BLOOMING BOUQUETS

The photos on my friend Janie’s blog today are just TOOOO good to miss!!! They’re of Bradford pears, in the Southern season so far ahead of our own. There are two trees down the block from us, and we stroll down almost daily to check their progress, for the display is fleeting, from bare limbs one day, to swelling buds, to the tightly-furled little blossoms like the bouquets of avant-garde brides, whose flowers are exotically-named unbloomed peonies imported from Belgium or Holland or other flowery places, towering over guests in their matching vases set upon chartreuse cloths. For the bride, they’re clutched into nosegays wrapped with gossamer silks and satins of taupe. They’re captured by all the smart photogs, held against mortgage-weight dresses, against the edgy walls of rusting buildings, carried on a tandem bike by a bride in blue shoes.







These full-blown blossoms are more like the bouquets of today’s Southern brides, with lush cascades of Spring’s promise, and like the luxuriantly luxurious arrangements of whole limbs of blossoms in vases and buckets and urns set on Battenburg or quilts, humble and so vastly great they elude the telling.

They evoke stretches of green lawn, tents of billowing tulle, big bowls of lemonade and Sweet Tea, Sweet-Potato Biscuits and Ham and vast trays of melon, bespeaking the open-handed hospitality of a Summer afternoon.

As the time of bursting comes, that season-in-a-day when the force that through the green fuse drives the flower---I wish that the time for watching could be like that wonderful Disney film, back when Disneyland was on Sunday nights, and was one of the few “color” programs. It was called “Nature's Half Acre,” or some such evocative name. With the magical processes of the time-lapse cameras, you could watch the puffing of the bare buds, then their bursting forth into the most charming flowers, right before your eyes. I considered that the “best movie” I’d ever seen, for years and years. Perhaps it still is.

The pear-blooms cover the trees like an ice-storm, crusting the bare limbs in magic, a snowfall of the most delicate, the most ethereal of petals, each different, each unique, with the punch of tiny red and burgundy anther-hearts center-pulsing with the ongoing life of the plant. I think of each one of those tiny stem-tips as promise-of-pear, marveling at the amount of fruit that tree would produce, could it bring every bloom to fruition. A tree could feed a city, I think, were there a way to hold up all that vast weight until the ripening.

I marvel every day at the magical skills of Janie’s lens---she captures the most ethereal and the most weighty moments in the South, from the temporary of a pear blossom to the lengthy wither of a centuries-old barn, melting into the earth. What she does and how she does it are unexplainable---the light and clarity and sheer artistry of her work are amazing.

To see them all, click here: http://southernlagniappe.blogspot.com/2010/03/close-up-look-at-bradford-pear-trees.html

This is set to go straight to that post, so the blossoms will still appear, even though the date has passed. However, you'll be so mesmerized, you'll just keep looking and looking, at every one of her posts. They're that wonderful.

A-WAITIN'

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;
And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

Whitman "When Lilacs Last . . ."

We're still in the mud-stage, but this morning, I noticed four clumps of tulip greens---the faithful old things were here when we moved in, and that's 12 years ago. Last year they didn't even bloom, but we left them there in hope, sorta like a faithful old dog who's outlived his huntin' days, but still deserves a place by the fire.

And Miss Effie, the nesting flamingo who sits at the foot of the BIG TREE, will soon lay a few tiny pastel eggs in her nest, in honor of the Season. She's been with us since three houses ago. You DO know that flamingoes sitting on a nest are NOT TACKY, don't you? Just wanted to be sure.

And the little corner fern has three bright green fronds peeking out above last year's blanket of leaves in the hosta beds. The moss is a verdant blanket of velvety hues, all across the back garden, and with today's clock-spring, the real one promises to be right around the corner. Before we know it, the grapevines will be sending out their little seeking fingers and the Fairy Dell will be filling with the gleamy leaves of millions of little purple violets. The Winter-crimped carpet of ivy is already beginning to green up and shine, and even a couple of bushes have either retained lots of fresh leaves, or they're just jumping out to get a head start.

