View of river gorge from Towers overlook, Breaks Interstate Park, Virginia.
Sunlight shines
on evergreens browning. River
rushes on below.
This entry for the Between photo challenge is in honor of my husband’s favorite tree, the eastern hemlock, which is suffering widespread death in the Appalachians due to an exotic insect, the Hemlock woolly adelgid (HWA). Where 20 years ago we ran our hands over hemlocks’ feathery branches on every Appalachian hike, all the hemlocks we see now are brittle and brown, denuded of their soft needles, or if they do still have leaves, they are encrusted with the egg sacs of the insects that are killing them (the skeletal trees in the foreground of the picture are hemlocks). If you have hemlocks on your property, please see this Nature Conservancy article for information on how to treat the infestation.
I have a close friend, J, who has never met a mirror she didn’t like. When we were teens, and later in college, and her eye caught a reflective surface – a shop window, a car window, a mirror in a mall bathroom – she turned her head this way and that as she looked into it, smoothed an eyebrow, tucked a curl, and watched herself as she continued to talk, completely unselfconscious about her mirror-gazing as she carried on the conversation. We teased her about it then, and we tease her about it now, 25 years later. She laughs at herself when we tease her, then flits her eyes to a mirror and winks at the best friend she sees there.
This past March, at our annual Girls’ Weekend, we talked about mirrors and who among us looks into them. The conversation was spawned in part by J’s mirror-love, but also, at least for me, by a deeper wondering about our comfort with ourselves. J is one of the funniest people I know, and also one of the happiest. At several points in her life, whether on a precipice with a boyfriend or on the verge of a life-changing move, she has shrugged her shoulders and said, “I dunno. I think I could be happy with anyone” in the case of the boyfriend, or “anywhere” in the case of a move. And it’s true. She could.
As we went around the table at Girls’ Weekend, we found that we all have very different relationships with the mirror. J is friendly with them – she sees her favorite person when she looks into one. Others of us use them strictly for pragmatic reasons: check the teeth, blow dry the hair. One of us doesn’t use them at all – says she can’t remember the last time she looked into one. “Not even to brush your teeth?” I asked. “I brush my teeth in the shower,” she said.
And me? It used to be that when I looked in the mirror, the person who looked back at me was a mystery. The image I saw in that silver surface did not match up with the person I knew from the inside. All my life my reflection has caught me off guard. Recently I brushed our daughter’s hair and when my reflection moved in the mirror I did a double-take – Who’s that? Oh. That’s me. The same face that’s been looking back at me for 40 years. Why does she still surprise me? Why do I not connect with her?
I told my girlfriends about this weirdness, about the disconnect between me and my reflection, and after our mirror conversation, inspired by J, I said, “I’m going to start doing mirror work. I’m going to figure this out! I want to be best friends with my reflection too.”
I tried, but still, we were off, my reflection and me. And then, something changed. I got glasses.
Now, I look in the mirror and say Oh! There you are! And I smile. The Andrea that looks back at me – the bookworm, the word nerd – is the Andrea I know from the inside. I just never knew she had glasses.
I see this revelation frequently in fashion, especially on the the TLC makeover show What Not to Wear. Contributors to the show are brought to New York, instructed to dispose of their entire wardrobe, and then taught how to shop for new clothes that fit their personalities and figures. It is always difficult for the women to let go of their former clothing – even if the clothes did not serve them and did not even fit them, those clothes were familiar – but once they let go and start finding clothes that do serve them, that do fit them, the women are transformed. There are often tears when they see themselves in clothes that match their personalities. The women look in the mirror at their new hair, the skirt that flatters their hips, the fun shoes in their favorite color, and they point and they say, “That’s what I always felt like on the inside – now I look like that on the outside.”
That’s how I feel with my new glasses. Now, when my reflection catches me unaware, when I’m vacuuming and I see myself pushing the upright in the wall mirror, I wave or I wink. She and I, we’re on our way to becoming fast friends.
This is my interpretation of finding something, the day 13 assignment for Writing 101. *Edit: added next to last paragraph after initial publication.
