Wednesday Words: In Which Children Disappear

More on growing this day, sans chamomile or licorice, from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women:

Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her, as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal both eloquent and pathetic.
"Oh Jo, can't you?"
"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"
That was all, except a little pause; then Laurie straightened himself up, said "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend; and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.

In Which We Grow, Drink Chamomile

As you probably know, chamomile tea tastes of straw from the bottoms of elephants. And elephant-bottom-straw tea is for grown-ups. I had successfully eluded both chamomile and grown-up-ness for many years, generally scrunching my face at both, until some weeks ago when a lady at the biscuit store accidentally gave me chamomile with milk in lieu of Earl Grey, and something happened: Dear reader, chamomile was delicious. I smelled it and took a long drink and then another and then one more before saying, "ExcusemepleaseI'msorryIbelievethisischamomile." I scrunched my face up a tiny bit, but I didn't mean it. Shame ensued, as it does for lovers of the forbidden. I fled. A month passed.

And then last Thursday I bought a cup of it to accompany me home on the train from Boston. (Reasons: It was raining. I wore a trench. I knew no one would know me on the train.) I leaned my head against the glass and inhaled deeply and drank. Some miles in, I spotted a rainbow. Whether the chamomile brought the rainbow about, I cannot say. But the rocking tracks and the chamomile did something over those miles through Stamford and New Haven, and when I reached the sparkling city all lit up I was loving of those dusty golden orbs and tea that tastes of straw, and I was grown.

Other indicators of aforementioned grown status: enjoying black licorice, watering plants in the sink, forgetting things, discussing the Comforts of Barley with friends at dinner, owning pants in two sizes. I am horrified/don't care.

Wednesday Words: Exactly Full

An excerpt from Craig Arnold's poem "Couple From Hell," from his collection Made Flesh.

Here is a small cafe
opening for breakfast
a zinc counter catching the light
at every angle in bright rings of glitter
A cup of black coffee is placed before you
brimming with rainbow-colored foam
a packet of sugar      a pat of butter
a split roll of bread
scored and toasted and still warm
The butter is just soft enough to spread
the coffee hot and sugared to perfect sweetness
the bread grilled to the palest brown
crisp but not quite dry
You tear it nearly into pieces
eat them slowly      when you finish
you are exactly full

In which Blooms Drip, Hellebores

Brooklyn is full of magical things. Among them, the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Last week, strong pink cupped petals, pleasantly shaped greenhouses, blooms that dripped, hellebores (hellebores, hellebores), and one brave turtle trying to eat the petals all up. I gave the turtle a little name, but he did not like the name said go away can't you see I have enough to deal with like all these ginormous fishes and only petals to eat. So I said hellebores, hellebores, hellebores and stood and smelled the breeze.

Weekender: Be and Tee

This weekend, clementines in a white bowl. Curtains hung to billow, hooks hung to expect. A small castle spied on front steps. Found, a tissue-thin gray tee, sleeves long enough to cover the tops of hands. It is how sleeves should be, how hands look forward to cool summer nights, perhaps before a small blaze. The trees leaf, the petals drop. Oil of clementine. On a blanket and beneath kites, gorgeous poems by a poet gone missing. Poems that made me, as Emily says, "feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off." Poems for now, yes. But also for now and for now and also for now.

Celery, Oats

I'm a girl who loves her oatmeal. When I saw Mark Bittman's post on celery oatmeal a couple of weeks back, I knew it was one of the first things I wanted to make in the new kitchen. It seemed to me the peanut butter and pickles (or miso eggplant?) of breakfast: celery and oats finished with soy and sesame oil. I dreamed of it for days while boxing things and eating cold pizza. I stared at the ingredients for a few mornings. I wanted it to be good.

Stirring it on the stove one morning this week, it smelled marvelous. I sat on the floor to enjoy it, in the nook I've already come to favor. While I will not say that it wasn't delicious, I will say that it left me a tad wanting. My mouth clearly wished for an additional facet--something toasty, bitter. Something silky. Sesame seeds themselves, perhaps, to squeak between the teeth. Next time. Morning repasts come too early to mess around with wishing.

On Searching, Home

On having abondoned you all for weeks and weeks, I will say this: Finding a New York apartment is a little tricky. It is requiring of very many questions and very many naps and very many wonderings about What Sort of New Yorker one might like to be. Like most things worth having, it takes searching time and bits of worry. In the end, though, I needn't have worried so much. I had forgotten that wands choose wizards and not the other way 'round. So it is with cornicing and milkmaids. There was searching and looking and looking some more, and there were plenty of opened cabinets and furrowed brows and heads shaken no and big long sighs on wet sidewalks. And then, one day, we were home.

Leaving neighborhoods is difficult, changing boroughs a little strange. No matter what one gains on the other side, rending, too, requires naps. I have loved Manhattan dearly. But I'm told that trees grow in Brooklyn. Grand, flowering ones. Judging by the state of my sinuses this week, they do indeed. We are happy to be home.

Weekender: Easter, Trees

An armful of greenmarket peach blossoms. Daffodils in jars and herbs potted. For Easter, the ringing of bells, all it means to sprawl in a sunbeam, cafe au lait and a morning bun, blossoms tattered on the trees. La salade nicoise, all sulphur and vinegar and new greens.

And firsts. Firsts as spring demands.