tollipop

lemon pound

Yesterday morning I came into the kitchen to find my husband up to his elbows in batter.

I was all: Oh!  Are you making waffles?
And he was all: No, I'm making cake.
So I was all: Cake?  As in.....coffee cake?
And he was all: No.  Cake, as in lemon pound.

"Really?," I said.  "Yup," he replied, "I figure you never know when it's your last day on earth, so you might as well have some cake to go with it."

His logic, at 6:30 in the morning, was so morbidly awesome I was simply at a loss for words.

So.  Lemon pound cake for breakfast.  Why not?  That's my husband's job around here.  He's the fun guy.  

I'm the type who's more: Final call.  Do I have any takers for a sewing circle?  How about a spelling bee?

Thank goodness he's here to tip that scale. 

In other news, I just returned from walking Caroline to school. On the way, she announced, "Mom, can we talk about my wedding?"

I didn't even know she was into guys.

Well, she's not, apparently.  Her overriding concern was whether or not she could have fruit salad at the reception, and should she consider a simple, elegant dress, or one that twirled when she spun around?

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Dear reader, it seems inevitable that I need to take another break from Tollipop.  I am just so behind with everything, it seems.  I'm always a bit mournful this blog is the first thing to get cast off the lifeboat when it starts to sink.

If you were in a sinking lifeboat, what would you rather keep?  A sweet, affectionate blog or a ton of surly boxes that need to get unpacked??

I'll be back once I'm halfway afloat.  

p.s.  and thank you for your lovely comments and curiosity about the creosote sachet...it made me realize what a fantastic way to share the essence of the desert!  I am hoping to make more soon...xo

creosote pour une amie

 
This is my friend, Jeanne.  I have the softest spot in my heart for her.  She is 90 years old and comes from a little village in the Alsation region of France.  

If I stopped right there you could already imagine what an incredible life she has had.

Last year her husband passed away and she came to live with her daughter, another dear friend who looks like Leslie Caron in Chocolat and who is married to the gentleman who sometimes brings me pastries from a French bakery.

Anyway, Jeanne and I often sit together at church.  She is like a tiny bird tucked next to me.  Sometimes we write notes to each other.  Sometimes I draw pictures and make her smile.  I hope that's not too terribly irreverent.  

Once, in the middle of the week, she sent me a letter with pictures of her garden in France.

Sometimes we go to lunch together and when we do, we speak mainly in French.

She always orders fish and with that, potatoes.  When the plate arrives, she regards it like a child on Christmas morning.

"Oooh, j'adore les pommes de terres!," she exclaims, "Surtout avec le poisson."  And then she eats every bite.

Eating something yummy with one of the loveliest people you could imagine while speaking in French: is that the recipe for ultimate happiness?

Last week we had a lunch date and she told me about one of her favorite desert plants, creosote.  She kept talking about how good it smelled, how one time she took a branch of creosote back to France and placed it in a cupboard, and every time she opened the door, she was filled with the aroma of the desert. 

Which reminded me of my Easter tree, so I told her about the branches I had in my home which smelled like fresh rain.  

After lunch I took her to see the Easter tree and guess what?  It turns out my plant and her plant are one and the same plant.  

Jeanne was absolutely delighted.

Creosote, dear reader.  If you ever come to the desert I hope you get to smell it.  It has the zen, calming aroma of the first moments of rain.

This week I finally accepted it was time to take down our Easter tree.  I thought of Jeanne, who is returning to France for the month of May, and had a tiny idea.  

A creosote sachet, filled with the aroma of the desert.  For her to take back to the land of wine, cheeses, and rolling hills of lavender.

This way she'll know I'm thinking of her, hoping all is well, and looking forward to exchanging notes in church when it's time for her to return.

hola

Okay, so my plan to come home from a 24 hour roadtrip fluent in Spanish went a bit loco over the weekend.  

Rather than driving Sophie's teammates, there was a last minute shuffle wherein one of the coaches ended up coming with us instead: an arrangement which caught me like a deer in the headlights.

Five hours in a car with someone I didn't know?  Someone who eats and breathes volleyball?  Someone who happens to already speak Spanish?  

What was I going to do?  Could I turn on my Spanish audiobook and force him to listen to quieres agua a zillion times?  Could I fake a sudden command of the nuances of the sport, when I still don't know if these girls are playing matches, sets, or games?

No.  Absolutamente no.

I was going to have to interact this guy.  I was going to have to exchange pleasantries.  I was going to have to gear up and be an extrovert.  I was going to have to engage in that most magical of all magic tricks: small talk.  

For five whole hours.

And it's not like I was feeling sorry for myself.  It was more out of concern for him: would he feel trapped in close quarters wondering if all Canadians were this unfriendly, if I'd forgotten how to speak English, or had I perhaps dated a volleyball coach years ago which ended badly and now every subsequent coach had to pay for it with my freezing silence?

