Metamorphosis

 I was delighted at work the other day.  Teeny tiny larvae on the dill grew into great big hungry caterpillars, making their way along the fronds and stems, tucked by the airstream door.  

They grew big and fat so quickly.  Instead of work, I paused.  Watched.  One of the guests made his/her way down a stem and with their little (hands? fingers? caterpillar paws?) lifted some fronds to tuck straight into their mouth.  They chomped and chomped, but so delicately.  Didn't even mind my intrusion into the dinner hour.

I wish you could have seen it.  I laughed in delight.  I guess I need to google "how long does it take to go from big fat caterpillar to swallowtail butterfly".  

Father’s Day

 I have spent the day working. Did payroll. Schedules. Which are tricky now, but that is another story. Ate. Watched an episode of The Crown. Spent time with Nora. Worked on wine dinner menus. And laundry.

And.

I chose to be grateful.

So many men who have been mentors and allies and friends and guides to my children since Philip died.

And.

My dad.

Wow. I just keep coming back to that picture of him, young, a fire fighter. All three of us girls lined up on his lap, looking at us with nothing but love and adoration.

My children knew a dad who loved them. Delighted in them.

So did I.

And wow there are so many more stories that are scribbled in the margins.

So now I sit quietly on my patio as the mountains go from navy to charcoal. The sky from salmon and apricot to peach and submarine grey and dark smoke and ink spill.

A dog barks in the distance.

The poorwhill calls. Why does his song make me feel so real and alive? Sometimes he is up close. Now he is far down. Perhaps near the draw by the willow at the bottom. Beyond my fence.

Crickets or peepers or something like are the background music.

Yesterday as I looked out my bathroom window, knowing that Nora was to return any minute from her road trip across the country, I saw something that grabbed my attention.

Startled me, actually.

An aoudad.

Actually three of them. On the ridge between my place and my BFFs yurt just beyond. I could barely see them. Just their silhouette, the horns curving. Majestic necks. Walking as if they were fauns on their way to a royal gathering. Important news to discuss.

And then they were gone.

So earlier this evening i spoke to my dad. And yes, I speak to dead people all the time.

He was complicated. He grew up on a farm in dust bowl Oklahoma, if that gives you a clue. How many siblings? Six? And a grandma. And an cousin and an aunt. And a baby sister with downs syndrome.

My daddy loved me so much. Oh, how he loved me. I have pictures of his face, adoring mine. He adored my mom.

And he beat us and hurt and was scared and had a profoundly difficult childhood, not just beaten by his dad, who, by the way, also loved and adored him too. 

Thank god for EMDR, which is another story altogether. But that said, after December 21,2003, I never had another fight with my dad or my husband.

Just ask my kids.

Anyway.

Today I chose to spent moments here and there in the middle of my day doing payroll and schedules and menus and whatnot to remember the many men who have blessed me and my children. John Arnold in Marblehead. Mike Thomas in Temple. Raymond Skiles right here in Alpine. Rick Keith. 

And more. So many more.

Which is the core of my belief system. There is so much more.

And so i sit here on my patio in the quiet. Well. Not so quiet if you count the gentle breeze and the peepers. The tumbling dryer. The dogs down in the draw. Patrick and Madi are tucked in to a romantic dinner in Boise as he returns from a firefighter assignment. Thomas has little caesars with his cat, Nelson, in town. Maggie and Nils live life largely in Austin. Rose and her beau came to pick up her kitty and head back home after epic road trip. Nora and my dog friend Xolo are in town doing kid things with Nora’s  friend and I am so glad to have her back from epic sister road trip.

Tomorrow is a new day and the worries and realities swirl.

But tonight I remember the dads. And the not dads but holding the ropes people, and the hurts and joys and losses and griefs are kind of a lot.

And the waxing moon rises over the side of my house and instead of watching Netflix or reading a book I wrote something on my phone. 

Not Waiting for Inspiration

 I have pledged to return to writing.

Sometimes it is easy, the inspiration strikes and words flow readily.  All they require is for me to sit down quickly and start typing.

What to do on days I don't feel the juice?  I am fairly worn out.  Today is Sunday.  I have the time.  I already took care of the week's schedule and payroll.  Sketched out a calendar and some menus.  Absolutely nowhere to go except to the washer and dryer and perhaps the kitchen and bathroom for tidy up.  

