Granulatin’ Bad

Posted on August 19, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Sure. I look pretty harmless. I’m polite to the neighbors, fairly unobtrusive when I leave the house, as middle aged ladies often are. No one could look at me and know that in August, within the confines of my home, I’ve got skills, mad skills. Because when boiling sun and steamy air turn the tiny green figs into golden orbs, I’m Granulatin’. Granulatin’ Bad.

You’re no doubt familiar with someone else who may appear mild in the outside world, but who leads a whole other life right under his neighbor’s noses. That’s right - Walter White.

Don’t think I have anything in common with Walter, or Walter with me? We’ll just see about that! Here are some similarities:

Photo Source: IMDB

Obviously we’re both bad you know whats.

1) Highly desirable product: Walter’ s blue meth is apparently the stuff of dreams. OK, fine. But you should see the eyes widen when I walk into the yoga studio with a box of twelve gleaming jars of fig preserves. Excited murmurs float across the studio. When class is over they make a beeline for every last jar. Unconditional acceptance of your product by a yoga class says only one thing: 99.1 % pure, total quality.

2) Large amount of raw materials needed: Walter buys his in more than one location to avoid suspicion. But I HAVE to buy mine in multiple locations because no one stocks as many jars or as many boxes of pectin as I need. And unlike Walter, because I deal with a live ingredient, I can never predict the exact amount of supplies I need. They may suspect me of something at the grocery store when I dash in wearing sticky shoes and a stained T shirt and buy ALL of their eight ounce canning jars, but they know not to question me. I dare them to.

3) Specialized work environment and equipment: We each need to set up a pristine, industrial workspace. Mine is the kitchen. Walter may have a gas chromatograph while I use a spoon and my own mouth for quality control, but the concept is the same.

My lab.

Walter’s lab. Photo courtesy of breakingbad.wiki.com

4) Total concentration: We can’t do anything else while cooking. We’re basically unreachable. When my harvest begins, I am in a flurry of picking, washing, cutting, cooking, sterilizing. My hands get too sticky to even think of touching a phone. So don’t call me. Walter and I agree that production stops when we say it stops.

5) Hazards: Yes, it is hazardous work. You are familiar with what Walter has faced through the years: beatings, torture, kidnapping, and even death. But what about me? I’ve bravely faced my share of challenges. Here is a short list:

a) Balancing on the part of an eight ladder where it says not to stand

b) While keeping up with a bag of figs over one shoulder

These babies aren’t light.

c) While grasping at leaves and branches and clutching them to your chest so you can pull off the figs with the other hand, sweat dripping off your brow,

d) And a swarm of mosquitoes gets close and personal with your armpits,

e) And getting down from said perch,

f) Dealing with the crazy violence that seems ubiquitous in the fig tree world

Nobody saw nothin’.

g) And even having to hide some ominous, foreshadowing symbols from my family, like this.

Inside the house, once I have gathered my figs I still have to endure deep, deep stickiness from spilled sugar and gooey figs, boiling water, hot pans, an extended cleanup, and last but not least, the sick feeling that comes from tasting preserves fifteen times. Let me tell you, I’ve paid my dues!

I’m tough enough to take the heat.

Walter and I, we’re a pair. We may threaten, cajole, and intimidate, but we get the product out. Still, we have our differences. First he sells his product for top dollar while mine is free of charge. Maybe I could sell mine, but unlike Walter I have no partner to handle the distribution end. Second, he can’t taste his product, but I can. Mr. White always uses the same recipe, while I I experiment with new flavors. This year I’ve added a little something different in every batch. Walter never divulges his recipes, but I can. I’m not trying to corner the market.

Walter in his work clothes. Photo: breakingbad.wiki.com

As fig season winds up, so does Walter’s last season. I don’t have a good feeling about his prospects, but he may surprise me yet. While we wait to learn his fate, won’t you try some of my fig preserves? Really. They’re free, and you won’t have to worry about going to jail! Postscript: This years flavors: cinnamon, cinnamon and ginger, rosemary and port, pepper, basil, amaretto, and that’s all I can remember. Tell that to the D.E.A.

Trading Blue for Yellow

Posted on August 12, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

A couple of Sundays ago I woke up feeling a little blue. My problems were the usual stuff of those who have no real problems. I had now been living with my belongings dispersed through the house as if by a maniac for many weeks. Since my bedroom floor was now rough concrete, I was stepping in little grains of cement every time I went in my bathroom. Between the workmen tramping in and out and having our extant bedroom furniture placed willy nilly in other rooms, trying to clean or organize was out of the question. I felt cheated because I had slept late and now my husband thought it was too late to ride bikes. Also, I had determined that only about five people were reading my blog. That was the real rub.

I contemplated this last opinion while I sat outside with my coffee. There was no doubt that I was feeling sorry for myself, and it was up to me to change the situation. Had I written what I wanted? Yes. Had I been satisfied with it? Yes. If a blogger writes a post in the forest, and the animals can’t read, is it a real blog post? I didn’t know, but I did know this mood was not going to fly. What could I do, I mused, to take care of myself right now and avoid the steaming morass of self pity that was lurking just over my left shoulder?

I knew! I knew! I was going to take my own self on an adventure! Quickly, before my brain could give me instructions otherwise, I threw on some bicycling clothes and smeared sunscreen on my face. “You’re going all by yourself to Shelby Farms?” inquired my husband as he checked my bicycle tires. “Yep,” I replied, sliding my cell phone into my sports bra. “Maybe it would be easier to leave the phone at home,” he suggested. “Nope,” I replied.

I knew why he’d said that. A few years ago while we were riding together I had tried to fish my phone out of my bra while riding. I wasn’t having any trouble until he came up behind me offering suggestions while I tried to answer the phone and stop the bike at the same time. Thanks to his “help” I pulled on only one brake, causing me to be thrown over the handlebars and onto the pavement, watching my cell phone clatter down the street.

Today I wasn’t going to get caught up into his fears that I would again answer the phone while biking. His fears were going to have to be his own problem. This bike ride was going to be all about me, Baby.

