
Eager for their treat.
Their hair was brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat.
The mother-in-law reached into her bag
And pulled out Twinkies to eat.

Roller rinks, soccer games,
Shopping 'til they dropped.
Mining tour, squirt-gun fights,
Then up again they'd pop.
And every day the sun would hide,
And never the rain did stop.

"It seems a shame," the mother-in-law said.
"But it's time to say goodbye."
So she stuffed her suitcase, kissed the children,
And dabbed at her streaming eyes,
Then spent the next 14 hours
Sleeping in the sky.

"Oh, darling," said the husband,
"We've had a pleasant run.
My mother's heading home again."
But answer came there none.
And this was scarcely odd because
All were exhausted from the fun.

A story shard

"Fragments" courtesy of erix!

It was dark when the birds woke her, but instead of trying to go back to sleep she got up and walked into the kitchen. In the shadows, she made a pot of coffee and carried a cup to the rocking chair near the window. She sat quietly, drinking the hot, bitter coffee, watching the charcoal outline of the neighborhood emerge. She didn't notice the tree until the sun had climbed high enough to pour warm, yellow light across the lawns and climb up the sides of houses. When the sun touched the tree, it split into a million bits of light.

Outside, she was blinded for a moment by the sparkling tree. Tiny rainbows danced across the sidewalk, the lawn, the car, the house. Its trunk was smooth and cold, and a breeze blew through the stiff leaves and carried away the sound of tinkling glass. She snapped off a thin branch, held it up against the sun and watched as a bird flew across a green sky. She let it slip through her fingers and watched it fall to the ground where it splintered. Gingerly, she picked her way through the glass and moved to the porch.

The sun climbed. High up a branch broke, tumbled through the canopy of leaves, everything breaking, glass peppering the ground. More branches, more leaves fell until the whole tree came crashing down in one shattering roar. Then silence. She exhaled and the birds renewed their song. Where the tree once stood was a hill of broken glass, green and brown shards stabbed the dirt and littered the sidewalk. The sun climbed and she took a sip of coffee, but it was cold. So she went inside for another cup and a broom.

Mending the nets

Winslow Homer, 1882. The National Gallery of Art exhibition.

When life's
a little frayed,
I knit it together.
Tangled thoughts slip and click into
purls.