I have the idea if I wait for inspiration, perhaps it won't find me.  Maybe I need to trust inspiration can strike even in the middle of a rote practice.  

For example, I sit in my beat up old hand me down chair in the corner of my room.  The window is open and a soft breeze caresses my cheek and seems to tell me secrets.  I am listening!  No other noise around but the sound of my work papers fluttering.

Or, A tiny little alcove in my bedroom holds a Book of Common Prayer and a hymnal.  Set upon the books a beautifully painted box filled with whispered prayers of panic and pleading, wishes and fears.  They are covered in dust telling the truth to anyone who cares to look.   

Hmmmm.  I have been a person of faith for my whole life.  Seeing the mystical and magical woven all around me, through the shaft of sunlight piercing the clouds, or the drops of dew glistening on the moss.  My dad led the singing at the tiny country churches we attended.  Mom played the piano.  Singing around the piano with my parents and their best friends is still one the things that delights me more than anything. 

Uh oh.  The tears started flowing and I just remembered there will be no more singing around the piano with my dad.  

I haven't been in church more than twice the past few years.  The most recent time was at my dad's funeral, and to tell you the truth I am perfectly content if I never set foot in a church again.

Whoa.  I said it.  Out loud where people might actually read this and become very concerned.  I am going to assume my kids are the only ones reading this.  Since they know me and love me I don't have to fear their judgement.  

It isn't very complicated.  I have completely lost faith in the trappings of religion.  I am not exactly certain what I believe about God and Jesus these days.  Well.  I am certain that if there is a God, he/she would certainly transcend gender, denominations, sects, religions.  Oh.  And politics.  

I might be a bit more comfortable with the concept of the Holy Spirit.  

This shedding has been going on for years and years.  No, not because my husband died and I am angry at God for taking him.  Although I have had quite a few questions about that.  For one, since Philip was the more spiritual, the more holy and committed to an evangelical belief system, wouldn't God have left him here? He would be the influence my children needed to keep them in the church?  When my children, okay, not kids anymore, have spoken to me about the loss of their faith, about their doubts, I sadly smile and agree that it is sometimes confusing to not have the certainty of our former belief system.  

Evidence overwhelms me again and again as I seem to perceive the hand of some invisible source providing, directing.  So in what exactly have I lost faith ?  I still pray, setting forth my intentions and desires.  Sometimes around the table with Mom I end my prayers "in Jesus' name" and it is comforting.  I do not mean it the way I did some years ago.  Not at all.

I believe the wind and the trees speak to me on a regular basis.  I believe when I set my heart toward gratitude, a shift occurs, bringing about change.  I speak to dead people all the time, their spirits so real I can almost, not quite touch them.  Right, Dad?  Right, Philip? And then I laugh at myself and tell myself I don't care one whit if I am merely speaking to myself and it is the computer in my brain answering back, and not the spirits of these dearly departed.  

When assailed by fear or joy or gratitude or worry, saying a prayer (to whom? I don't care!) is a connection to something bigger than me.  

This loss of my former faith makes many folks sad and confused. I certainly don't mind if they pray for me.  Truth is, I don't feel very confused at all anymore. 

I look up from my chair, laptop in lap.  About the time I think my pal, the wind, has gone on and left me behind, he? she? comes in and tenderly touches my cheek.  Such loving comfort.  It moves me deeply and I have to hold myself back from sobbing so as not to concern Nora.  I may not be confused.  But there are all flavors of grief.  It was easier, back in the day, when I was so certain.  Maybe I should pull out that sacred hand painted little box, peruse the little slips of paper.  Maybe it is time to make a little fire, present them as a burned offering.  A great big thank you to the powers that be for getting me from there to here.  Maybe it is time to start writing out my concerns and wishes on tiny slips of paper to tuck in the box. I don't have to define anything.  What if this blog is a bit of my prayer?  Sharing an authentic piece of human with the world.  Making myself vulnerable with my words.  Isn't that a prayer? 

In the meantime, I have the still afternoon, the sound of Nora stirring around in her room.  The cool breeze says summer is over and we can welcome a dear season of harvest.  