In five minutes I was pedaling down my driveway, free as I had felt on a Saturday morning in second grade after I had dusted the piano and been allowed outside to play. As a child I regularly biked for hours around our neighborhood. It was the same now except I had a helmet and could go as far as I wanted. How could it be that I rode my bike so seldom? Well, for one thing it is often hotter than Hades where I live, I reminded myself, making it necessary that bike riders, along with walkers, runners, and gardeners , start their activities at dawn or not at all. Today, however, the temperature was tolerable and the humidity low.

My general destination was Shelby Farms, a 4500 urban park close to our home. In recent years a conservancy has made major improvements in the park including turning an unused railroad track into a Greenline to help connect citizens to the pleasures within. The part that will extend to my neighborhood is not yet built, so, alone with my thoughts , I took backroads for about 6 miles until I crossed into the park.

The park is split by a major thoroughfare. I rode into the south side which contains, among other things, a farmer’s market and an RV park. I rode beside the RV park, wondering what it would be like to have one, and to pull up to a campsite in the middle of the city to spend the night. After reading a mystery series in which the heroine drove an RV, I mentioned it would be fun for me to tool around in one. This idea was just too much for the man who is afraid for me to take my phone on a bike ride. He sputtered about how hard it would be for me to maneuver, how I lack depth perception ( which is true) and the costs of gas. Mostly I think he was afraid he would come home and find an RV in our driveway. What does he think I am, I asked myself as I cleared the RV area. Impulsive?

Beyond the Rv area I rode on some narrow and some wide trails past the solar farm area and an enormous mulch making facility before cutting up closer to the road. I was close to my specific destination: the sunflowers.

Every year the park plants a large field of tall sunflowers which can be seen from the major thoroughfare. Countless children are taken there by their parents to pose for pictures among the flowers. Engagement photos are taken there as well. Maybe some people even cut some flowers to take home. I had always wanted to visit the sunflowers during their brief season, but until today I never had.

I dismounted and took out my camera. Rows and rows of sunflowers stood before me, just like a corn maze. I found an opening and tromped in, taking care not to get too close to some families nearby who were photographing their children. As I admired all the yellow and gold loveliness, I overheard parents admonishing their children to stop crying and smile for the camera. A Labrador Retriever was being urged to stand beside a recalcitrant child.

Nevertheless, it was a peaceful place. I could hear but not really see the traffic. And within the rows was a a magical feast of golds, yellows and greens. The sky was somewhat overcast, but the colors shimmered for me. Deep within the rows, unseen by any human eye, I stood perfectly still. All around me the bees buzzed and lit on flowers, while butterflies chased one another from bloom to bloom. Everywhere I looked a sea of sunflowers faced the sun. Even the backs of their necks were beautiful to me.

How long did I stay? I stayed until I decided to leave. Somehow the warmth and simplicity of the sunflowers restored my equilibrium. As I eventually pedaled away, I heard myself say to me, “You may have just five readers, but they’re QUALITY readers!” That made me laugh out loud. Yes, I was out on an adventure that day, and I wasn’t going by the specifications of others. I would follow the sun in my own way.

Code Orange No Longer In Effect

Posted on July 14, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

My friends, you have all heard the rumors of the Magpie Backyard Code Orange Security Alert we recently faced. It is true that I solved the case in only one day, which means you may now go back to all your normal activities. I am not responsible for rescheduling the Midsummer Fashion Review. But I would not object to chairing a Philosophical Debate Society so that we can mull all the ramifications of this recent event in our community while keeping alive ancient Greek and Roman oral and intellectual traditions. Oh. Just file my report.? Very Well. My confidential account is below.

Respectfully Submitted,

Mr. Biblio Turturis

Head Of Magpie Backyard Security

TOP SECRET First of all, I never expected to be named Head of Security, and I don’t know why I was , except many were tired of the heavy handed tactics of Owlus Rusticus, who served for many years in this post. For years I have volunteered to oversee a debating society, yet the position remains unfilled.

Owlus Rusticus: had he been at his job too long?

At first the season was going well. We had the usual complaints: the slums at the back of garden, vandalism by young figs on the pool deck.

These kids!

Most of the time I could read and keep my eye on things at the same time. But two weeks ago I received a disturbing report of an unauthorized device in the compost heap.

Where the device was found, with the white part protruding like a periscope.

It had a long white sinuous neck which protruded between decomposing issues of The New York Times. It was attached to a purple rectangle which held another rectangle inside it. There was instant unrest in the backyard. Mrs. Squash Blossom and her sisters had to be hospitalized after a bout of hysteria during which they were certain the object had grown up out of the Book Reviews, and posed a danger to their unborn children, for who knew what seditious ideas had seeped into the soil? The one known immature squash is being cared for, along with a young cucumber, by the Okra family. The Blossoms should be back to normal soon after emergency application of electrosunlight. One unripe tomato fled all the way to the end of swimming pool where it was last seen calmly sunning itself on a lawn chair.

A weeping Squash Blossom, as neighbors try to comfort her.

The child seems unharmed.

This tomato removed himself to another clime.

The Red Hat Society, sure the object was a sign of imminent attack from outside the yard, instituted a daily watch along the southern perimeter of the fence, which they faithfully completed whenever they were awake and not playing bridge, whenever inclement weather did not threaten their hairdos, and before cocktail hour. After one day of watching they reported seeing no undesirables.

A member of the Red Hat Society on patrol.

I had to appeal to Owlus Rusticus for help in this matter. He took a break from his new job as Pool Director, where he was busy admonishing youngsters not to congregate in the groundcover. He advised me to interview Grandfather Rosemary. And he complained about some of the skimpy bathing attire being worn this season. I couldn’t advise him on that, as I wear the same shell year after year.

Grandfather Rosemary has been here for at least thirteen yeas and does not scare easily.

This revered gentleman has many years of experience of supervision around the diving board.

But he told me he had never seen such a thing come out of a compost heap in his life. Had it been spying, he wondered? That sent a chill down my shell. If the thing ( which by the way had uttered not one word since its discovery) had been sent by an adversary, I would need to coordinate with the Armed Services Committee Head, Cowboy Bob.

