A package arrive yesterday from my home state. "Fragile" was written on it side in an unfamiliar yet oddly familiar hand. Inside, buried under Styrofoam peanuts and bubble wrap and a single layer of tissue, was an oil painting. The painting is not signed on the front, but primitive lettering on the frame reveals the maiden name of my grandmother. The painting was suffering in the dry heat of my mother's attic, rescued by my visiting cousin, beautifully restored by a friend in Berkeley, and tucked into a used Eileen Fisher box for its trek here. The brush strokes of that young girl took me right back to the golden sunlight of my childhood; I can almost feel the dry grass against my ankles, and smell the dusty warmth. I want to go find cool shade in the white house. The image and the feeling connect me, however briefly to the bent old woman I knew, who shared her love of music and chocolate bars with me.
The farm is in full swing, sunny and dusty on the roads--there is just enough water for the fields. There are sunflowers and squash and basil and beans, which means tomatoes and corn aren't far behind. The zucchini are no longer the delicate shy little fruit of the early season, but are putting on weight faster than the crew can pick them. Those baseball bats of summer have one role: to be made into zucchini muffins, some to eat now, some to freeze for a chilly morning in the fall. The markings are long worn off my old Pyrex measuring cup (good thing I am not a slave to level cups), the muffin tins are blackened with use (bakes lighter), and the kitchen timer's chipped paint only offers hints to its former art deco glory. These items, and a yellowed recipe, connect me to the women before me as well, who may also have padded around in their nighties while others slept, filling the house with aromas of summer and sleepy mornings.