 

Fran Rowe, Artist (i need to write a blurb about Mom for a magazine and might as well start a draft here)

Several years ago Mom and I were driving around Alpine. She and Daddy had come out for a visit. I was still baking out of our home kitchen at the time. I suggested it would be a lot of fun to have a brick and mortar gallery somewhere downtown disguised as a bakery. We laughed and laughed at the idea. I told her that all the people coming in to get their cup of coffee would see her paintings, fall in love and buy them! 

 Isn't it funny how little nuggets of inspiration appear from out of nowhere? We are entering our fourth year downtown Alpine, bakery and fine arts gallery and now we chuckle in gratitude. Sure enough, she has sold several original oils and quite a number of giclees. What is even more lovely is the fact so many people get to delight in her craft, her life's work. 

 Mom has been painting and drawing all her life. Born in 1941, Wichita Falls, Texas, daughter to a small town preacher and his wife, the church pianist and organist. Mom always loved running around outside and was way more a tomboy than her mother would have preferred. She had a way of picking up every pretty rock that caught her attention, and still does! Mom sees more deeply into nature than some, perhaps because she actually pauses to take it all in. I think seeing nature is a part of her spiritual practice, as is her continued work of playing the piano, at home and at her church. 

Mom works in oils on linen. Occasionally watercolor and pastel. She has been recognized both regionally and nationally, through Oil Panters of America, Contemporary Masters and others. She has a big pile of medals and ribbons and writeups. Which is impressive on its own. I see things through a different lens. 

Mom always had a studio, wherever we lived. Daddy would see to that. While we girls would be rustling up dinner in the kitchen, riding horses, doing homework, she would be out there painting away. Sometimes she would go down to Big Bend in an RV with her boxer and paint on location for weeks at a time. The church ladies at home were a bit perplexed, wondering if Fran and John were getting a divorce! No! Their marriage was strong and endured richly because Dad recognized how desperately Mom needed to be in nature to get paint on a canvas. 

August, 1997, my parents and sister were involved in a head on collision with a drunk driver. Mom was in the hospital for weeks. Every bone in her foot was crushed. She had breaks in her legs, a head injury, was told she would never walk again. We worked to help her adjust to wheel chair life in the hard long journey of recovery. She couldn't remember how to paint. Depression set in. 

Here is where my mom went from average amazing artist and great mom to super hero status in my book. She decided she would completely disregard the prediction of the doctors and began the even longer and harder journey to freedom from the wheelchair. 

Mom was able to painfully get around with a cane and on a whim I suggested she and I make a road trip down to Big Bend National Park. Her healing place. Her heart's desire. Bound and determined, grasping her cane and my arm, tears running down our faces because of the agony, she lifted one foot. And then the other. Many minutes to cover a few feet, breathing in the mountain air, with the Chisos leaning over us like a giant friend. That short walk in the spring of 2000 was perhaps the longest, most painful journey of our lives. And the most victorious, empowering moment as well. 

Twenty years later, Mom still endures chronic pain from her injuries and we have lost count of the many surgeries. But she never gives up. Bound and determined. With a fierce need to do whatever it takes to get paint on canvas. She wishes to bear witness to the natural beauty she sees in the piles of rocks, the clouds, the looming canyon walls. Many take notice of the way she captures movement and light. Mom will tell anyone she paints as an act of worship. It is a spiritual practice for her, same as playing the piano in church. All I know is her journey is inspirational to me. Her courage and resilience heroic. Being able to share her work in our bakery/fine arts gallery is a dream come true.

Love in a Coffee Can Stuck in the Closet

I have always enjoyed food. I have a recipe box, beaten up and grimy, tucked away somewhere in the garage, with recipes collected and written out in my second grade handwriting on index cards and lined school paper. My mom is a terrific cook. And perhaps one might say reluctant? No one can do angel biscuits or sopapillas like Mom. That said, Dad was the one who delighted in the kitchen.

Daddy had a rusty old coffee can full of his own scribblings. Little things picked up from ladies at the church potlucks. A faded newspaper clipping of a recipe. List of ingredients and measurements for curing corned beef or bacon. Our family favorite: slop cake! You know the one? Perhaps not? Slop a can of cherry pie filling, a can of crushed pineapple into a rectangle baking pan. Dump a box of dry cake mix on top. Pour a melted stick of butter (let's face it, you know it was margarine) on top and liberally sprinkle cracked pecans on top of everything else. Bake in a hot oven until everything is bubbly and the smell is divine. Try not to burn your mouth when you sneak a spoonful from the corner.