Cowboy Bob was under the influence, as usual. I could tell he’d been trying to lasso the new hanging lightbulbs on the pergola. And the Echinacea Girls were just egging him on, fluttering their petals and admiring his manly talk.

The Echinacea Girls using their feminine wiles.

Mint has become absolutely rich betting him he can’t hit a single bulb.

He’s filthy rich.

And night after night… Bob doesn’t remember that the night before he couldn’t hit a single bulb.

It seemed I was on my own for help. I squirmed that night in my shell, searching for answers. What was this ungodly object, and did it mean us harm? How would Brother Cadfael proceed in such a situation? Or Aristotle? I awoke early as is my routine, and made a sweep around the yard. All too aware of the need for speed, I made the circuit in just under four hours.

The Lantanan Ladies were entertaining insects, seemingly undisturbed by the Code Orange.

But I noticed that some of our expected summer citizens were not making much of an appearance this year. There were very few nasturtiums, for example, and the sweet potato vines I saw were certainly not as robust as in years past. Had the purple and white creature already begun to harm our ecosystem?

Upon inspection and interviews I found that the Celosians had become more bellicose than I had ever seen them. Instead of letting their fringy fur grow in unmanageable tufts, they were forming themselves into missile shapes in order to attack if needed.

A Celosian in a warlike pose.

And if not needed, I was told, they would try to enter the Midsummer Fashion Review in the Fake Christmas Tree category. When I told them there was no such category, I heard distinctly unhappy mutterings from the crowd. But they had given me an idea: what about newcomers in our midst?

I got ahold of these new flowers as the breeze blew them past me.

Should new citizens automatically be suspected of ill intent?

Where were they from? I yelled from the deck stairs. Lichterman Nature Center! they yelled as they blew in the other direction. A Nature Center, I mused. That seemed innocent enough. And they were scared, too. I could tell. Their posture was appalling. I think the rumors were getting to them.

Some in the community I didn’t even want to approach. Hettie Hydrangea, for example.

Hettie prefers the shade.

She’s so delicate her little blue hair just wobbles on her stalk. She couldn’t be involved in this, so why bother her? To be polite I did stop by and check on her. She seemed happily oblivious to the dangers in our community, and was happy to tell me again how she, Grandfather Rosemary , and the Figs had colonized this area thirteen years ago. And her mulch tea was refreshing.

Corrie Opsis, as one might have expected, approached me, wanting to know why the Midsummer Fashion Review could not go ahead as planned, since my investigations weren’t turning anything up.

Corrie with an unnamed relative.

Didn’t she know I would not be pressured? I felt for her though. With so many deadhead relatives that followed her everywhere. I’m sure she counted on the distraction.

I did hear some moaning and wailing over by where the Nolias live. And God help me, I didn’t go over there. I knew they’d be no help. Maggie and her sisters had been nothing but a hot mess ever since this Paula Deen thing came out. With Paula’s fall off the pedestal, they were sadder than a burnt fried chicken leg or a scalded chess pie.

The Nolias fell apart when they lost their role model.

Don’t base your self esteem on others’ lives, I always say. Reflected glory isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Most of us thought privately that those Nolias needed to come down a peg anyway.

Finally I made my way over to Vlad. It’s short for Vladimir I think, but no one ever asks him.

Vlad thinking deep thoughts.

He’s kind of the Zen Master of the Backyard. He gazes for hours at shapes, never moving except to grab a fly with his tongue and slide it in his mouth in one masterful movement.

He can contemplate something like this for hours.

What did he make of all this, I asked him. I didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t get one. But what is an answer, actually ? I think I am developing some Zen-like qualities myself.

Defeated, I returned to my home perch in a potted plant. No one had seen the object since it had been removed by the Magpie the previous day. It upset us all to see the Magpie screaming like that as she tried to remove the maggots off the object which was still and silent as death. What a brave human she was for removing the device from our midst! As I reflected on this I heard a human enter the yard. It was the Magpie again. WITH THE DEVICE!!!!!

She threw it carelessly onto the patio behind me. Maybe its bones were broken now. Luckily my neck can go in all directions so I was able to observe her getting the hose and spraying off the purple part. I held my breath in fear that the object would detonate or release poisonous toxins. I heard her take a picture of the hideous thing with her phone. Then she called someone and said, “Do you remember when I lost my Kindle? You’ll never believe where I found it!”

The creature that had secreted itself in the compost heap.

And just like that, I solved the case. Code Orange Averted!

Remedial Girl

Posted on May 31, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Reading is the one skill I can say comes naturally and easily for me. I can’t even begin to list what reading has meant to me in my life, but for today suffice it to say there was no “low” reading group for me. From the beginning of school I regularly enjoyed a lofty position in the “high” reading group, grimacing as the other poor souls in my class struggled to sound out sight words. My early success in reading led me to believe, falsely, that all other things would come easily to me as well.

I’ve been thinking about that because I recently was given one of those questionnaires you get when you join an organization. What are your accomplishments? List your other skills. And what would people be surprised to know about you?

The answer to all three questions was “Nothing.” I can’t do anything but read. I have no skills. Nope. Can’t do anything well. And nothing about me would surprise anyone. Needless to say I didn’t turn in the questionnaire.

I’m fairly new to the whole “knowing how to do things” game. I grew up too late to be one of those little Southern girls who could embroider a hankie, converse in French, sketch my friends’ likenesses, dance the quadrille, and thrill my the menfolk after dinner with my singing and delicate playing of the pianoforte. Had I lived in those times, I still don’t know if I would have been very accomplished. I was an impatient child. I expected to learn and master skills without effort and persistence. If a particular activity frustrated me, I would just quit. Why did I need to learn to make a beanbag when I had Little Women right in the next room?