I've had the lilac-print tablecloth on the breakfast table for weeks now, and I think I'll go twine the silk ones into the chandelier---I've never known lilacs, as they were more New Englandish flowers than Delta ones, speaking of poems and thaws and mossy woods, but they have always been such a romantic idea, kindled by Whitman and Gladys Taber and Miss Emily, though I never DID think "Lilac Seas" was my kind of poem, being so grim and cryptic, and all.

And the pronunciations---having never SEEN a lilac, or having heard the word pronounced, I accepted the March girls' high-falutin "lie-lacks" as the true way, and then when other movie stars spoke of "lye-locks"---well, I was confused as heck. I do like the country way of saying plain old lilacs, just like it looks and feels.

And I DO love them now, as real, touchable, smellable flowers, with a way of perfuming the air with magic, from a long way away. And despite their soft sprays and fragile beauty, they're fleeting, but not flighty flowers---they're good solid old kitchenyard and arbor and gatepost LILACS, pure and true, and I'm so glad to know them.

PATCHWORK COOKIES

We were going out to our favorite Japanese place tonight, for our littlest GrandGirl (2 ½) has never seen all the flim-flammery and artistry of those flashing blades and onion volcanoes.
She’s having a sleepover with us, and since the weather has been what she calls “grumpy” all day, with cold drizzles and occasional downpours, we decided to make it a home-evening.

We came to that decision in the grocery store, as we watched the folks running through the rain, splashing in puddles and coming in the doors like shivery pups, ready to divest themselves of wet jackets and hats. So we threw two little packs of Stouffer’s lasagna in the buggy, along with assorted snacks and the makings of a good romaine/red onion/Mandarin salad (she will eat two kid-cups of those little golden nuggets at a time, if we allow).

Then AFTER we were back in the house with all those bags of groceries, leaning over the too-full-already freezer with sprouts and trout and peas, trying to wade our way into THE ROOM to put away the canned and boxed goods (I’m tellin’ you---if those Sherpas go on strike again, we’ll never find our way out)---Chris said brightly, “Why don’t she and I make COOKIES?”

And so they are---this minute. I went upstairs to the left-from-Christmas stash of sweet-supplies, finding half a bag of Ghirardelli white chocolate chips, about half a cup of Tollhouse regulars in a little Rubbermaid, an unopened bag of chopped Macadamias in a drawer, and then raided the lovely small candy-dish of its little chocolate buttons, as Nigella calls them. And, of course, there is always a bag of fat pecans---in the freezer or Cold Room, awaiting the toasting or chopping.

So, now, my two CookieChefs are in the kitchen in matching aprons (he’s wearing mine, and is quite fetching in the lovely pale green-with-yellow sash), and she’s oh-so-proud of hers. I’ve been taking pictures sorta down the counter as they measured the sugar (I hope the camera caught that great snowfall as she poured from pyrex cup to bowl), and the scent of toasting pecans and vanilla is wafting, wafting.

I’ve just been informed that “Ganner Spill it!!” and I’m not going to look or inquire. I DID forget to tell him that her version of cracking an egg is to grasp it in both hands and squeeze with all her might, but she's never yet succeeded in breaking one. Today may be the day.

So, after while, we’ll be having a nice plate of warm Toll-mac-whi-peca-choco-butt cookies, straight from the oven---wonder how THAT would go over at the Pillsbury Bakeoff?

And I’m fairly certain we may not need that lasagna after all. One of the loveliest times I can remember was the night our Georgia five arrived about one a.m. from that long drive, and everybody collapsed around the dining table, close and cozy, as Ganner took the cookies out of the oven and we all had a past-midnight feast of warm cookies and cold milk. I still smile at the memory of those little faces, sleepily amazed and delighted at the unacustomed treat. We washed chocolate-smeared hands and faces and all tumbled into our beds.

I have this theory that if disagreeing lawmakers, rulers and deciders would just desert those smoke-filled rooms for a nice kitchen with the scent of cookies baking, and all settle down over a homey table, wonders and miracles would occur. Dare we hope?

GUSSIED vs. HUSSIED

There’s a difference in the South between Gussied Up and Hussied Up---the pronunciation, for one thing. Gussied is pronounced with the USSS as it’s spelled---a crisp ssss through the teeth, and most always meaning nice things. The declaration and question, "Why, you're sure gussied up today---where you goin'?" can almost always be taken only as a compliment on appearance and taste.