I was unloading the dishwasher the other day, and my wedding ring clinked against a glass bowl, making a sound so similar to a sound from childhood that I was transported instantly to a motorboat, zipping through briney rivers, the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. I even caught a whiff of salt air.
I grew up on a tidal creek off the coast of Georgia (on a small “hammock” island just before you get to Tybee Island), and we spent every weekend during the summers out on the boat. My mom was in charge of the beach bag, chairs, towels, snack foods, lunches, and packing the cooler, and my dad was in charge of everything relating to the boat and the dock – fuel, mechanicals, boat and dock maintenance, crab traps, lines, first aid/life jackets, and driving the boat. My brother and I would cast us off, then I’d take my seat in the bow, my head hanging over the side like a dog, and Adam (my brother) would hang out by the steering wheel with my dad. And as we pulled away from the dock, when my dad first put his hand to the stainless steel wheel, his wedding band would clink against it.
Throughout our hundreds of hours on the rivers, the clank of my dad’s ring on that steering wheel was as much a part of the weekend soundscape as the buzz of the motor, and it always, always made me feel safe, and secure, and loved. The sound, because it was made by his wedding band, was an audible reminder of my dad’s love for my mom, and for us, his family. And because it was tied up with my favorite thing on earth (riding around in the boat with my family) the clang of of his ring against the stainless steel wheel captured every good memory, every happy feeling of those childhood summers – the salt smell of the air, the warmth of the sun, the fun of the four of us being together, the freedom of the wind and the water, the thin crust of salt on our skin at the end of the day. Cold Cokes and salty snacks.
So when my wedding band clinked against a glass bowl the other day, that little sound filled me up. I could feel the warmth swelling in my heart til it overflowed. I was there again, as a kid in the boat, with my dad at the wheel. I was safe, and free, with salt air in my nose and the wind in my hair. It made me wonder what small thing, whether a sound, or a scent, will send my kids back to childhood when they’re grown, standing in their kitchen, remembering.
I wrote this in July, 2011 and published it here on June 17, 2012. I wanted to republish it today for Father’s Day. Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
Art Credit: KendyllHillegas on Etsy, Key Lime Pie original illustration
Tart. Tangy. Zesty. Zany. Key Lime Pie: it’s yellow, not green.
You might think if I was going to write about pie in Georgia I’d write about pecan, all sugary and whiskey brown, the pecans a toasty crunch then a succulent give between the teeth, or maybe peach with its sensual slippery melon-colored sweetness. But I’m not. I’m writing about Key Lime because it’s hot and humid outside, and when its hot and humid out and I think of dessert, I think of my Dad fishing in the Gulf Stream and the sunburn and the grill and the chilled pie that followed.
Summer dinners of my coastal Georgia childhood – or at least the summer dinners my mouth still waters for – often consisted of blue crabs we caught in the creek, or fresh shrimp my mom bought from the marina under the bridge. We’d follow those warm seafood meals with ice cream or Pudding in a Cloud (chocolate pudding in a “crust” of Cool Whip), but the best days were when Dad ran the boat 4 hours offshore Savannah to where the water changed from coastal brown to deep ocean blue, dropped a line, and brought home fresh fish. He came home salty in the late afternoon, with a raccoon burn on his face from his sunglasses, and before changing clothes or rinsing the boat he cleaned the fish, scraping scales with a flashing silver knife till they popped off and glistened in the sun.
Dad brought the fish up to Mom in the kitchen where she rubbed the fillets with butter and Paul Prudhomme’s Cajun seasoning while he lit the coals in a kettle grill. He sipped beer while he watched the coals, waiting for them to glow. When they burned till each one formed an even crust of ash he nestled a cast iron skillet into them. An onshore evening breeze rustled the palm fronds and cooled his burned skin, and after a while, the cast iron skillet would begin to glow. Dad tossed the seasoned fillets into the red hot pan and they hissed, blackening within seconds. He pulled them off – moist, succulent fillets encrusted with paprika and cayenne, garlic and thyme.
The fish flaked on our tongues, soft and buttery, crisp and spicy, and on lucky nights, the dinner was followed by Key Lime Pie. There was not better accompaniment for blackened fish than that cold yellow silk pie that zinged your tongue with citrus summer and crunched sugary buttered graham between your teeth. Mom made the pie while Dad bobbed in the ocean, and it chilled while he burned.