Also I was something of a klutz with a nice dose of performance anxiety. If I had chances to practice gross motor activities repeatedly, such as roller skating, I would eventually catch on. But fine motor activities were harder. Apparently I held my pencil in “lazy valley.” For years every one of my school papers was returned with a big red “MESSY” written across the top, until the fourth grade when, in a clever act of deceit, I traced my classmate Claire’s perfect penmanship and inadvertently grew some new neural pathways. I just knew my fingers were way too big to handle a tiny needle and thread, and besides, one had to continually rethread the needle. Overwhelming, AND boring!

It was lonely sometimes down in Lazy Valley.

When I was older, my mother, who sewed beautifully, told me that if I could read I could sew. That was SO not true! Do you hear me, Mother? Assuming one could lay out the pattern and cut the fabric, one had to be able to operate the machine without fearing sewing one’s finger to the table. Between choosing a pattern and the finished product there were just too many critical mess up points for me. In middle school a friend helped me sew a jumper, but my mother pronounced it unwearable. Ouch. Mothers don’t know their own power.

As a result I grew to be an adult who knew how to do one thing well: read. Since reading IS the one absolutely vital skill for a productive life, I am not complaining. But arriving on the scene of adulthood with few other skills caused problems of its own.

I married and had children. I had neither decorative nor practical skills. If buttons fell off of our clothes we simply never wore them again. My stomach still hurts when I think of having to sew those thick Boy Scout achievement badges on my boys’ uniforms, before the meeting in one hour, before my husband came home, while something burned on the stove. What was so challenging was that when I was frustrated I didn’t have the option to just set the task aside; I had to move out of my comfort zone or else send naked children to school. I am sure the pressure made me a very cranky Mommy at times, and is no doubt underlying cause of all my childrens’ neuroses!

As I became older I finally had the time, and seemingly out of nowhere, a deep undiscovered well of patience to learn to do some things. My desire to do, to make, to create, finally won out against my poor self discipline, lack of skills and self confidence. I dreamed of sewing bright, contemporary quilts, dyeing fabric, painting, knitting, making mosaics - everything in the world, really. I now have a whole list of activities I enjoy doing badly. Right now I am mostly knitting. But whatever I may be doing at any given time the skill level is the same: remedial!

About eight years ago when my sister taught me to knit I envisioned being one of those people who give handmade knitted items as gifts. After so many years as a hopeless klutz, I thought that learning these skills would be a nice boost for my self esteem. But along the way I’ve learned that the object is not knowing how to do something. The object is knowing myself better.

Here are a few curriculum highlights in the “low group” of knitting:

1) My senses require that I have my hands in the tangible magic that is yarn and to delight in the endless ways to invent with it.

A feast for the eyes.

2) My spirit requires that I savor the sweet deliberate motions of knitting and enjoy its meditative qualities.

3) Each knitted object has a story and a process of its own. Within the finished object are all the memories of what was happening in my life at the time.The mistakes are part of the story. The mistakes are a vital part of the story.

This was to be a lovely afghan for my daughter. I learned the hard way that working on it while my Mother was having chemo was a BAD idea. I had to felt it and turn it into a shawl for my daughter instead. When I remarked that ot looked so odd she probable couldn’t wear or she said, “Don’t worry Mom. I go to Berkeley!”

4) I must follow my own knitting path. I listen to what others may say about the benefits of double pointed needles or knitting two socks at a time, but only I can know which is best for me.

5) I must learn in my own way. If I must read instructions 400 times, so it is. If I must start over half as many times, I accept that also.

6) I must remember not to take myself too seriously. If my knitted washcloths look like pieces of fuschia colored naan, and my scarves like snakes that went through the garbage disposal, that’s just part of the fun. After all, they are definitely original creations!

7) I give myself permission to be lost, to need help and to ask for it. This may be my proudest achievement of all. Not knowing is not a reflection on me; it’s just part of the glorious process of creativity.

So far, so good on my latest project.

You may have realized that I am in no hurry to graduate from the Remedial Knitting Group. I am as serene as a bag on unspun wool at my Tuesday night knitting group, where the skill level of the other knitters ranges from brilliant to super extra brilliant. Unlike the first grade, there is no penalty for taking as long as I need to complete an item or to lovingly start the whole thing over again.

Will I one day knit up a pair of flawless socks? Present a baby afghan I designed myself? Follow the yarn process from shearing through spinning and dyeing? I’m sure I would be pleased if I could, but if I don’t, that is fine too. This Remedial Girl is learning plenty anyway.

The Warmth of Another Sun

Posted on May 5, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

I couldn’t get warm at all yesterday. In the South may the fourth should conjure pictures of sunny sidewalks and folks out in shorts and flip flops, but this year we were subjected to torrential rains and temperatures in the 40s. 40s!!!! I spent most of the day doing what I do in February - huddling under a blanket with the space heater on. As I occasionally covered my icy nose with my sleeve, I asked myself if it were true that just one week ago I had been basking in the sun in the Napa Valley?

Why yes, I promptly answered myself, because talking to myself helped my blood circulate to my extremities. Just last Saturday, I told myself, you were luxuriating in golden sunshine at the Fremont Diner. And I reassured myself by looking at the pictures I had of that very day. One can’t be too careful; frozen people have been known to hallucinate.

A little background: I accompanied my husband on a business trip to the Bay area. We were fortunate that our daughter could fly up from Pasadena and spend the week with us. Maybe I should be writing my first post about the trip on how wonderful it was to get to see her for the first time since Christmas and how she warms my heart, but I’m just too cold. So let’s move on to the Fremont Diner. And by the way, all those corny expressions about being kissed by the sun, soaking up the sun’s rays, the sky washed clean? Those are all true.

On Saturday we drove to the Napa Valley. We had big plans for the night, but we’ll discuss those later. I sat in the passenger seat of the rental car, reading on my Ipad ,while my daughter and husband discussed the logistics of the trip. I was free to gaze upon some of the sights I had missed so much: the Golden Gate Bridge, Marin County, and the surrounding countryside. Thanks to the GPS we were guided in due time to the Fremont Diner, where my daughter’s dear friend Steve had advised us to eat lunch.

We clambered out of the car in our short sleeves, sunglasses and cameras and found our way to the hostess stand. There would be a 45 minute wait but we were in no hurry. And we would be in good company, with the other 50 or so folks waiting for tables on the …… not a patio really, more of a gravel yard.