I don't eat sugar anymore. Hardly ever. And my baking is all whole foods, real organic cherries and never a boxed mix in sight. But I can admit that I do feel quite nostalgic when I remember the smell, the tangy sweet taste, the buttery flavored goodness. And can see his handwriting on the little slip of paper stuck in among the old school photos and business cards and what not.

We all got together a few weeks ago to remember Daddy on his birthday. Mom pulled down the coffee can and we spread the contents all over the big wooden table he made with his own hands way back when I was in elementary or early middle school. I laughed at the school pictures. Wow we had some big glasses! Thanks Mom and Dad for the braces! Awkward and painful but now look at my straight teeth!

And all those scraps of paper. Backs of receipts, butcher paper, index cards, lined school paper. All with his handwriting, probably using a pencil he had just sharpened with his pocket knife. It made me cry. Touching my dad's fingerprints all over the years of his little stash, kept up in a corner of the closet, was it to the left? The right?

Daddy was a firefighter with the Oklahoma City Fire Department. Four days on, four days off? I don't know for sure, but I do remember he would be gone for a few days a week and of course those would be the days the rabid skunk would lurk around our farmhouse and Mom would have to woman up and kill it, did she actually cut the head off to send off to be tested for rabies??? I will ask her this afternoon. Or a poisonous snake by the backdoor. I can't forget the time I cut myself rather severely, playing in a forbidden zone, barefoot of course, an old fallen down barn full of broken glass. Blood was spurting from my ankle with every pulse of my heart and she had to gather up me, the toddler and the baby, to drive into town to the ER.

But wait, this is about Daddy! All the time Mom would be milking the goats and hanging the diapers on the clothesline, Daddy would be on call, heading out to fires all over the city. Dangerous, but he loved it. And when not tackling fires, he would be taking over the kitchen, cooking for the crew. He did such a good job his crew frequently asked him to share his recipes with their wives, haha! Dad cooked by taste. And oh how he loved to make people happy by giving them delicious food!

It is a wonder how this peanut farming cotton picking kid from dustbowl Oklahoma grew to love the kitchen so much. Back in the day, early to mid eighties I guess, Mom was spending a lot of time in Lajitas and the Big Bend, out here in West Texas. She would come to paint on location, have art shows, meet fancy people who loved her art work. Most of the time Dad would be back in Central Texas managing the place and their three daughters. Occasionally they would cross the border into Ojinaga, Coahuila, Mexico and go out to eat. Dad would question the cooks in his broken Spanish, coaxing them to share their recipes. From these forays comes my favorite meal my dad would make. In fact, when we reunited after two years of my living in Japan, the very first meal I requested was his Tacos Chihuahua.

Beef, chicken, venison or shrimp, the protein doesn't matter much. Hey! I've made this with tofu, but don't tell Daddy. He would be rolling his eyes in heaven, telling me we have a freezer full of meat, go get some.

Here's how you could make this yourself, if I remember properly.

Thinly slice two or three onions on the bias. He would use yellow ones. Chop up an entire package of bacon. Yep. That was his recipe. Use your biggest cast iron skillet. Gently begin to cook those onions in the bacon. Slice a bunch of garlic cloves and toss them in the pan. When the onions begin to caramelize toss in the chunks of meat. You should have seen my dad debone a chicken. When the meat begins to brown, add several fresh tomatoes cut into pieces about the size of your thumb. And several fresh jalapenos. He would suggest that jalapenos with a pointy end would be very very hot, a blunt end more mild. He would then whisper dramatically that when the tomatoes began to break down, it was important to add a generous glug of soy sauce. How the heck did my dad know about umami??? Try to make this dish without the soy sauce and it is not even near the same, even if delicious. When things are all nice and saucy, and of course after he would taste for salt and pepper, he would finely chop a bunch of fresh cilantro and toss it all in, stems and all, and cook for just a couple minutes more.

