The Big Red Bowl

September 15, 2013

A fat mass of wrinkles, pinched nose and penny shiny coat leaned over the red plastic gallon-sized bowl to take a slurp, slinging a thick wad of saliva across the dry, cracked sidewalk. Her name matched the coppery fur and cool eyes, Penny. She is adorable. A French Mastiff who gobbled peanut butter and pumpkin biscuits by the handful as she took in the Bichon Frise, who very undignified for a dog, leapt into the arms of the nearest cooing woman. I sat at the cherry pie label red table in front of Woof Central, coaxing cash out of pedestrians soaking up what little sun we had on Penn Avenue during the Festival. Attempting to sell the stack of Kimberly’s Courage books to the patrons that meandered along the car-less street, seeking freebie cookies, popcorn, and chilled water in deadly plastic bottles, vying to be entertained.  At 62 degrees, I shiver and fret about the lack of a promised crowd. The Twins and Vikings games, bike race and fall weather seem to be taking their toll on the much anticipated street fair. The “Best Hot Dogs Ever” sold out across the way, slices of pizza trot in front of my eyes, brats soaked in beer float past and I dread the hunger pit in my stomach, knowing a good vegetarian sandwich is unattainable. I slurp my coffee and bide my time until I can bolt from the meat byproduct fumes and head home.

The Big Red Bowl attracts finicky eaters, dogs who refuse to sit for the treat, ADD sufferers who cannot pay attention long enough to draw a drink from the well, a few who growl and don’t play well with others yet mostly friendly, happy sorts who wag and seek attention from anyone within reach of the leash. I ate my fair share of the peanut butter, pumpkin treats as well. The brave ones experiment them too, nodding in agreement that they are not so bad. Edible even. Doesn’t measure up to a fresh salad but, I’m just one person talking.   

Market Madness

September 14, 2013

The deer devoured all of his fresh ears of corn on the north side of the field. Plants stripped bare, naked from root to the sky. The neighboring field, tended to by “Ned”  (for some reason, his name only seems apparent in parenthesis) was left unhampered. When Todd inquired about the production of the untapped maize, he was startled to find it an Engineered brand. This discovery left him unable to swallow food for several days, creating a pit of grief too absurd to name, sickened by the fact that his special organic corn is now tainted by wind-induced pollen pollution. Does that mean the deer are smarter than humans? If the shoe, or in this case, hoof, fits..

Our growing West Side Farmers Market has jovial vendor participation. The stand to my immediate left is run by a family who owns a farm near Afton. Brilliant red peppers, tomatoes of all sizes, over-sized green cabbage, tennis ball size red and white potatoes lined up in paper baskets to admire and purchase. “M” and I discussed canning some products to sell for next season. Gosh knows, I need a new line of work. On the other side of me was a young man and his two children, one of whom I suspect did not get enough sleep last night. He ran crying to his papa every ten minutes to half an hour ‘cause someone did him wrong. Poor thing wore himself ragged. Two singers joined the Market festivities, adding a bit of music to the mix. Colorful t-shirts, brick oven baked breads, cookies, real fruit roll-ups, banana muffins, jams, chicken parts, eggs and greens rounded off the offerings. Dogs came and went, dragging owners along. Made me consider baking dog biscuits for next year as well.  

Small purple grapes, laced with green, sweet melt in my mouth burst of flavor sits in the brown paper lunch bag, snuggled next to firm, nearly ripe roma tomatoes, soft to the touch apples lay beneath, sprigs of basil purify the interior of the vehicle as I drive home from the West Side Farmers Market. An exceedingly slow Saturday morning provides salad mixings for days to come. I managed to sell one quart of maple syrup, the remaining eleven joyously jostle one another in the box.

We have a seed library starting up too. The neighborhood is most interested in a pea patch garden, exchange of seeds, soil preparation and harvesting collaboratively. My job is to ensure a true reflection of the community we live in. Hispanics, African Americans, Hmong, Vietnamese, and Caucasians. So far, it is five white, middle-aged women who are running the show. I’ll be knocking on doors and soliciting help. You could be next, watch your mailbox for details.