You could set a spell in the sun.

We got ourselves some drinks and sat under umbrellas. For me there was a somewhat surreal feeling. We were in California but I could have sworn I was in Alabama. The restaurant appeared to be in an old gas station. Drinks were served in mason jars. Fried chicken was on the menu. And the place had a friendly Southern vibe.

We passed our forty five minutes visiting the chickens and watching the other waiting folks. Women in heels walked hesitantly across the gravel to picnic tables where chickens darted and scratched at the dirt. I suppose high heels on gravel could be considered an indication that one was not in fact in Alabama. Mothers attempted in vain to keep their children from chasing the chickens. Some waited in the grass rather then on the gravel.

A little privacy with her lemonade.

This little Missy was determined to catch a chicken. Her Mother thought otherwise.

But her brother did score a reasonable rock collection. He presented one to my daughter as a gift.

Hmph. Humans everywhere!

Finally a brilliant turquoise picnic table opened up for us. And oh yes. The three of us knew this food: Southern, fresh, down home, plentiful. Who knew we would come all the way from California to eat good ( and in the South we don’t use that term lightly) barbecue! Of course the trouble with this food is that one cannot stop eating until every last glorious bite is gone. My daughter and I had the barbecued chicken sandwich with a delectable side of fresh green beans, black eyed peas and tarragon. My husband had the same, only with pork. My husband was thoroughly pleased but my daughter and I had pushed beyond the boundaries of our appetites. What had Steve been thinking, sending us to a meat restaurant?? No dessert, please!

We paused for a few more pictures before we resumed our journey. I think we were all just too full to get back in the car.

Whatever killed the skeleton inside the truck…. it wasn’t the cold!

The sun and sky were endless that day.

The next stop was, unbelievably to our stomachs, a wine tasting. There was no room for wine. but we would cross that bridge when we came to it. For now we had full stomachs, endless sunshine and no humidity. Aah! Memories really can keep you warm!

Spring Fashion Preview

Posted on April 15, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

It’s early days here in the South, as far as spring weather goes. We endured a blustery rainy March and early April which has just now given way to a few golden temperate days. I have risked exposing myself to a mushroom cloud of pollen lately JUST so I can get a first hand look at what well-dressed flowers will be wearing this season. A magpie will do anything for fashion!

Keep in mind that most flowers haven’t even made their appearances; this is just a preview of the early comers. I have assured all the seeds, tubers, bulbs, and seedlings on my property that this is NOT the final word. They’re a competitive bunch. As the season progresses I will be documenting ALL the fashion exploits in my back yard. Magpies don’t discriminate!

Without further ado, here are the early spring beauties. Ahem. In no particular order. Feel free to have some refreshments while you watch! This little lady, a member of the groundcover family, strikes a casual pose against what is for her, a brick wall. She is dressed in a carefree frock of lavender, white, and goldenrod, with handbag to match. She is younger than many of her fellow flowers, and prefers to run in a pack. This is a rare individual shot. Our next model is Scarlet Dahlia. She personifies simple, classic design with her red pleated ruff and brilliant yellow center. Her timeless look will always be in style. Scarlet leads a busy life, organizing teas, showers and the like for ladies of a certain social stature. And I’m sure she doesn’t have to do her own ironing.

Some were surprised to see Miss Mary Gold in our fashion lineup. In the South she is thought of as a workhorse, protecting tomato plants from pests, rather than performing the role of fashion maven. I am pleased she had enough self esteem to put herself forward. Her brilliant orange and yellow ruffles are elegant. She reminds us that her species is used as a wedding decoration in India.

This frail lady, a Japanese Snowball, is another surprise in today’s event. She was seriously ill last summer and almost lost her life. Her branches were ravaged by a vicious outbreak of some sort of gross insect. Her condition was critical. I don’t mean to gossip but she had to have entire branches amputated. She looks delicate in this creamy white, but don’t underestimate her; she’s a fighter! I must say that purple and gold combinations are all the rage this year! Here is Miss Spiderwort, arrayed in periwinkle and gold. The deep green stems and leaves show off her complexion perfectly. Miss Spiderwort works at her posture constantly, as the gold filaments she wears are quite heavy. She enjoys tennis and other sports during the day, but by dusk she has withdrawn into herself, to rest until morning. A relative latecomer to this revue is Miss Pink Dahlia. She is the niece of Miss Scarlet Dahlia, who is kind enough to have her visit each summer. I don’t know the specifics, but I heard Miss Pink has a difficult home situation. In fact she arrived this year a little worse for wear. Miss Scarlet intimated that Miss Pink would perk right up after some brush up etiquette lessons. But for now she is a vision in variegated shades of pink.May I introduce Miss Woodland Violet? She is the first true shade lover to appear in flower this year. Her hourglass figure is set off by a dainty lavender shade. She is a tidy little thing. Even her accompanying leaves are arranged impeccably. She runs a tight ship. I am not going to tolerate any negative talk about our last model. Some of the girls have actually called her “trash” and “a possible weed.” I admit I do not know her provenance, but I can see she has worked her heart out for today’s revue. She is dressed in a jaunty orange and yellow print, with an oversized yellow button at the right hand side. The large, even clunky accessory adds whimsy to the ensemble. Miss No Name certainly has an eye for fashion.

And there they are, ladies and gentlemen! Can we have a round of applause for these fashion forward ladies? I hope we’ll get to interview each one personally this season. For now though, we admire their bold fashion sense. You’re going to see their signature looks copied over and over this season. Just remember: you saw it on MIndful Magpie first!

A Reliable Tour Guide

Posted on April 8, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Don’t expect a slick sophisticated travel review today. I’m returning to my recent trip to Istanbul to tell you about some of my adventures. Many times when I travel it is because I am tagging along with my husband while he works. We have our methods down pat. We arrive a day or so early and do things together. Then he works for two and a half days while I amuse myself, and then we have a little more time together after his work is concluded.