We would have this served on rice. Or in hot flour tortillas. Plenty of his special pico de gallo and yes, why not top all that fat off with some sour cream?

I haven't made this dish in awhile. When I do I use a few slices of organic, pastured pork bacon for many servings! Venison is still my favorite go to. Or boneless skinless chicken thighs. I don't eat rice, very few tortillas, but I might have to whip this up this weekend. Makes me teary-eyed thinking about it.

I asked Daddy to make this meal for my fiftieth birthday, yep, several years ago. He couldn't sharpen the knives. He kept forgetting the ingredients and had to ask me over and over if I could help him remember. It was one of the harshest, saddest days ever.

A few doctors had diagnosed him with Parkinson's Disease, but we found a neurologist in Odessa who determined that Daddy had Lewy Bodies Dementia. Similar and yet oh so different.

I took over the cooking and Daddy helped stir. I felt grief spread cold through my body. Little did I know what a hard journey he would have over the next few years. And yet. And yet. We had each other! We had the memories! I had the recipes written in my heart. And on little scraps of paper in a beat up, rusty red coffee can.

Three Years Later

Here I am. Completely out of practice, I can barely remember how to type. But somehow, on this surprising Wednesday afternoon, sitting on top of my little hill outside town, surrounded by wind and mist and completey blanketed by clouds and cold, I feel a hankering to write. So. The bakery. Maybe before I get to the bakery I should tell you a bit about my little refuge. Actually, the bakery does have something to do with this precious place. You see, when I opened the doors to our tiny little shop, I loved it so much, I told it that we were true partners. I loved that place. Still do! But the running of it made me very tired. Some of you know the realities of owning your own business. Thank God the kids work with me and my folks have been such a presence. But if you want to talk about work life family balance, I would have to say it was quite hard. Okay, the truth? Impossible. Yet the bakery and I continued to give ourselves to our community out of pure love. The garden grew. The menu grew, each of us on staff grew. And it felt like I lived at the bakery. Arriving at 4 something in the dark of morning. Sometimes not getting home until nine or ten in the dark at night. My home garden died. The house was neglected. More kids graduated and flew away. My precious friends came to hang out with me at the shop as we would clean up, sharing stories and a glass of wine. Dinner parties at home were no more. A year and a half ago Nora and I began to take Sunday drives out in the country. We pondered the idea of moving a few miles out of town to the big sky, mountains, dark skies and peace. This place too far. That place too big. Yikes, they want how much for that shack? Right in the nick of time we found a tiny little house. End of the lane. View that defies description. Over a mile high in elevation and less than twenty minutes from work. An offer not accepted. Disappointment. A journey to the west coast of Ireland for my birthday. A prayer and steps around a hidden sacred well in the middle of the bog. Second offer made, what do I have to lose? Here I sit. Tiny little house at the end of the lane. Blanketed by misty clouds, wind whipping the live oak and juniper. And slowly but surely balance is returning to my life. These days I wake up to the sunrise. The drive to work is joy. I drive home in the daylight and sit on my deck, feet up on the rail. Friends come to my house and we sit on my patio, socially distanced of course! Sometimes I even cook them food at home! We watch the deer and occasional elk. Sometimes all the kids are here and we sit around our table on the patio and feast and laugh and feel the love. This place is a mercy. A gift. A place where I can heal. My dad died this year. His story is another story. Just let me say that I have some healing to do. And I miss my daddy. How happy he was to come see this place. PS the bakery is still going strong, which is in itself a miracle in times like these. More on that soon. But for now I am going to get back into the practice of writing, which means stream of consciousness, random, whatever strickes my fancy to see if I can do it anymore. PPS what does the bakery have to do with my little refuge? Had I not gotten so burned out, burned out to a faint and dying ember, I might not have taken the drastic steps to save myself. I might not have been so desperate I needed to believe in miracles and sacred wells and the concept of wishes that could come true. You enjoy our partnership. You didn't ask me to sacrifice myself upon your altar. Thanks for growing with me, dear Bakery. I still love you.

One Year Later.....

(Written as a draft September 2018) I finished writing up an employees handbook last week. Took it to Joe, the local printer at Printco to have it printed out, and opening and closing procedures laminated.

We are gearing up for a busy holiday, super busy event season, and this afternoon my staff of 12 will show up for a meeting to go over it all.