I realize to the vast majority of civilization, the instinct to chit chat is so basic it hardly merits attention.  You know?  It's all: talk about your day, relate anecdotes, nod and smile, tell what he said/she said, say: you're kidding me!, talk more about your day.  Lather, rinse, and repeat.  I know people who can do this for five hours and not even come up for air.  

But dear reader, I'm not the little ape who was socialized that way.  I'm the little ape who hid in trees, kept her nose in a book, hoarded pencil crayons, ran with wolves, and never got asked to prom because all the boy apes liked the other girl apes better than me, though I'm pretty sure it had nothing to do with my lack of conversational skills whatsoever.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.  Or slightly confused by my sudden ape analogy.

Anyway, it's just that to this day, I have a hard time making pleasant conversation, especially in contrived social settings. I'm good at writing.  I'm good at listening.  

Not so skilled at talking.

However.

Who would have known?  It turned out this coach was a very unusual guy.  Like, he was a good talker, but he was also a great questioner and listener.  In fact, I think he got his Ph.D in engaging conversations, because that's exactly what we ended up having until suddenly we were in Phoenix with no idea how we got there.

At any rate, the girls played brilliantly.  They won all their games, sets, matches...whatever.

And on the way back home, in the middle of the night, I saw a snake laying across the highway.  He was enormous, half the length of the oncoming lane, enjoying the warmth of the pavement. Farther on down the road, a tiny mouse ran into the beam of my headlights and hopped from one foot to the next, its brain big enough to register danger yet eclipsed by the prospect of resolving it.

I wonder why I'm not a skilled conversationalist?  I wonder why some people can go on and on, completely at ease, always thinking of new things to say?  

I wonder why I'm still thinking about that snake, his contempt for danger on what must have certainly been the last night of his life?  And that silly, scurrying mouse.  I hope its brain came through in the clutch.  I hope wisdom prevailed. I hope it chose to resist the light and make a beeline for the darkness, where perhaps it had a cozy nest, a set of pencil crayons, and a cup of chamomile tea.  

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p.s. I keep meaning to show you the sweetest thing from Jenmeister.

And this.  Because Caroline was brave enough to wear her flower to church while I only imagined myself doing so.

this moment...

Sharing a moment from the week without words...more on this project from the lovely Amanda.

Wishing you a wonderful weekend...

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eta: Dear reader, I don't know why I try to participate in Amanda's project of posting a picture without words.  I realize it's very zen to allow you a moment of unfettered silence to gaze upon this idyllic scene...but there is so much to say!  And it seems I've been too busy all week to say anything!

The irony is I am not especially talkative in real life, but in thinking aloud through writing?  For me that is like the eternal fount.

Anyway, I'm excited today because I'm driving to Arizona by myself.  Well, not exactly by myself, per se.  More like with a vehicle full of teenage volleyball players.  But beyond that, the exciting part is I downloaded an audiobook which claims to teach Spanish in the car.  

Do you think it will work?  

Do you know how badly I want it to work?  

Let me put it this way.  If someone came up to me and said: you have the choice between two superpowers.  One is to be able to fly and have your hair still look awesome when you land, the other is to be able to speak every language on earth so fluently that even the native speakers of these tongues will be astounded by your command.  

I would be so stuck. I would be wringing my hands and hopping from one foot to the next.  I would be asking just how awesome awesome means. 

Wanting to be multilingual as much as wanting to fly.  

That's where I'm at, dear reader.

That is where I'm at.

and the winner is...

The lovely Kay!  Congratulations, darling...the uncertain girl and her rabbit are about to join you for a party.  I hope you like sweets, because the rabbit asked me to ask you about that.

Let's get in touch to exchange addresses, etc.  We are all very excited by this happy news.  

To everyone else...thank you for playing along.  What kind and amusing comments you left!  I think this might be one of the more delightful parts of a giveaway for me: getting a zillion lovely emails in one day.  

In lieu of the prize, I wish for you a certain moment: a moment which separates itself from time, worry, and demands.  In that moment may you breathe fresh air and feel the sun on your face.  May you find shade.  May you rest.  May your thoughts wander in peace.  May you be filled with the realization of every good thing about yourself.  May you see things more clearly.  May you feel better.  

And when you feel these things enough that you are ready to return to time, worry, and demands, may you do so with wonder--with a smile on your face, a spring in your step, and with love in your heart.

tollipop original giveaway

The two stood in the doorway, regarding the scene of the party.  Do you think anyone will like me?, asked the one.  They better, scowled the other.  Anyway, I like you.  And that is what matters most.

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Dear reader, thank you for the very sweet comments you left on the previous post.  Your reactions to my little sketch made me feel as if Picasso had drawn something on a napkin instead.

It led me to think about my paints and wonder where they were.  And my paper.  And my favorite pencils.  

This morning I found them all except the pencils.

