OK in the previous article I gave you a pictorial of my latest adventure. It’s been two days since the pickles have been put in the crock.
And here is the video review:
Part 2: Plot twist Pickles
Category Archives: pickles
My Timing is Perfekt
I found a pretty simple looking recipe for pear wine at: CommonSenseHome. The tips were helpful and it looks like something I might have a hard time messing up. I began amassing the ingredients.
I put the first batch of pears up to ripen on the porch. I turned them daily. The tiny imperfections that I’d overlooked deepened in color, spreading like a bad relationship across the surface. I had to rethink my strategy.
I’ll purchase the pears! Two 3-pound bags of pears delivered to my door. With greedy anticipation, I waited. Alas, they only had one 3-pound bag available with no substitutions. Abuh.
Adjust the sails! Farmers market before a 10 am service? Sure thing. I dress for the occasion:
Did you know that pears in East Tennessee come into season primarily in September. Did you know that I lost track of time for several months and learned it today? Thwarted, but not without hope. Now what?
I recently gained access to the family recipes from my client’s deceased mother. She had many duplicates of the same recipe for two-day pickles. I read it several times as I sorted through the recipes enough that I felt confident enough to buy pickling cucumbers and I like onions so I bought enough to make a gallon of brine.
Crap. No dill. Good thing I had onions? Onward!
Now we wait. That was quite a few switchbacks to arrive at pickles from pear wine. Such is life. I’ll update when I’ve tested the goods.
I confess, I’m not typically one to experiment with an untested recipe, but no grits, no glory, right? Right?!
Pass it onward!
Fifty year drought
I had a baby.
Her name didn’t/doesn’t matter.
She lay in her stroller with her arms outstretched.
I smiled down at her, cooing gentle words of love.
I swaddled her a bit tighter against the chill.
As each car passed on the nearly vacant street,
I’d sing a little louder so they’d know I was a mom.
It’s all I ever wanted to be.
INTERLUDE
The MMR wasn’t created when I was born.
When my brother came along and got his,
nobody thought to inoculate me.
At twelve years old, my throat and neck hurt so badly.
My mom gave me a dill pickle (LOVE THEM) but I couldn’t swallow.
Diagnosis: The mumps.
Aged and married: Clomid, Pergonal, temperatures, acne, painful periods,
nothing. nothing. nothing.
Failed adoption. Ectopic miscarriage, failed adoption
GUARDIANSHIP x two!
Rejected for violence. Rejected for drugs.
nothing. nothing. nothing.
PART TWO
You can’t possibly know how many times I’ve been gracious,
how many times I’ve oohed and aah-ed over black gray blobs
What it’s like to see beautiful mothers holding their beautiful babies
while my arms hold back my sadness, my longing, my relief.
I’m not resentful that they have my dreams wrapped in their love.
I’m not angry that their wishes came true. I’m not even upset.
PART THREE
Am I less than a woman for not showing proof of fertility?
Am I less than a woman for my body’s refusal to carry life?
I feel betrayed each time blood flows from my barren womb.
All of the pain, emotions, heating pads, and carb stuffing…for what?
Another reminder that I’m not like the others. Another storm trooper miss.
Pass it onward!
Today is…
International Talk Like A Pirate Day!
Pass it onward!
Heading to Mars!
Martian Sunset by Mare Martell 2015
15X30
Acrylic on Board
FOR SALE!
The InSight mission to Mars is coming up on March 04, 2016 as a way to monitor and learn more about the surface of the planet. My husband Ben and I, he moreso than I, share a love for the space program and the many discoveries that are found. If you’d like to participate in a “trip to Mars”, send me all your money follow the link below to join others that believe in the power of exploration as well.
The deadline for signing up to have your name sent to mars is September 8th, 2015, so hop to it gumball! Here is the link to do that, RIGHT HERE! and below is a link to the picture of my “boarding pass.”
Mare Martell 