Staff of 12????

It blows my mind we are entering our second year as Taste and See Bakery, 116 North Fifth St. Alpine, Tx. What a whirlwind education. I could write a book about the uncommon and amazing loyalty of my terrific employees. Or our loyal local customers who grin and bear it as we muddle through, making our mistakes, learning the ropes. Or the fun, sweetheart tourists who delight in our unique offerings. How about I just mention what this bakery has done for our family???

Thomas, my oldest son who is on the autism spectrum, comes in to work two days a week. He earns a little pizza money by taking out trash, doing some dishes, setting up candles for pizza night, washing our weekly load of local produce. He assists up front by serving customers water, taking them cheese nibbles and baguette. We love seeing him be engaged, not just with us, but with our customers.

Patrick and Maggie jump right in to help like warriors when they pop in for a quick visit. They don't berate me when I am a workaholic and forget to send them care packages. They listen and advise from afar.
Rose and Nora jumped in from day one, working double shifts, doing anything I needed. Tending the customers up front, making grilled cheeses, countless pieces of cinnamon toast. Rose was our first pizza night chef. Seventeen years old, tending the kitchen like a rock star, in between making all the cookie dough for the week. Sad as I was, we all knew she would graduate. Nora, fourteen at the time, slid right into head pizza chef position, directing orders to other employees, training, advising and consulting with me on menu choices. She also handles the front like a charm, and her grace, poise and confidence have soared. Oh, and may I say that these kids certainly enjoy knowing how to earn their own spending money?

Yes, I have worked more hours than any sane human should work a week for the past year. Strangely enough, our family bonds have done nothing but grow closer and closer.

My sister Christine has helped hang my mom's paintings. My sister Terri sells her super cute aprons here. My mom has sold seven paintings this year. My dad brought us a five gallon bucket of organic swiss chard every week for nine months. One week he brought me six five gallon buckets. Oh. My. Goodness. I begged him never do that again!

Mom and Dad come in to the bakery several times a week, and I am so thankful to have healthy, fun food for them.

I will say there is nothing in the world more stressful than opening a storefront business. Offering our tiny little venture to the world is scary and downright nerve wracking. It hurts to have people occasionally be mean to us. It hurts to make big mistakes and feel embarrassed.
It is hard to be a boss and know how to effectively train a staff when I am on a significant learning curve. It is daunting when the mill goes down. Or our shipment is delayed. It is shocking how quickly one's feet will go to ruin, even wearing expensive, supportive shoes, just because one is not supposed to stand upright for 18 hour days for weeks and months.

Oh, but the joy! The memories! The larger than life little moments that remind me daily we are doing exactly what we wish to be doing with our lives, offering our tiny little gift to our town.

Butterflies are Everywhere.

TFall is upon us, even if it doesn't quite feel like it, 90 degree days still assault us, but the evenings are cool. Butterflies are fueling up for their journey and I am glad for the abundance of flowers in our yard. The zinnias and marigolds, coral vine and cardinal vine are a bit scraggly, but the butterflies don't seem to mind at all.

I have planted baby plants outside the bakery front door and they are flourishing. The kale has tripled in size! I love looking at new life springing up around the bakery, merchandisers are arriving. Tables. The stove. Wiring is near complete and so is the plumbing. Boy I am ready to get to baking. I have been growing sourdough with flour I stashed in the freezer. Working on letting the building know who she is.

Evolving job description.

Yesterday I did some troubleshooting with contractors, city inspector, local electric provider, gas company, etc. Entered expenses into quickbooks. Watered the tender little herbs and kale that Maggie grew from seed for me and now are residing in big funky rock planters out front of the shop.

I cleaned out cabinets that were recently installed. Mixed up a batch of milk and honey bread. A tiny batch. Set it in the window front to rise. Took glasses and wine glasses and coffee cups out of boxes and set into their new home in the lovely cabinets. Putzed. Made lunch for a friend who popped by. Dealt with more paperwork. Painted the back door. Painted a couple of big pots. Set a table for kids to share dinner. Threw out the wilted wildflowers.