When people I know found out I was going to Istanbul, a majority of them advised me not to go anywhere alone. Many of them said this not based on any of their own experiences, but because an American woman had recently been murdered there. Personally I was not afraid. For one thing I already live in a very violent town, and could hardly imagine Istanbul being worse. Second, I am careful when I travel. I don’t venture into “iffy” areas. The places I want to go are distinctly undangerous - museums, for example. What are the statistics on murders inside museums and museum bookstores? Finally, I trust my own instincts. If I even think I might start to feel uncomfortable in a place, I leave.

Despite my own opinions, the pleas not to go out alone continued. Even my daughter who had recently been to Istanbul asked me not to go out alone. She had not gone out by herself while in Istanbul, but she had had no reason to; her husband was not working. To appease my daughter, I said that while her Dad was working I would get a Turkish bath at the hotel and go on a tour. That seemed to assuage her fears.

As planned. my husband and I had a day to orient ourselves to the town before he started work. The first day he worked I booked myself for a Turkish bath at our hotel. I knew this was probably not going to be the most authentic experience, but having had no Turkish bath at all, ever, I thought I could start here. In fact I wasn’t even sure what a Turkish bath was. When I checked in at the spa desk, I was led to a ladies’ dressing room and shown where to put my clothes. and what towel to wrap myself in.

I complied with these directions, and sat down on a bench in the dressing room wondering what I was supposed to do next. After a few minutes I went out to the front, draped in my towel, causing a maintenance man to jump ten feet,( They’re very modest over there) and asked the receptionist if I was supposed to come back to the front. All she said to me was “No.” “OK, no,” I muttered to myself and went back to the dressing room. It sure was getting hot and humid in there! I sat and sat. In a few minutes a woman clad in a bikini like outfit came in from a back door in the dressing room and addressed me in Turkish. When I couldn’t understand her she left. Since I have such trusty instincts I realized, in my sweaty humid state that unless I approached someone I would probably spend my entire day sweating in a towel in a dressing room! I knew not to go to the front desk so I opened the back door, where I saw the Turkish speaking woman. Gulping in the fresh air of the corridor I ventured,” Turkish bath?” She responded again in Turkish, but this time I heard the word“hamam” (Turkish bath) so I vigorously nodded yes.

We needed no language for the bath. I stretched out on a warm slab of marble, listening to some soft music as the attendant scrubbed, lathered and rinsed me. Heavenly! After her ministrations she led me, freshly toweled, to a dark room with chaise longues, and brought me a tray of tea and fruit. And left me.

I nibbled my fruit and drank my tea, resting on the lounge which also seemed heated. After a few minutes it seemed a little…hot. What was I supposed to do now? I peered into the hallway. I saw no one. Once again I decided I’d better take matters into my own hands. Since no one was apparently ever going to come back for me again, I decided I could sneak back into the dressing room for my phone and take a few stealth pictures. Then I let myself out. No one seemed to notice.

This was where I had my Turkish bath. The same little maintenance man was cleaning the room,so I didn’t take a full shot. I figured I had frightened him enough for one day.

The next day, Sunday, I was booked on an all day tour which was to include being picked up at the hotel and returned to the Asian side at the end of the day. I arrived in the lobby at the appointed time. After fifteen minutes of waiting, caffeine deprived I spoke to the desk clerk who stated my car was outside. Sure enough, a young man in a business suit was waiting for me in a four door sedan. He ushered me into the back seat and in silence drove me from the Asian to the European side. We pulled into the parking lot of the HIlton, beside a couple of vans, where several Turkish men were conferring. It seemed to me that Turkish men seemed to do quite a bit of conferring.

Someone opened the car door for me and I got out and stood there. One of the Turkish men approached me and asked if I wanted to go on Tour One or Tour Two. I stated I was booked for Tour Two, because I had already done most of the things on Tour One. His face fell.”Alright,” he informed me,”You are the only one on your tour then.”

Gulp! How does one go about being the only one on a tour? I didn’t know how to get myself back to the ferry to the Asian side so I decided I had best just go ahead with it. I was returned to the sedan, with my original driver, whom I thought resembled Balthazaar Getty, plus Aran, my very own tour guide.

I’m not really sure where all we went. I was just the Queen in the back seat.

After riding through several neighborhoods, with Aran narrating and Balthazaar silent except when the two men needed to confer in Turkish, Aran announced it was almost time for our break, during which I might like a coffee. Aah, a stop in a darling Turkish coffee shop sounded just right to me. As I daydreamed of aromatic coffee in the back seat, our driver pulled right into McDonald’s. Yes, I did say McDonald’s.

One of the McDonald’s cats.

While my driver and tourist guide bought coffee upstairs, I went downstairs to the ladies restroom. I had bought a bottle of water ( You can’t drink the tap water there) so I could take my vitamins and such. I was the only one down there, so while I was in the stall I went ahead and dug out my gallon sized ziplock bag which was filled with individual baggies of all my daily medicines.

My water bottle was in one hand and a baggie of vitamins was in the other, when the lights suddenly went out. I dropped the vitamins and they scattered all over the floor. Here I am. I said to myself. In this moment. On a toilet. In a bathroom. In the dark. In a McDonald’s. In Istanbul. With two men I don’t know. Taking a tour all by myself. Well, what is travel for if not for new experiences?

I managed to get my pants up without flushing my medicines down the toilet and exited the dark room without further mishap. My two Turkish friends were still enjoying their coffee and cigarettes.

You can have your Big Macs delivered in Istanbul. Good to know.

Next we went to a scenic overlook. I am afraid I can’t remember the name. It was too hazy for good pictures, but I enjoyed people watching while I tasted a selap, a local drink made of dried orchid roots. Aran and Balthazaar were standing by, respectfully keeping an eye on me. I was beginning to feel the way Sasha and Malia Obama might feel, precious and well cared for. And deserving it too.

Soon we departed to the Beylerbeyi, a summer palace of the sultans. Baltahzaar let us out and we entered the palace grounds. Aran told me that visitors must be accompanied by a guide, So he gave me a lovely tour of the palace. Unfortunately photography was not allowed, so I can only tell you it was sumptuous inside.