Confession: I know I'm supposed to be unpacking, but I'm not.  I've sort of hit this equilibrium wherein the necessities for survival are present and accounted for: sour gummies, yellow cardigan, and matches.

Beyond that, there are simply too many other interests or piles of feral laundry compelling my time to muster curiousity for the contents of our remaining boxes.  Well, I have been wondering about a pair of Tibetan bells and some pens with a .3mm tip, but otherwise Mr. Collins and I really don't care.  

Mr. Collins is, of course, my tiny talking turtle...I failed to mention him earlier as part of the equilibrium because I felt the necessity of a tiny talking turtle to be self evident.  Don't you?

At any rate, would you like to have this uncertain girl and her stubborn rabbit?  Could they come home and sit with you?  If so, please leave a comment at the bottom of this post.

If you help spread the word via Facebook or pretty much any other medium excluding graffiti on the bathroom walls, then by all means feel free to leave additional entries.

I will return to announce a winner this Friday.

date night

Over the weekend my husband and I went on a date.  So nice--just the two of us, a new place to eat.

Our table was covered in butcher paper.  I looked around for crayons, but none were forthcoming.  

Good thing I had my own supplies.

I don't know what it is about me, but I will probably draw some version of this pair for the rest of my life.  A wistful girl in a dress, a rabbit with striped stockings.

Sometimes I will draw a fox.  Sometimes, a hedgehog.  But mostly it will be a girl and a rabbit.

You wouldn't believe how happy it makes me, especially when I can color her dress blue. 

all is well

A word about singing, dear reader:

1.  Singing is hard.

2. It takes about seven lungs to do it.

3. Singing is like being on a highwire, only you don't plummet to your death if you lose your balance.  You just sound like you did.

4. My sister, who is a singer, told me you have to train your vocal muscles to remember how to sing each new song, and for some reason I find that to be a fascinating thought.

5. When I am on a trail run and not pretending to be a spy, or thinking about words, languages, or t-boning wild burros, I often hear the most amazing music in my mind.

6.  The human voice is my favorite musical instrument.

7. One of my favorite things to sing is hymns, because the language and moving parts of hymns are so rich, pure, and dimensional--it's like giving my brain new school supplies, a piña colada, and a tiny talking turtle.

8.  I'm not a singer, so this post puts me out of my box.  Way out.  But I am the type who thinks everyone should sing.  I'm not the type who things everyone should sing and post it on their blog, per se, but everyone should definitely sing.  

9.  Along those lines, if you want to join a choir, I know of a good one.

10.  This is an arrangement I made of one of my favorite hymns.  You can listen to it by clicking here: all is well

the norseman cometh

Dear reader, it would be difficult to articulate my delight on the run this morning.

Whoever built these cairns has the mind of an architect, the hands of an artist, a poet's soul.

They weren't here last time I ran, just a few days ago.  I can't imagine how they materialized.  It doesn't seem possible a mere mortal could have created them.  

I think it is much more reasonable to believe in the ancient Norseman.

Oh, ancient Norseman.  Your tribute to love takes my breath away.

I hope you find what you're looking for...  

easter tree

Dear reader, I recently returned from a trail run and mentioned to a friend that certain places along the way smelled like home.

His reply: Vernon or Las Vegas?

My heart flinched, probably because this thought has been on my mind lately, as it always is during the change of seasons.  

When one grows up amongst such beautiful, distinct seasons as I did, they become some kind of inner clock, some compass with which to navigate the passage of time.  I think they become imbedded on a cellular level.  As a child, I was so acutely attuned to my environment that it seemed I could sense the change of seasons with each passing day.  

Change.  Every day was filled with its evidence; indeed, in my little valley it seemed the entire spectrum of seasons could breeze and rumble across the sky in a single afternoon.

At this time of year my mum would wander down our driveway, cutting branches of pussy willows and blossoms.  She arranged them in an earthenware vase and stood back with a smile--a heralding of life, a promise of things to come. 

Today I find myself in the desert where, to the untrained eye, the scenery looks very much alike from one month to the next.  The same is true, to some extent, for even the trained eye.  

There are no lush, verdant signs of life.  There is no runoff, nothing to melt, trickle, and roar, no soft green shoots poking through crusty layers of snow.  There is only dirt, drought, and these tough, scrubby bushes--beautiful in their starkness and resilience.

I guess there is something to be said for that: to live where it isn't easy to live.  To make one's place where it is strange, barren, and dry.  Perhaps the result isn't as mesmerizing as an exotic, tropical bloom.  

But it is still beauty, plain and true.

To be clear: to know the desert is to love the desert, and I love the desert.  

It's just that I also feel an ache and disorientation during certain times of the year when my inner clock feels the hum of change but I can't as easily put my finger on the evidence.  

Either way, it is spring.  It is Easter.  Whether we see it or not, there is beauty and change everywhere.  There is hope.  There is life.

And everyone is meant to enjoy it.  xo