Rose and Nora came by the bakery after their late cross country practice and we enjoyed a light supper of salad, fresh bread and chicken leftovers. We made small talk. Covered the basics of school. Then I looked around and asked if they remembered that day in March. You know,
the day Rose came up with the big idea that it was time to expand. And Nora told me she thought that 116 North 5th street was the perfect location for the shop.

They nodded. They remembered clearly. Maybe it was my imagination, or the weird lighting, but for a second, I kinda thought our eyes grew moist. My mom's paintings on the wall. Lovely tables and chairs. Black iron chandeliers Christine and our friend Mike installed. Those baby herbs and veggies growing taller and healthy out front. At least 40 baby chard plants coming up from seed, tending by my precious dad.

Order, miraculously being birthed out of the chaos, the dream, the imaginings of a family a bit too daft to think too hard before we plunged.


My mentor from the Small Business Development Center popped in yesterday. We chatted about the progress and the steps and how things are moving forward. She hugged my neck as she left, eyes bright and confident. Her confidence leaked out onto me.

How can I explain how precious this dream is to me? How crazy? How marvelously it is tying our family together?

The leaves on our fig tree are falling this week. Things are hot and dry. Zinnias look a bit the worse for wear, so do the marigolds, but I know if I were to give them a deep soak instead of the emergency water, they would pop right back up. I wonder if I look like them? A bit crispy and tired around the edges? Oh, but the coral vine! She is a work of art. Dripping with hot pink jewels, the bees and flies and wasps, the hummingbirds hang around her wall of delight, drinking it up with joy. I grab armsful and stick them in St. Germaine bottles I have been gifted. They grace the bakery beautifully. Tomatoes keep making, as do the jalapenos. Pretty much the rest of the garden is done for.

The chickens have begun to molt. I let them free range the yard, hoping they would work over the bugs, which they have. They have either paused their laying duties, or have their nest well hidden in amongst the weeds.

Do you remember the ducks Rose implored me to spare this summer? I have watched them grow so robust. So juicy. So luscious. The other day, I have to admit I was fantasizing about duck a l'orange as they waddled in and out of their little pond. I imagined the crispy skin,
the popping fat. A batch of fried potatoes. And then, a dull, waxy looking orb grabbed my eye. Actually three orbs! Lo and behold! The ducks started laying eggs, as if they could read my mind and were desperate to pull off a feat that would ensure their survival.

I now have over a dozen duck eggs, collecting in my house. Will transform them into spelt pound cake, probably. Perhaps we should name the girls? Look like they will be staying with us, and won't Rose be glad to know.

Be Careful What You Wish For....or We Bought a Zoo ( a family favorite)

A year or so ago a friend told me how she makes a list on new moon days. A list of goals she wishes to accomplish, a prayer, a to do list, a vision chart.

I was feeling rather low at the time. Feeling dull. Feeling long term, low grade sad, grateful, but trudging.

I sat down, made my list, some rather practical things, like being able to have enough money to pay the bills. Some family related, like more consistent family, sit around the table dinner times.

At the bottom of the list, my heart let out a little sigh. I missed my creative joyful spark. I felt her absence deeply. For over twelve months I have cried out for that spark to return. I know it is part of my essence, my being, and I want to offer my children, my family and sure, why not? The whole world deserves my whole self, not just the shadowy, leftover bits.

Sometime early this spring, maybe March? Rose and I were sitting at the table chatting over coffee. I don't even quite remember what brought about the conversation. Perhaps I mentioned how I was tired of baking out of our home. At any rate, Rose, who had not been terribly sparkly herself, lit up from within. With a smile I had not seen in some time, she suggested I should open a french bakery. She pulled up some images on google, and something lit up inside me. We smiled, we dreamed, we gave way to the luxury of fantasy for a few minutes.

It was a moment I will treasure. Memories are fuzzy, I can't remember exactly, but Nora got engaged in the daydream, and they reminded me how Dad wished for me to grow and expand. How he was a firm believer that my freshly milled ancient grain and sophisticated real food was something the world would enjoy. We fantasized about recipes. Expanded offerings. A charming, lovely, European place, sophisticated, yet warm. Light,
and airy, with room to hang my mom's fine art to display. How fun it would be for my dad to grow my greens in his garden and have meaning and purpose that would feed our community.

We got so excited about the idea, I immediately grabbed Nora and we went driving around Alpine seeking the perfect spot.