The tunnel to the Palace.

The palace grounds.

We journeyed on to the Serkeci train station, to the site of the original Orient Express route. A complimentary lunch in the train station restaurant, also named the Orient Express, was included on my tour. Aran ushered me to a table with a gentlemanly flourish. Before I knew it a mustachioed waiter appeared for my drink order. Since I was the only person in the restaurant, I was in fact attended by several mustachioed waiters. In regal solitude I sipped my tea, ate my lunch, admired the Agatha Christie posters, and read my Kindle.

After lunch I had time to take a few pictures and pretend I awaited an appointment with Hercule Poirot. Aran seemed to have vanished but I eventually saw him conferring with a few other Turkish men and drinking tea at a small corner table. I think my darting in and out of the train station alarmed him; whenever he couldn’t see me he rushed outside to find me. In fact there seemed to be an abundance of time to wait after lunch.

Train station cat.

Because guess what? We were waiting for Baltahazaar to bring Other People, would be joining us for the second half of the tour!! Was I ever glad to see them! Now I no longer had the crushing burden of being the only person to tip Aran this day! This dilemma had been buzzing around my brain like an aggressive bazaar merchant all morning!

When the others joined us we piled into a van and went for a brief turn at the Spice Market. I was surprised to find myself a little unwilling to share “my” guide with these interlopers. I winced when I heard these Americans asking questions such as ,”Are you a Muslim?’ And, “Why do I see so many covered women?” But I remained gracious, as always.

Can you guess which one of these men is NOT an American?

Our last stop was a cruise on the Bosphorus. As we made our way there Aran asked the others what hotels they came from. I was the only one on the Asian side. “What will happen to me when the tour is over?” I asked Aran. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I have to take all the others back to their hotel. But I’ll show you how to ride the ferry back; it’s easy!” he reassured me. Hmmm. Suddenly I was no longer such precious cargo.

People watching on the Bosphorus cruise.

It was such a glorious, sunny day for a boat ride that we had a huge crowd. It was difficult to take pictures, so after a while I just listened to Aran’s narration and wondered how I would return to the Asian side. In due time the cruise was over. Aran was in a big hurry to get the other tour members back in the van. I can only assume there was some deadline for returning either the van or its passengers. I barely had time to press some lira into my guide’s hand before he pointed where I should get the ferry to the Asian side, and turned in the opposite direction.

I approached the pier as Aran had directed but the sign did not say Kadiköy which was my destination. No one was on duty in the ticket booth. I needed to buy a ticket from someone. Since I did not know I would need my Istanbulkart, I had left it at the hotel. I saw someone talking to a man in a reflective vest, so I decided I too would approach him. He informed me that this was the correct ferry. The destination was the Princes’ Islands, but Kadiköy was the first stop. And he was glad to sell me a ticket.When the gangplank was lowered I crowded aboard with all the others.

When the tea man came around, I treated myself. Sipping the sweet hot liquid, I concluded that when I travel there is no such thing as “going out alone”, because I always take me with me. In all of the activities I had undertaken in part to keep my promise not to go out alone I had had to rely upon my own judgement. Heck, if I’d not taken action the day before I’d still be wrapped in a towel in the basement of my hotel! Who had helped me in the dark McDonald’s bathroom? ME!! And right now, after being treated like a hothouse flower most of the day by my tour guide, I was left to my own devices to get back to where I’d come from. From now on, I told myself, whenever someone says don’t go out alone, I’ll say, “Don’t worry; I never go out alone!” I am the most reliable tour guide of all.

Come On Over!

Posted on March 22, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Hey! I’m having a party and YOU”RE INVITED!!! We are somewhat limited in that this is a ladies’ dinner party on a Monday night, but if you’ll join me while I get everything out for tonight you will FEEL the excitement!!! Come on; I’ll show you!

Since I’ve recently returned from Istanbul. we’re having a simple Turkish theme. The menu is Turkish red lentil soup, homemade bread, salad with a Turkish lemon dressing, and Turkish delight for dessert. The soup recipe is from Bimur’s Turkish Cookbook. I was able to use my dried mint and pul biber (red pepper). They were some of my treats from the Istanbul Spice Bazaar.

I’ve already cooked our food so it’s time to set the table. This is a no-fuss party, so we’re using our clear dishes which can go in the dishwasher. I’m putting some fresh mint on every plate; later we will use it in our soup. Our dinner napkins, which had to be pressed but thankfully not starched, have a simple but timeless design. Timeless design is also Turkish! Spices from the Istanbul Spice Bazaar will be part of the table decor, as well as party favors for the guests. They’re even shaped like dolmas, don’t you think?

Now let’s get out a few pretties. It is nothing but pure Magpie Fun to get pretties out for a party. We have fancier things, but tonight is more casual. Here are the wine glasses I painted a few years back. Which one will you choose?

And look at these cocktail napkins. They are an estate sale find. The package said they are paper but are supposed to look like silk. I don’t know if I will serve any chai, as many ladies don’t want caffeine at night, but I’m ready with my Turkish tea set if there are any takers.

Here is a cute little guy I’ve had for a while. I bought him somewhere and then rudely shoved him into the back of a kitchen cabinet where he languished for years. If I hadn’t had to clean out my cabinets to be painted he might still be there. He will be on hand tonight to help the ladies with their olives.

I will serve the dessert on this lovely torte plate given to me by a very special lady in my yoga class. It may be a little large for the occasion, but the lady who gave it to me is so peaceful and generous I would like for her spirit to be a part of the gathering.

So that’s it - an easy dinner party for a weeknight, combining Turkish and Southern hospitality! The only thing left to do is pop the bread in the oven. Wait a minute! I need to go press my hostess apron!

Yes, waist lines did used to be smaller, but no matter. I can get it around me. Thanks for being here a little early to help me set things out. I get such an adrenaline jolt before a party that I’m always afraid I’ve forgotten something. But of course that’s part of the fun too! Oh! Wasn’t that the doorbell?