Three Big Girls and A Dog

September 13, 2013

“Hello, welcome back,” chirped the scale. Shoot, I was sneaking a weigh-in at my client’s yet was embarrassed to have the scale voice blurt out my actual weight. She is ancient (compared to me) and her eyesight is terrible (hence the talking scale) and yet her hearing may be better than mine. I could not take the chance, so I fretted about the gain, and celebrated the loss, without actually knowing the truth. Probably best. Might have had to eat a bowl of popcorn instead of a plate of spaghetti with a Caesar and hard roll for dinner. Better not add cheesecake and sugar, added to a bit of coffee laced with cream, to be on the safe side.

Three chubby girls, with braids and colorful beads laced into their hair stopped Ty and I on the sidewalk in front of the For Rent sign. They ran to gather ‘round us and ask how old is the dog, it is a he or she, does he eat bread, can he have some cereal (it looked like Cocoa Puffs so I declined) and when is his birthday? Does he get a cake or just a bone? Can we pet him, I am not afraid of dogs but I am allergic, can he come into the house with us, he is the same age as her. Then dad boomed, “You’d better leave that lady and her dog alone, get back up here and bring your little sister along.” They scuttled back up the stairs to the man, standing erect like a sand hill crane, on the saggy porch. He was smoking and laughing at their girlish antics, winking at me in alliance. I saluted him and moved on, collecting trash, recycling and leaving behind collaborative intention.

Cat Eat Cat World

September 12, 2013

Oops, cat got outdoors. He pushed his way out, squeezing through the door that stood ajar, a gap wide enough for his large feline body to pass. Sauntered around the perimeter of the property, sniffing here and there, quietly taking in all of the available escape routes. I weeded while he made his way to the back chain link fence, around the corner to the side of the house and back. Feared he would startle and bolt under the tilted gate and be lost to me. I called him to me and scooped up his fat body, hugged him tight until I got him back into the safety of the familiar house. A few salmon treats make him forget he was free for a time.

Prior to his escapade in the great outdoors, he was content to be hunkered on the window ledge, watching the squirrels and birds flit around in the yard. Now he meows in complaint, to be let outside.  I hesitate to allow him to roam with the other rascally neighborhood cats. No telling what gang activity he will encounter on the streets, dealing drugs, stealing bikes, entering into homes and unlocked garages, strewing litter all over the alleyways, smoking cigarettes, tossing ratty furniture to the curb, etc. There are black cats out there as well, soliciting more gang members and wreaking havoc.

Stinkin' P&J

September 11. 2013

     Daejon certainly won’t show up at my door again anytime soon. He was dropped off at the corner by the big yellow school bus, after a day of second grade, sweaty and hesitant. Didn’t even knock, I simply noticed Tyrus barking at the front door and wagging his tail widely. A peek around the corner produced Daejon, with his flat backpack strapped to his shoulder, a white tag with contact information attached to the top. His hair, in tight braids that wrap his thick wet head, led him, skulking, into the house. He looked more than a bit forlorn and cautious. He claimed his mom told him to come here, if she wasn’t at the bus stop. Of course he is welcome, I assure him his mom had asked me last week and I agreed. If I am not home, I let him know, he can hang out in the sun room to wait. I whisked him into the house and told him we could make a freezing smoothie to cool him down. “A smoooothie?” He responded that he is starved, when I asked him if he’d like a snack.

     I pulled out the bread, fresh peanut butter jar and homemade strawberry jam. He rolled the peanut butter around on the bread until I demonstrated how he can spread it flat. The jam came out in a big glob and he had trouble with that as well. I let him struggle, succeed, then noted his smile behind the disconcerting frown. He clumsily cut the sandwich in half and brought it into the livingroom to park on the pale yellow leather chair at the front window. Soon, he was flinging the sandwich around, swirling it in front of Tyrus’ nose. I realized he was not enjoying it and was wishing the dog would reduce his misery. “What is this?” “It is just real crushed peanuts made into peanut butter and strawberries smashed into jam. I gave you whole wheat bread, haven’t you had it before?” He complained the smoothie is “Kinda watery,” in a despairing voice. Yet, when his mother appeared in the driveway, he ran into the kitchen to pour more “watery” drink into his glass. I poured it all into a large plastic tumbler and told him to share it with his sister on the way home.