I don’t remember now if Dad cleaned up by the time we ate dinner or if he dined with the ocean still encrusted on his skin. I do remember the clean feeling after eating Key Lime Pie, though – that crisp, cool, fresh finish to a hot, salty summer day.
This is my entry for the American Vignette: Pie challenge on Andrea Reads America. I hope you’ll consider submitting. Key Lime Pie recipe follows.
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Thankfully, Key Lime Pie had a moment in the 80s or 90s and now you can buy Nellie & Joe’s Key Lime Juice nearly anywhere in the US. Or at least on the eastern seaboard. I bought mine at our local Kroger in the mountains in Blacksburg, Virginia. Key Lime Pie is one of the easiest of all pies to make ever. You don’t even have to cook it if you don’t want to – the key lime juice denatures the egg yolks, “cooking” the pie like ceviche. Make it with whipped cream or without, with merengue or without, it’s up to you. I prefer mine neat. Follow the recipe right on the bottle of Nellie & Joes or follow this adaptation from Maida Heatter’s Pies and Tarts:
4 egg yolks
1 14 oz can sweetened condensed milk
1/2 cup Key lime juice
1 9-inch graham cracker crust
You can use an electric mixer, an egg beater, or a wire whisk. Beat the yolks lightly to mix. Add the condensed milk and mix. Gradually add the lime juice, beating or whisking only until mixed.
Pour into the crumb crust. It will make a thin layer; the color will be pale lemon, not green. It will be fluid now, but as it stands a chemical reaction takes place and the filling will become about as firm as a baked custard. Refrigerate overnight.
Or, if you wish [Andrea’s note: this is how I prepare it], bake the filled pie for 10 minutes in a 350 degree oven, then cool and chill.
Whipped cream is optional on this, natives do not use it – restaurants do.
In case there was any question of my coolness, let’s just put that notion to rest: I am currently playing summer book bingo.
But look how awesome that card is!!
As you may or may not know, I am in the midst of an epic reading project. I am reading three books set in each of the 50 US states, plus the District of Columbia, and because diversity of authors and characters is central to the project, my reading this year has expanded into subjects and genres and neighborhoods that I might have otherwise overlooked.
So when I heard Ann Kingman and Michael Kindness talk on their Books On the Nightstand (BOTNS) podcast about how they want to make summer reading fun this year – by designing Beach Blanket Book Bingo card and aiming for a Bingo by Labor Day – I was ALL. OVER. IT. I mean, look at those options! “Currently on the bestseller list,” “that ‘everyone’ but you has read,” “published in 2014.” That last is one I’m particularly excited about. I almost never read brand new books. The wait list at the library is always too long. But the next book I plan to read for Delaware, The Book of Unknown Americans by Cristina Henríquez, was published in 2014 and, get this, I am first on the wait list! It’s killing me to abstain from marking that box with a big blue X. I want to mark it SO BAD. I know I have to wait till I’ve finished the book, though, and I’m just thinking about how good it’s going to feel to squeak my highlighter across that square.
Some folks are attacking their Bingo card with a strategy: they plan to read titles tailored to a specific row on the Bingo card. In the spirit of Bingo as it is played in Bingo halls around the nation, I’m taking a more randomized approach. I’m going to carry on with my reading as I had planned, state by state, Connecticut to Delaware to the District of Columbia, each book a ping pong ball with a BOTNS category stamped on it, and see if I can manage a Bingo before Labor Day. Maybe I can even score a Blackout Bingo – maybe I can fill the whole card.
Do you want to play? Go to BOTNS Bingo! to print out your card; be sure to hit your refresh button to get a fresh card. Then read your books, start marking your boxes, and if you want to follow along with other Book Bingo players, check out the BOTNS Bingo thread on Goodreads.
I just realized I posted my first Butterfly Mind entry two years ago today. We lived in Minnesota at the time and I was supposed to be packing up the house to prepare for our cross-country move. Instead I started a blog. Since then I’ve published more than 250 posts and am still loving every minute of it. Thank you, readers, for making it so much fun to be here. Here’s that debut entry.
Butterfly Mind 