On The Correct Path With Jane Eyre

Posted on March 12, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

I’m convinced that all humans have internal lists of “what is supposed to happen” in their lives. In my life, it is “supposed to ” snow every winter. I’m talking about grey skies bursting with frozen precipitation, plump snowflakes drifting past my windows and snowdrifts disguising lawn chairs and toy wagons. I mean a blanket of snow that sends us rifling through drawers for the “snow clothes” necessary to frolic outside. For the second year in a row we have gotten nothing except for the lightest dusting of snow, which does not even qualify one to rush to the store for blizzard supplies such as hot chocolate, chocolate bars, and marshmallows.

If you, reader, do not hail from the South, I had better tell you that down here even ONE INCH of snow will paralyze the city. Stores and offices close, and yes, there is an air of hysteria, pre-snow, at Kroger’s, where hordes of shoppers fill their carts with the above mentioned necessities plus bread, milk and instant fire logs. We are giddy because we know we will not have to go to work or school. It is what I call an excused absence from adult life. What a blissful moment indeed it is to announce,” I can’t go to work today. I may as well play in the snow!”

Upon my return from Istanbul, which was also snow-free, I had to admit to myself that this bleak, lackluster winter was all we were to have this year. My chances for snow had evaporated faster than a snowball on a hissing radiator. I would not be donning my snow boots to crunch through a silent pristine wonderland, but huddling, covered by layers of sweater, by a space heater instead. For a time I indulged myself with self pity. I was cold. The days were dark. “What was one to do?” I wondered morosely.

Of course there was but one practical solution: to embrace the ugliness of the winter by pretending to be Jane Eyre! Nerdy you say? Goofy? I would say it is no more goofy and nerdy than having imaginary conversations with people I don’t know, which is what I am doing right now.

The fact that I was at that time listening to Jane Eyre , thanks to the marvelous podcast CraftLit, probably contributed to my decision. On an unpromising Saturday morning I set out with my Ipod, walking at Shelby Farms Patriot Lake. I decided I would use my camera to catalogue the sights, both colorful and bland, which caught my eye. As the wind whipped across the lake, I wrapped my scarf more tightly around myself while contemplating Jane’s dismal childhood of chilblains and privation, and her eventual posting at Thornfield. The chapters that day concerned Mr. Rochester’s false pursuit of Blanche Ingram, the cruel ingenue, in full view of poor besotted Jane.

Jane Eyre was alone in the world.

As I rounded the path for another lap, I began to enumerate ways in which I resembled Jane Eyre. One, I was on foot in an ugly setting, just like lowly Jane. Though not a governess, I do work to keep children safe and healthy. I thought Jane was a good judge of character when she saw through both Miss Ingram and Mr. Rochester. I hoped that I too had intuition about other people. Jane didn’t try to put on airs, which I thought was a plus. I too eschew wearing makeup and dressing in uncomfortable clothes. Mr. Rochester could confuse and annoy Jane to no end, just as my husband can confuse and annoy me!

Passing a lone bench by the lake, I imagined myself as Jane in a bonnet and long skirt, walking for a while before she returned home to sit by the fire. I decided that the character trait I most admired about Jane was her deep knowledge of her self. She knew her values and refused to compromise them. Even in the constricted social environment for women at the time, she struggled never to be beholden to anyone. Her ability to listen to her own inner voice helped her not to be swayed by the opinions of others.

This was good food for thought. How was I doing on listening to myself? How was I living out my values? How was I giving back to the world? Each question I asked myself led to another question, and eventually to a few answers. The answers don’t matter as much as the fact that I asked them. My pretend game had put me right on the path of self examination, which was just the correct “supposed to” for that day.

How about you? Do you ever admire character traits in fictional characters? Which ones? Do you have those traits or wish you did? I won’t ask you to tell whether you actually pretend to be the characters BECAUSE I ALREADY KNOW YOU DO! But don’t worry. People like Jane Eyre don’t tell tales!

An Eye On Design In Istanbul

Posted on March 4, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

When I learned I would be going to Istanbul on fairly short notice, I consulted with my daughter who had recently returned from there. She advised that I read Istanbul: The Collected Traveler, An Inspired Companion Guide edited by Barrie Kerper. I took her advice and read this and other books to learn as much about Istanbul as quickly as I could. The more I read about this fabled city, the more I was overwhelmed with how much I did not know. Because here’s the thing about Istanbul: whatever you know or see or experience, there is always more.

Now that I am back from Istanbul I naturally want to share some of the “more” that I experienced there during my brief visit. I anticipate that this task will be just as easy as pulling individual jewel- colored pieces of glass out of a twirling, revolving kaleidoscope. If such a thing were possible, one piece I would extract would be that of design. I cannot think of a single place I looked in Istanbul where I did not behold the splendor of ancient design. Whenever I am surrounded by works which have survived the centuries, I am humbled by the skills of these long dead artists and craftsmen. How did they live? How did they learn to plan and carry out works in stone, in glass, in paint, in jewels, in fibers?

I could go on and on describing my emotional reactions to these wonders, but you already know my magpie tendencies. So without further ado here are some some designs I admired from just one place: the Hagia Sophia Museum.

I love the painted arch above the screened window.

To the left of the dome is a scaffold; restoration is ongoing in the museum.

View from the balcony.

The chandeliers, an Ottoman addition to the space, seem like floating clouds.

The mosaic tiles.

A view out the window.

This mosaic looks as though it is made out of gold.

Even the broken floors have interesting shapes.

Beautiful shapes everywhere.

A railing.

From Christian era, excavated during renovations.

More excavated stone.

In the courtyard.

In my musings about ancient structures and design, I am always reassured at how similar humans seem to be through the ages. We seem wired to decorate, to embellish, to arrange raw materials around us in order to make statements about ourselves in this world, and about what we believe to be the world to come. In the majestic spaces of the Hagia Sophia I am reminded like untold numbers before me that I am but a miniscule speck beneath the glory of the heavens. Through carvings, paintings, mosaics, and more, artists of the early Christian and Ottoman periods speak to us of intangibles: life, love, eternity, brotherhood. Questions they struggled with then we still struggle with today. I find a pleasing design in that.

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