It was a whim. A way to spend a gloomy Sunday afternoon.Nora saw the Hudson Event center downtown, a recently renovated building, just the right size, just the right place.

"Oh, wouldn't that be perfect?" we cried. We drove on, saw another building, owned by some customers and acquaintances.

I don't know what got into me, but for the first time in a long time, I felt a little spark kindle. I went to speak with Loretta at the Small Business Development Center. One of my friend, customers, Martha, had been encouraging me for ages to go. I kept putting it off, saying I had no time to grow, no time to think about boring business stuff.

Well. All of a sudden, I decided to invest three months into doing the hard work of determining feasibility regarding expanding the bakery.
I started sketching drawings, seeking estimates, coming up with business plans. I went to walk around the building on fifth street, turned circles, called my best business advisor big brothers and sisters, listened to their advice, shared them my vulnerable dreams.

It surprised me how scary it was to open up my little dream. Business had grown, actually had significantly outgrown my facility some time ago. I had grown tired of working in my home. Having home and family and work overlap on a regular basis. The system worked really well for many years. The kids were little and I was home. Busy, but home! Now my kids spend a great deal of their time and money hanging out in the cool coffee shops in town. School, friends, sports and work keep them far from home nowadays.

I wondered if it were possible to expand in a way that would benefit me, benefit my kids and parents. I wondered if there were a way to increase my profit margin in a way that could make this operation more sustainable.

Loretta took me through my paces. We spent hours each week, working through elements of a business plan and loan application process through the SBA. For the first time ever, I counted the cost of a loaf of bread, a detailed cost, not just the spiral notebook accounting that got us by the past twenty years. I wrote a business narrative. A resume. An assets and liabilities paper. A projected profit and loss deal.

Wow. After writing about the past 30 years, even my childhood was spent writing recipes, cooking, feeding and teaching people. Hmm. Maybe not such a reach to think that food is my thing?

My business plan for the purchase of a building, renovating it to have two apartments in the back and bakery gallery up front got more detailed. Renovation costs escalated. I realized that this was too ambitious a plan for me, being a single mom, knowing that I needed to work in some margin for family issues. Property and bakery asset rich, cash poor.

I decided one evening that I needed to set the dream aside. I was proud of myself for being willing to dream, but needed to get back to reality.

Something in my heart felt rather sad.

A still, small voice said to keep doing my homework. And I decided to go to Montana to get a load of grain. I couldn't imagine not baking anymore. Perhaps I should just rearrange things at home? Put in a commercial sink in the laundry room? And I kept meeting with Loretta, figuring I should see things through and get an accurate picture of my financials.

Then, out of the clear blue, my realtor called me on a Saturday. I was working at the vineyard and happened to be grabbing a drink of water at the owner's home when the call came through. "You have got to come see this place, it's perfect for your bakery!!!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. Too expensive, I said. But why not?

I went home, asked the girls to join me as consultants. We drove over, walked in, and saw the front room, creamy, dark trim, just like my bakery. Clean. Big.
Great light. We chatted a few minutes with the building owner and she made me an offer I couldn't refuse. We both shook our heads, feeling like this was a match made in heaven.

I took the new info to my advisors. We hammered out a few details. It felt too good to be true, but thoroughly grounded in reality.

And now we have a lease. I am sitting at my desk, listening to beautiful music on the surround sound, 4650 lbs of grain in a storage room, my mom's art work lined up, ready to be hung next week. A kitchen in the works, a plan for an artist friend to paint Taste and See Bakery on the downtown storefront. I have schedules, a skeleton crew, menus, tables and chairs on the way, financing in the works (Oh, Please God! let it close soon!) and an opening date.

Soon I will write about the spiritual journey to Montana. But for now, let me say I am overwhelmed with gratitude. I have felt more creative spark and joy these past six months than in I don't know when. A vision is coming true. It is scary. I am terrified. Support is overwhelmingly beautiful. A vision that enables each of us in our family to shine. A financially stable plan that will not only pay my bills, but also pay my employees a fair wage. A gorgeous setting for my mom's art work. A venue for my dad's vegetable garden. Work for my kids and a sweet place for them to hang out.

It could fail spectacularly. I have decided to take the risk.