The Furious Spinner

The sky was pink only a moment ago. A nanosecond ago. Dark and pink. Almost night. Someone has thrown a switch—or maybe they just slurped the pink out. Now it is lighter outside. Almost daylight. I can see patches of snow across the river, clefts of snow, like a row of sweet white vaginas.

What can I say? I've been thinking of genitalia. In Detroit, a muralist has been sentenced to jail for a painting on his outside wall that depicts Eve with her bosom bared. This article from the Detroit Free Press says that he was given permission to do the mural but he couldn't put words or genitalia on it. Last I heard breasts were not genitalia. The word he put on the mural, by the way, was "love." What is it about this country and breasts? Ashcroft covers them up. Janet Jackson gets in trouble for accidentally exposing hers. This country's Puritan roots are showing.

We found out today that the school across the street from us is going to continue to bring in a truck and broadcast spray pesticides. Instead of looking over the research we had given them from reputable scientists, they decided to go to our local extension agent (who is also a licensed pesticide applicator) to ask his opinion. As far as I can tell, this agent has never seen a pesticide he doesn't like. He invoked a scientist who works for a Washington university that some of us believe is too tied to the chemical industry. This "scientist" uses science from the fifties and sixties. At the meeting about pesticide use, the school reps said they had to keep the grounds looking good or the parents would think they were mistreating their children and they worried the children would trip over weeds and break their ankles. I asked, in a letter I wrote today, why it was more acceptable for a child to be sent to the hospital from pesticide exposure (which happened this summer) than to trip over a weed (like that's the reason a child falls). It is all very discouraging. We've been looking for another place to move to for five years. Affordable housing is scare here. We've even thought of leaving the area. It's funny because when we look at those "best places to live" lists for people "like us," this area is supposed to be it! That just tells us it could be much worse.

Ah well. Mario is doing the dishes. I'm eating roasted parsnips while I write to you all. The roaring in my ear is so loud it almost drowns out the white noise from the hepa fan. It's like I'm constantly listening to a really loud seashell. My allergies etc. have all flared mercilessly. Have you had roasted parsnips? My bro-in-law in Scottsdale served them when we visited, and I've been making them ever since. In case you don't know what parsnips look like (I only learned about 10 years ago), they're kind of like white carrots. They taste like a cross between carrots and potatoes. Parsnips are part of the carrot (parsley) family and were "reserved for the aristocracy, who liked them drowned in honey or combined with fruit in little cakes," according to the Whole Foods Companion: A Guide for Adventurous Cooks, Curious Shoppers, and Lovers of Natural Foods by Dianne Onstad. I love this book by the way. (Be careful when you read it though, if you're anything like me. After I read what she said about peanuts I haven't had one since.) There's a 2005 edition that I haven't seen yet; ours is from 1996. She says some believed parsnips could cure snakebites, while others thought they caused insanity. (That is one quibble I have with the book. I wish she would be more specific instead of saying "some" people. I want to know which people and when.)

If you want to try roasted parsnips, grab up a couple from the grocery store. Preheat oven to 350°. Wash the parsnips. Peel them if you want. I leave the skins on. Cut off both ends. Then cut them into bite-size pieces, any shape you want—or cut them so they look like French fries. Put them in a pan so that they're not one on top of the other. Spread them out and dribble olive oil on them. Put your hands into all and roll the pieces around until they're covered in the oil. (Don't use too much oil. You only need a little. Use less than you think you'll need.) Put them in the oven for 30 to 40 minutes, depending how you like them. Stick a fork in them to tell if they're done, or pop one in your mouth. They're done the way potatoes are done.

I've been doing library work all week, so my brain is filled with library stuff. But it's been a good writing week, too. I sold "The Señorita and the Cactus Thorn." It'll appear in the young adult anthology Coyote Road next year. It's the story I wrote at the casita, inspired by my irritation at getting poked and pricked by cacti. (A variation of "Princess and the Pea"). My editor at Simon and Schuster asked for me to give a physical description of Mercy for the cover artist of Mercy, Unbound. That was nice of her. As I've explained before, writers have no control (and very little say) over their covers, so we just have to cross our fingers. It worked out with Coyote Cowgirl, so I'm hoping for the best with this new book. I have a lot of faith in my editor at S&S. She gets my writing, she's excited by it, she's in contact with me. That is a really nice combination. I'm happy with the agent I'm working with, too. How often do you hear that from a writer? A writer happy with her editor and agent. Wow. I've got to stop and digest that little kernel.

OK.

Last night I dreamed of coyotes. They were howling, a pack of them, and I was trying to get to them. Today while I spoke with my father on the phone over thirty deer came onto his front yard. In his life, he said, he had never seen that happen before. And except for his time in the service, my father has lived on the same road his entire life. My youngest sister, who lives next door, was out walking with her husband across the road in the two lanes. (We call it "the two lanes" because there were two dirt lanes. One lane went to the river and to the left where several summer cottages were; the other lane went to the river and to the right where the ranger's house was for many years until it burned down. I spent many hours of my childhood in those woods. Now no one can drive on the lanes so they're more like paths, and some government agency owns the property on both sides of the lanes.) Anyway, my sister and husband were walking and she said she saw something through the trees, something brown, like a brown wave, and she thought it was a truck or something. But it was the deer. Her dog went to investigate and came back quickly, apparently cowed by the herd.

I wish I had seen it. Today as I walked to meet Mario on his way home for lunch, I spotted several robins in various green islands amidst the concrete. As we turned to home I looked up into the huge old oak tree. Roosting on the bare limbs were a couple dozen robins looking down at us.

It feels as though the world is shuddering here and there. Shivering. Getting ready to fling something off—or start something. I feel the same way.

...as if Kali just yawned. And she's not falling to sleep. No. It's a morning yawn. It's an awakening yawn. She's just about to open her eyes...

I'll be sure to offer her a parsnip or two. 0 comments

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