     As I leaned into the car to say hello to JJ and mom, I noticed Daejon smashing Red Flame Doritos into his mouth from a giant bag he found on the front seat. I said my goodbyes then returned to the kitchen to clean up the spoils and noticed the peanut butter sandwich. What hadn’t gone into Ty’s mouth, was sitting atop the garbage, in the can next to the stove. Tyrus will welcome Daejon into the house anytime. He’ll probably send him a formal invitation by mail.

In Cahoots

September 10, 2013

I am inviting a pastor, Park and Rec representative, two school teachers, a corner market owner, the manager at Icy Cup and whomever else is interested in sorting out a solution to the increase in criminal activity in our neighborhood. One fellow Block Club member sent out the app for the police dispatcher so we can hear the incoming calls to the police station. How calming, after a day at the kennels, to overhear a conversation regarding a narcotics bust on MY block! A website was passed along to the group, allowing us to see all of the crimes of the area, week-by-week…wow, another serene night spent wondering when the drug-induced thieving dudes are coming to my house. I deleted everything from my phone. Would rather watch a horror film (and I hate them!) than live in that kind of anticipatory fear.

I got home too late to canter around the neighborhood in the daylight. We passed by a woman walking next to her daughter, riding her bike on the sidewalk. A young man, out smoking, enticed me into a conversation about Tyrus’ breed. A young couple, who responded to my “Hello” and several people, strolling by, on their own, looking entirely ready to break into song rather than jump me for the dog poop bag I carried. Ty is rarely on a leash so I typically cross to the other side to avoid scaring the crap out of people. He is big and has an extra large head and jaw line, which can be intimidating. I let people know, as long as I am not threatened, he won’t hurt them. I am actually not certain my dog would do anything, to anyone, but I don’t let on.

Legible Labels

September 9, 2013

Do No Harm. A precautionary position (the precept that an action should not be taken if the consequences are uncertain and potentially dangerous to the general public and environment) is what we asked of Minnesota Senator Al Franken’s staff this morning. I joined a gathering of ten participants to approach the representatives and discuss the Senator’s position on GMO labeling (“genetically modified organisms,” are plants or animals created through the gene splicing techniques of biotechnology (also called genetic engineering, or GE.) I was prepared to simply absorb information through osmosis. The experts, citing examples of research, policy, facts (62 countries have banned GMO’s, two states in this country have already passed labeling laws with more to come, Coke and Pepsi companies produce non-GMO foods to export to Europe, etc) and figures that were mainly over my head, spewing details about farmers who are facing bankruptcy because Montesano has sued them for the obvious drifting that takes place, pollinating once pure organic crops that morph into Engineered produce. I learned a lot this morning, about Round-Up using additive Agent Orange chemicals to combat the evolving Super Weeds. Yikes. I have four notebook pages of notes, that I mostly cannot decipher, since I do not write in shorthand and my writing is much like an illegible doctor’s RX.

I asked the Senator’s strong arms to tell us what would change Senator Franken’s mind-50,000 signatures on a petition? He claims to be waiting for the FDA approval prior to standing behind labeling the GMO products. Two former Montesano muckity mucks sit on the FDA Board. The Grocers Association is against labeling, what a surprise. Do we so easily forget the Montesano squealer who claimed they would need to place a skull and cross bones on the label, if they had to be honest with the public?

A cattle farmer conducted his own study with GMO corn versus organic corn feed. The cows refused to touch the GMO corn. When he took away the organic corn, they refused to eat the GMO feed for several days. The farmer did not have the heart to starve his cows in order to find out how long they would go without eating the Genetically Modified pretend corn. See? Even the cows want it labeled. Or to have the GMO’s go away altogether. Now wouldn’t that be grand.

Nothing like a cool key lime pie on a hot summer day. Tangy smooth pudding texture with a light graham cracker crust. If you hurry over, I may have some left. I can pronounce all of the ingredients on the label, and know what they are. I’ll be up late. Too many locusts chirping.