What To Do With Vodka
The weather got its act together sometime yesterday afternoon. Auspiciously—because tomorrow is July.
Like we need any reason beyond bright yellow sunshine to buy vodka, but here's why I need a bottle of Monopolowa, STAT: I made rose-petal simple syrup. What I did was I walked into my backyard and clipped some hot-pink rose flowers that were wildly in bloom. "Foraging" is what the kids are calling it these days. I tore the petals and placed them in a pot with equal parts water and sugar (a cup of each, I reckon)—simmering them for a few, letting them sit for a few, and straining.
My big plan now is: Combine with vodka and soda water, and drink. The end. Wanna come over and have one with me?
Right Now
My garden is like a poem in June—like the right series of words strung together.
Maybe it's ’cause I planted everything in early summer all those years ago—so it's basically a birthday celebration? Maybe it's ’cause June has that just right combo of sun and storm? Maybe it's ’cause none of that?
Anyway, even a month from now the grass will brown, the rose blossoms gone, the truest-purple lavender stalks nothing but dried up seed shakers. It's okay. Deep summer will bring other things, like crocosmia and ripened tomatoes and such. For now, though, I'm trying to spend all my spare time (Cougs has set the example—see above) simply lounging about in sun-dappled garden shades.
Out-of-Towners Mega Post
Hello from my desk. The parents and nephew have been visiting for the past week, and I just dropped them off curbside so they could run to catch their flight. Now it's time to reclaim my work/adult/real-life life.
For peeps who don't know, I'm a consummate Portland tour guide, and we did a crap-ton of stuff while they were in town (the below is a short list—should you decide to come visit, I shall design you a custom itinerary of your own). There were hours logged in the car; some traffic, some testy exchanges and almost-arguments, some 9-year-old empty-stomach-induced tears shed ... you know how it goes. What can I say? Your family drives you crazy—they are your closest, most fraught relationships. But for me, parting ways at the airport is always done with a heavy heart, and the house seems to echo with emptiness upon my return.
1. PSU farmers market: Parsley, potatoes, sugar snaps, and crimson piles of the sweetest, shyest strawberries you'll ever come to know.
2. Dad fixed everything: Peter Sherowski wrenched and tinkered throughout every spare moment. Thanks to him, my house works.
3. Horsetail falls hike: Drive on past the Multnomah Falls tour-bus crowds, hike up a different trail past a handful of lonesome waterfalls—one that you duck behind; the torrent of water pounding so loud, the soft mist so cool on your skin.
4. Impromptu Naked Bike Ride spectating from front yard: My dad, standing in the front yard wondering why there's 6,000 naked people riding bikes down the street in front of my house.
5. The Rose Garden at dusk: For my mom. A rose explosion in every hue. The last of the sunlight to illuminate them. The air smelling better than at any other time of day.
6. Sauvie Island beach day: Hot wind, cold cheese sandwiches, and a dip in the Columbia River as the freighters bob on by.
New Kitchen, Old Secrets
Although it became mine in 2006, my house was built in 1922, and like anything that's almost a century old—it's seen a lot. And it has secrets, even from me.
But let's back up. For at least half of May, I was living construction-zone style in the process of remodeling my kitchen. A DIY affair. I am a liberated woman, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that I enlisted the help of several bad-ass men to help with finer points of tear out and installation.
However, I did a lot of this remodel myself—for which I am proud. Tired and proud. Indeed, I found myself one morning wedged painfully on my back under the sink, legs splayed out on the tile floor. As I wrestled with the faucet plumbing, dropped the crescent wrench on my forehead, and swore, I suddenly had a vivid memory of my dad doing same when I was a tot. The cycle of life, guys!
It's still rough around the edges (and sinks, and window boxes), but for the most part, my kitchen is a brighter, bigger, simpler, more natural place to drink morning coffee the color of toasted almonds and bake giant homemade pizzas.
I didn't take any before pictures (dumb me!). Below is as close as I could get—some vintage pics from a Christmas party.
New wood countertops that glow goldenly in any light.
When we tore off the faux wood paneling that surrounded my kitchen, we found a secret 1920s pantry that someone sealed off 50-odd years ago (the same someone who thought putting up faux wood paneling EVERYWHERE in the house was the exact thing to do). Anyhow, all these years later and it turns out that this ancient secret cubby is the EXACT right size to slide my little black fridge into. Fate! Or luck? We can't know for sure.
The May Report
The first week of May, gone.
Drank: Cazadores tequila, in a small cool glass with a salty rim. Baptized with a squeeze of lime juice. A few sips and you're all toasty inside.
Skated: Bracewell backyard mini ramp for like 17 minutes on Friday night before swollen clouds broke into downpour and we all ran in the house where the air was humid like walking through a swimming pool.
Made: Incendiary potato salad with dressing of salt, chives, and greek yogurt. Was told it was "pretty good for not having mayo."
Planted: Bright, young tomato starts outside in the dark earth. I raised them up from little babies—how proud I am of their strong stems and leaves!
Free-lanced: Spreadsheets—hours of them, through the late afternoon—but a garden, a breeze, and happy pet hijinks to go with.
