It was my Grandmother who somehow inadvertently taught me that there was a relationship between the plant and a caretaker. That if you watered something and paid attention to it, it would grow. Even flourish. Mind you I don’t have any recollection of my Grandmother ever gardening. The sheer suggestion that my Grandmother would ever have her hands in the DIRT is impossible to imagine. She was far too regal and well appointed. Nails done, hair coiffed. Accessorized. That sort of thing. However I firmly had the impression, and continue to solidly believe, that any living plant which arrived in her hands was in capable hands and thus ensured a stable, healthy life. Ironically (and quite fittingly) the only plant I actually recall associated with her hands, which I can with confidence point to, was a piece of ivy which (the story goes) a friend smuggled back into the States after surreptitiously snipping it from Buckingham Palace (or was it Windsor Castle?). My Grandmother would never see either, (though there was that courageous journey to spend a month with me in Amsterdam–does that count? I suppose not…) but there at her senior apartment on the front patio that ivy wound its way up the wooden columns in a most majestic manner and spilled out over the walkways and up the roof like it somehow intuited it was appropriately in the care of the most noble of persons and thus thrived. And that was that. And that is all I remember of Grandma in a garden.

Oh there was a fenced in rose garden in our lovely back yard in Ohio when I was a child, but that garden was always attributed to my Grandfather, whom I also never actually saw working in it. (They must have had a gardener tending it during the day while I was at school.) Nevertheless my intention is to talk about Grandmothers in the Garden, and so I put these memories in their place and move to the world at large and to the living. And this brings me to Betsy.

Betsy was one of the two greatest gifts I received in my two-year adventure of
living in North Carolina. (The other was my yoga teacher.) I met her as I wandered through the labyrinth of churches of Appalachia. Because that’s what you do in the South. You go to church. People invite you to their churches. It’s a courtesy and a welcoming. Of the dozen churches I visited, one of them was the Unitarian Church–never quite religious enough for my tastes, but still high minded–and it was there I met Betsy (and her lovely husband, Al). And she basically adopted me, thank God. And upon gradually learning of her extra-ordinary skills and interests, I proclaimed her to be my Chosen Mother. I was so touched when they invited me to visit them in their home in a nearby community, and upon arrival I was met with this lovely row of Bradford Pears.

Betsy and Al, it turns out, are among those bi-nomadic couples that spend summers in New England and winters in the warmer South. Every summer Betsy and her husband head north where they are soon joined by their five grandchildren who all live abroad. In true grandmotherly fashion, because she has missed the individual birthdays of her five grandchildren, whom she
adores, Betsy hosts a grand collective birthday party in the garden. All year long she plans for this event and buys several gifts appropriate for each child. The day of the grandchildren’s birthday party she hides each of the gifts about the property, and then she presents each child with a poem she has written for each and every gift, offering clues where they might be found! (Do you believe it?) Here is a sampling:

for Verity, age 11:

Your creative side shines through
Both here and across the sea
To stimulate your talents
Is a gift by the tall pine tree

for Aidan, age 13:

Because you are a sprinter
Destinations come up fast
So when you get to the mailbox
You’ll find a present at last

for Django, age 8:

Imagination defines your being
Your illustrations are the best
A gift to enhance your drawings
Hides under a bed for a guest

Cherished grandchildren frolicking in the garden under the loving wing of a creative, caring grandmother such as Betsy becomes the stuff of shared lifelong treasured memories. Using our gardens as the stages for such beautiful family rituals, they become forever imbued with the energies and joy of those we love. We should all be so lucky.

Posted on November 13th, 2007 by Kathryn
Filed under: People at Life | 9 Comments »

As a little girl I can remember the awe I felt when I realized that on the night of Hallowe’en every door of every neighbor in my neighborhood became available to be opened. I could look inside. I could see who lived there, what their house looked like, at least from the vantage point of standing in the porchlight peering in. Some of the mystery was stripped away. So it was not so much about the candy, about the costumes. It was about solving the mystery of who else lived among us. And I have loved it ever since.

Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.

Emily Dickinson

I was so enraptured with the entire ritual of trick or treating that I continued
to go out with friends well into my mid-teens, against my mother’s protests.
It was probably my first taste of real freedom–going out into the dark of a cold
New England night with my peers, rushing up and down streets, across near frozen fields, drawn to beckoning porchlights all welcoming us with appreciative oohs and awwws. Makeup and candy and freedom, oh boy.

My enthusiasm has never dampened. So out of this great love for Hallowe’en, in early anticipation, last year in a moment of wild abandon I planted not one but two entire envelopes of pumpkin seeds. Two kinds. Big and bigger. Within weeks they had taken over a huge portion of my vegetable garden. (I just love unruly children. It gives me something to stew over, monitor and fuss about.) And they were beautiful. Just look.

And, later…

What more can be said? I adore them. I celebrated their full arrival with a party for all the children in my life. They came and picked out their Very Own and proceeded to draw faces on them. They were very happy about the whole affair and so were all their parents, as was I. It’s a glorious tradition. You must try it sometime.

Now today, in celebration of Hallowe’en and the attending pumpkins, in lieu of opening my doors to you personally, welcoming you with something homebaked, I am opening my private family recipe book and honoring your visit today by offering you one of my most prized recipes for–Pumpkin Bread! It is wonderfully delicious and I rarely make it available. But today, for you, in gratitude, here it is:

Kathryn’s Fabulous Pumpkin Bread!

Warning: when you first read this, it sounds like a lot of steps and can seem
overwhelming. What it really is is a lot of BOWLS. If you follow each step
it’s really quite easy and you will reap the rewards of something very yummy
that your whole family will love you for.

Now. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees F. And grease a 9″ x 5″ loaf pan with
olive oil.

Whisk following in a medium bowl:

1 cup wholewheat flour
1/2 cup white flour
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg (freshly grated is better)
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon baking powder

Combine in a cup:

1/3 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla (use only real vanilla)

Then, in a large bowl, beat for about 30 seconds:

6 tablespoons unsalted butter (use only real butter)

Gradually add and beat on high speed until light in color and texture (about
3 to 4 minutes total):

1 cup sugar
1/3 cup brown sugar (or 1/3 cup molasses–take your pick)

Beat in, one at a time:

2 fresh eggs from free-range chickens (don’t cheat)

Then, add and beat on low speed until blended:

1 cup pumpkin puree (if you can do fresh, even better–you just steam an
organic pie pumpkin; it’s easy)

Add the flour mixture to the big bowl in three parts, alternating with the milk mixture in two parts, mixing it all up with a wooden spoon. Don’t overmix.

Fold in:

1/2 cup raisins (make sure they are a bit plump)
1/2 cup chopped nuts (I like pecans)

Now pour the batter into the pan and spread evenly. Bake until a fork comes out clean when inserted into center, about one hour, sometimes longer. I slide a knife around edge when it emerges from oven, then allow it to cool before taking from pan. Then I usually wrap it in a colorful cotton cloth into which I’ve laid white cotton napkins, which will wash out easily later, and put the entire lovely concoction in a nice basket. What could be more festive? And it smells just delicious! Your whole house and household will thank you.

Enjoy.

Love and blessings,
Kathryn

Posted on October 29th, 2007 by Kathryn
Filed under: People at Play | 3 Comments »