On the other hand, Hussied takes on a HUZZZZZ sound, with a little bit of disdain in the hum of the zzzzzz’s. As in “Why that ole HUZZZZY!!! Who does she think she IZZZZZ?”

The key is that you can Gussy up a house, a room, a dress, a tabletop, a package or a window treatment or a hat, but almost the only thing you can call “hussied up” is a person---female persons, at that.

Well, maybe that time Bugs Bunny wore the lipstick, but that’s not a good example, I guess.

Gussying is all in the outlook, I think---you add a little extra touch here, a coat of paint there, a new shade of nail polish or a different centerpiece, and there you have it---gussied. A lush blossom tucked behind an ear, purse-shoes-belt to match, a fresh white pique collar on a plain navy dress, the tilt of an absolutely useless wisp of whimsy passing for a cocktail hat---those fall into the gussy category.

As do lace on tiny socks above shiny black Mary Janes, ribbons on ponytails, white gloves in Summer, pearls with a sweater set, a flirty glimpse of red silk slip in the hem-slit of a demure dress, (which can all-too-easily fall into the Hussy category, depending on dress, slip, and degree of flash). There’s also the extra-fancy trimmings to a wardrobe---the colorful inserts on a pocket, a special set of buttons for placket and sleeves, an elaborate stitching technique which sets the garment apart, a special furl of ribbon or paper to make a gift almost too beautiful to unwrap.

Gussying in a room could include a punch of pillows, a paint color, a mural or bit of trompe l’oeil, some specially-draped and tasseled curtains, a little tableau atop a table, a mantel, a shelf. We all love a special touch, whether our own, in a magazine, in a house in which we feel the warmth of things well-loved.

But Hussied Up, now---that’s a different subject entirely, mostly calling for a state of BEING, for the carriage and attitude count for a great percentage of the aura. The extra touches are there, the attention to detail may be present, the care in preparation and presentation undeniable, but the effect is just TOO-TOO. Too-tight or too bright or too-too is just too much---they run over into “Did you SEE what she was wearing?” on past, “Too much sugar for a dime,” into “Ten pounds of sugar in a five-pound sack,” and the capstone: “Her Mama would just DIE!”

My girlfriends and I used to tease each other about being Hussied Up when we would go out together---a little extra care with the lipstick, an appointment for a hairdo that afternoon, an outfit just bought and pressed Just SO, but those were just nice ladies getting spruced up.

REAL Hussying is either a gift or a curse---a flair for a dramatic look, with a special style that gets you noticed AND talked about, but in an envious or admiring way, though your admirers may be as much detractors as any.

Or the curse of not having The Sense God Gave a Goose in the way you present your person---a painted-on outfit cut down TO THERE, with tottery heels, big hair and too much jewelry AND perfume just ain’t the way you want to go through life. It gets you noticed, all right, but it also gets you Looked At Funny and Laughed At, besides.

We had an Aunt who wore odd little outfits, with a bit too much powder and lipstick, and the Toujours Moi preceded her into the house. She wore TOO MUCH STUFF, too many GeeGaws, too much tarnished or plastic bits and pieces with gappy places where the crumbs of sparkly glass had fallen from the settings. She was like the society woman of whom it was rumored that she just stood in the middle of the room and her maid flung every knick-knack in her jewelry box at her. More was MORE.

On up into the Seventies, her stockings had seams, and there were always flocked butterflies or embroidered flowers scattered up her calves. In addition to all the above, her ensemble for my Grandpa's funeral included a large shoulder-strap purse, of a big ole Laura Ashley-type floral chintz if I remember right, and slapped on it midways like a Homecoming Corsage was the final touch: A huge red paper-satin bow, one of those sticky-back ones sold by the dozen at Fred's for Christmas packages.

But she was sweet and she was OURS; we tittered a bit in secret, but we would no more have hurt her feelings over her over-the-top effect than we’d fly. She was a nice lady, and no matter what she wore, the SELF of her could never have gone past extreme Gussied Up into Hussydom.
And therein lies the real difference.

