Midsummer Rambles

The year is half over, and ……Tomatoes are almost here…

It’s July 18, and I get up at 4:40 a.m. so I can get “going.” Where am I going? Nowhere special. Just the usual.

I punch the button on my 5-cup coffee maker in the dark, then strip my “bed” of pillows and comforter and fold, then push it back into the sleep sofa. The three pillows get stashed inside a huge ottoman I got for such storage, and the king-sized blue-striped comforter gets folded, then rolled, then put into my closet, taking up an entire cubby. Whew. And that’s just the bed.

When you live “tiny,” as in my 225 square foot cottage, you have to make decisions. Like, do I have a real bed or a sleep sofa? A Murphy bed was considered, but the walls weren’t structurally sound for that heavy device. A real bed, although probably by far the most comfortable option, would take up that much square footage. Alexa tells me that a full-sized mattress is about 28 square feet. With a headboard and footboard, you’re talking about 1/5 of the entire floor plan.

On top of that, you see BED all day long, and it would leave very little room for a sitting area, or even a decent reading chair. So I opted for a sleep sofa in 2022 when I began furnishing the cottage I now call Katydid, after the childhood nickname my Auntie May called me.

I rented it the first summer, because I had an apartment and job in Portland, Maine, and wanted to maximize its use. Besides I loved being a host on Airbnb and made some decent money, met mostly really nice people who loved the tiny cottage.

And I’m considering renting it again — here’s one of my brilliant ideas. See if you agree. I finagled my work schedule, which involved quitting my Sunday job at the market, so that I now have every other weekend OFF. A beautiful word, “off,” as in not having to show up for anything but breathing, and getting dressed if you go out in public.

I thought on those magic weekends I’d rent out Katydid Cottage and take the hell off. There’s that word again. Mated with “take,” it makes a delightful phrase. I’d take off to somewhere …..just not sure where yet, but here are some ideas:

The Dickinson Homestead: my umpteenth cousin (yes it’s a dna match), Emily Dickinson’s home in Amherst, Massachusetts, has had several restorations and I haven’t been there in 10 years. I’m hoping to be able to see the new orchard planted, gad about town (great bookstore as I recall) and maybe dine out a bit.

Photo: from www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org

Okay, it’s one idea. I’m not a travel guide, and I’m just fleshing this out. I might also go north and try to visit the farm where Helen and Scott Nearing lived in Harborside, Maine. I’m a frustrated back-to-the-lander myself. Did I ever tell you this story?

September, 1973. That is not a typo. I had graduated from a 2 year college with a degree in Broadcast Journalism and transferred to Colby College in Waterville, Maine. I was following my brother Brian there. He’d majored in English and was a great quarterback for the Mules football team.

So I’m sitting in Lovejoy 104, the lecture hall, and I’m taking some type of test that is supposed to tell me what I should do in life, what I’d be best suited to. I can’t remember any of the questions. I’m a million years older now. But I do recall the result. I had dreamed of being a sportscaster, or a teacher, but when I opened the results of this assessment, the following word stared me down: FARMER.

A FARMER! Why was I even in college, I thought? You’ve got the wrong person I thought. But years later, decades later, that assessment was right on. I had had a “garden” since I was 8 years old. One my dad helped me make was simply a 3’ x 3’ square beside our Air Force base quarters front door, where Dad helped me plant a packet of blue morning glory seeds.

Those flowers were magnificent, and Dad put up a row of string so they’d climb, and they did climb, all summer long. I can still see them in my memory.

The next one included beans, because I was 10 or 12 or so and my mother said, “get out there and work in the garden — you wanted it, so….” Yikes. But it was hot and I got sweaty, and I still remember stringing up those beans by myself.

Over the years, so many moves, but a garden in each home.

Some planted in topsoil so thin, it was a miracle to get the twisted carrots I did. That was my Zen garden: just enough. Sometimes there was very little sun.

Now, at age 71, I would love to have a flourishing garden, and I kind of do. I cut herbs this morning, several types and I realized that it takes effort to source the seedlings, repot them, water and otherwise tend them. And occasionally click the bait and watch the handsome young French farmer show you how to harvest the basil. Oui oui, mon Cher.

My potted tomatoes are coming along. It’s midsummer, and someone somewhere is going to boast and show their bounty online. “Don’t compare your beginning (because we keep ‘beginners’ mind,’ always) to someone else’s middle,” I once heard. In my Buddhist practice, I try “appreciative joy,” or Mudita. I am joyful for the good fortune of others. This means no envy. Try it sometime. It’ll kill you some days. (Why aren’t MY tomatoes here yet? What? You’re already making a tomato sandwich? Oh, of course on your fresh, homemade bread?) Haha Gotcha.

Just let it go, I say. I’m doing what I can, where I am with what I have. And so are you.

Here’s a shot for you from my 6 a.m. walk:

Oh, and about that tomato sandwich. I have been making my own mayonnaise this summer. Thanks to Kenji Lopez-Alt, one of my favorite chef/food scientists. Do you have an immersion blender? Get one. It’s life-changing.

Egg yolk, lemon juice, Dijon, avocado oil and pulse!

Have a wonderful midsummer everyone!

And if you have any weekend getaway ideas, let me know.

Lovingly, Kate