The wisteria are in bloom again. . .

I lived in the Upper Midwest,  until I moved to the West Coast in 2002. I've been in CA since 2006.

I don't think wisteria thrives in the very hard frost of MN winters.

At my first CA swimming pool, one of my favorite parts of that pool experience was the walk home. I walked there on one route and walked home on another. My walk home took me through a private apartment complex, a very nice one, probably an expensive one. It has a long trellis that became completely drapped with luxuriously verdant wisteria.  I liked that walk all year round but when the wisteria were in bloom, I'd walk up and down under the archway from which hung dense wisteria.

Here in Berkeley, there is always a lot of wisteria. Wisteria must like cool, misty climates. Fog!

There is an Oakland public library on College Avenue that is fronted with many trellises. Right now, the wisteria is (are?) overflowing on those trellises.

When I lived in Seattle, I lived on the northernmost boundary of the city. I lived on 145th Street, which is where Seattle ended. Across the street from my building was a suburb. It was a poor, shabby part of Seattle, plus remote from everything anyone would want to do in Seattle. With just one bus line that snaked through north Seattle, then through the University of Washington campus and then snaked back up north on the other side of the city. It took forever to go anywhere on that bus.

I came up with self entertainment. I decided early on that all the front yards that I had many hours to view on the always slow bus were 'my garden'. I tried to memorize the gardens and then savor how they changed with the seasons.  It turned out to be a surprisingly satisfying expeirence. I came to quite love trees, shrubs, perennial gardens.  My point is that I paid a lot of attention to flowers in Seattle and I don't remember seeing huge plantings of hanging wisteria. Not anywhere there.

So I am wondering:  where else does wisteria thrive as it does here? I bet wisteria really likes the foggy, misty air of the bay.

ask: She gives

When I went to my weekly farmers market this Saturday, in my power wheelchair, I placed a bag on the back, one bag handle on each handle behind the chair.

I have been using this bag for the few weeks since I have this loaner wheelchair. When I have bought stuff, I stand up, step around, put stuff in the bag and get back in the chair. Standing up, moving around hurts. If I am moving for longer periods, all my stiff, kinked joints seem to loosen up but for the few moments of getting up to put my persimmons in the bag behind me is a lot more of a challenge than I think it should be. So I have been sending myself messages of self negation, grumbling to myself about growing more disabled.

Last Saturday, I tried something new. When I bought something, I paid for it and then I asked someone, chosen for their proximity to me, if they would please put my bolani in the bag behind me. Or whatever. I am way into the spinach bolani these days. And now I am way into the very nice young men who sell it. They are a free sample operation, almost aggressively offering potential customers all kinds of bolani and all kinds of toppings. They sell the toppings too. I buy some bolani every Saturday so they now see me as a regular. It is always nice to be a regular, in with some humans.

I never asked the bolani guys to put something in my back bag before. The guy had already given me two or three samples of different breads and spreads. He made, he said, a special sample for me, then came over to hand it to me and then to put my purchased items in the bag on the back of my wheelchair.  I thanked him, telling him the samples were delicious and he and his partner were such nice vendors.

As he walked behind my chair with my stuff, just two or three steps, him almost looming over me because I was seated and he was standing, he emanated kindness. So I said so, I said "You are so kind." And he said, and I did not make this up, "I am not kind. I am love."

That statement is still buoying me days later. I see his smile, see his being's light radiating as he came over to help me.

People mostly seem to light up when I ask them, strangers to me, to put something in my bag. People sometimes ask detailed questions to be sure they put it in right. These are flashing, fleeting moments of human connection. I quite enjoy this. And the secret to accessing such light, love and kindness is to ask for help.

Asking the occasional stranger to help me, plus accepting the many offers of help I get through my days (on UC campus, the students fall all over themselves to open doors and ask me if they can do anything else for me. . . such a lovely energy flowing through our exchanges) is allowing me to see something I have known all along but which I can lose sight of:  people not only want to be kind, they need to be kind. That old saw about giving is receiving is true. I am giving people something when I ask them to put my spinach in the bag on the back of my wheelchair. I am giving, and receiving, a moment of kindness, love, connection.

Thank you Goddess.

the love sound of puffing cranberries

Every Thanksgiving season I think about my holiday pie. I am not supposed to eat cranberries anymore because of a medication I take. I eat them when I make this pie.  I have been thinking about making my cranberry pear pie. I like the way memories can float about, like the smells coming from a kitchen readying a holiday feast.

It is a simple recipe. A bag of fresh cranberries (used to be a pound, these days these bags hold 12 ounces) and less than one cup of real maple syrup and a bunch of beautiful pears. Prebake the pie crust slightly. Peel and slice the pears. If you are baking this pie with a child, let the child eat all the pear slices s/he wishes to eat. Layer the fruit artistically. And use a lattice top. It is a very beautiful pie. The red cranberries shine like rubies nestled in the pears. The red peeks through the lattice crust nicely. Serve with unsweetened whipped cream. Let the child taste a fresh cranberry too, if they wish. Explain the word pucker afterwards.

The recipe is not really what I was thinking about. I was thinking about the real reason I love to make this pie.

You put the maple syrup in a saucepan with the cranberries. The actual recipe calls for two cups of maple syrup but one of the reasons I like this pie is that it is not too sweet. Cut way down on the maple syrup and you really taste fruit. Cranberries are tart so they need the syrup but use as little as possible.

Heat the syrup and cranberries gently, slowly. Here is the  reason I used to make this pie: as the cranberries warm up and start to both cook and absorb the maple syrup, they make a very soft puffing sound.

Oh my gosh, I love the sound of the cranberries puffing. I love to do this with a child. I love to enjoy the hushed anticipation as we listen for the first puff. While waiting, this is a good time to kiss the child on top of the head a few times. Quietly so you both hear the puffs.  Nowadays, when I think of this pie, I am mostly ruminating on making the pie so I can revisit the pleasure of kissing my Katie Joy atop her head as she helps.

As soon as the cranberries start puffing, you have to quickly pull the saucepan from the heat. The thrill does not last long, the puffing is only a few seconds and the sounds very soft. Yet it is a very fine experience. There is a temptation to keep the cranberries on too long in the hope that you will get to hear another mild puffing sound but you must resist. Resolve to make this pie again soon.

Then you layer the cooked berries, the pears and bake, not too long, just long enough to meld the flavors, to lightly bake the pears.

in out

I am not in the Golden Tunnel now. I wish I were.