MUCHO GUSTO!

We went for a walk to the grocery store about noon on Friday, for the ingredients for Sis’ famous chicken Enchiladas---I’ve had them at her house before, and when she said “How about I make Enchiladas one night?” I was right on board with that. We picked up a few items, then I asked if she’d like to stroll on around to the tiny Chinese buffet for a bowl of soup.

We had the nicest walk in the sunshine, with our few grocery items in a big purple market-bag, and I was surprised that the restaurant was practically FULL on a weekday. We usually go for an early dinner, just on a whim, and week nights are rather sparse, leading us to wonder each time if the place will still be there. NOW I see---proximity to several rather large office buildings is the key---those tables of nicely-dressed folks, plus a few soldiers in uniform---well, word has spread, and I think the future of our little eatery is fairly secure.

We sat there for more than an hour, just talking over soup and several other items from the buffet---they make THE BEST General’s Chicken in town---bar none (that I’ve tasted).

When we came back, we just relaxed for a while, for all the folks weren’t due here for dinner until six. We had a leisurely afternoon---I put on seven chicken thighs in the fat red Le Creuset with chunks of celery and onion and carrots, and the scent filled the house with the promise of a good dinner to come. She boned out the chicken and shredded it, and put away the stock to be used for soup or dumplings later in the week.

And in the manner of the theater, getting all the bit players out of the way so that the REAL STARS can take the limelight: The Unfried Beans, just sorta scroomped around in a dry non-stick skillet, with a little sauteed onion, cumin and garlic:





I washed cilantro while she chopped onions and got her mise all set out, then I started the onion sauté for the Spanish Rice.

I made it sorta slapdash, with a glug of salsa thrown in, as well as chopped peppers and garlic, a little cumin, a little cilantro, and then, when it didn’t smell QUITE seasoned enough, I went prowling in the pantry for a likely seasoning. I noticed a rolled-up half-used pack of Knorr Vegetable Soup---I’d made dip with the first half---and tossed in a tablespoon or so. You can see the little bits of carrot and pepper and maybe even peas for all I know, but pay no attention to the little brown flecks. They’re where I scraped the pot a bit after I got so involved in everything else and let the rice cook WAY too long---you coulda served that stuff to die-hard BiBimBap fans.

And butterbeans, of course. We always laugh at our favorite Mexican place, for we’ve decided that they put a pack of frozen veggies into each night’s immense pot of rice, for color, and we always check to see who got the good luck by getting a butterbean. So I opened a package of frozen ones and tossed in seven, since there were six of us, to even the odds. And I think everybody got one.

We had plain old store-bought salsa and sour cream, but Sis made the Guacamole---her recipe is outstanding. She also took great delight in diving into the dish cabinets and getting out just the right bowl for each dish---YELLOW!!!! Guacamole looks goooood in YELLOW!!

Tomatillo Sauce, right out of the container:

Her special Pico de Gallo, with jalapenos, cilantro, sweet onion, tomato, lime and salt, then you just imagine Splenda in its direction, to smooth the tart tomato. Wish I coulda smoothed the transition from picture to page, but you know how obtuse jalapenos are.

The Condiments and Kickshaws: (I’ve always wanted to say that---probably from reading too much Irvin S. Cobb as a child).

And the Enchiladas----I cannot tell you. She fried the corn tortillas, then rolled each one around handfuls of chicken, some grated Pepper-Jack, and a bit of onion, laid them neatly into the Pammed pan (cutting one in half down on the side end, to make it fit JUST SO), and ladled on her special Enchilada sauce---don’t ask me---I saw only cans of green chiles and lots of cheese.

MUCHO QUESO on top, then into the 350 oven for 30--45 minutes til bubbly and golden.

Her plate, with some of everything---she likes plain beans, and beans with topping.
I knew we’d find a use for those heavy crockery platter/plates I got at Goodwill years ago. Taken out of the hot dishwasher and set on big old flannel coaster-mats, they made the experience even more authentic.

Lovely meal, good company, and dessert was Carrot Cake WAY later, with strong café’. OLE!