Of Melons and Memories

Last night we picked our very first watermelon from our garden! We have been waiting and waiting for it to ripen. Every day, all the kids and I march down to the garden (which is, by necessity, at the very farthest corner from the door as it could be) and check on our watermelon. It is a variety of ice-box watermelon called Sugar Baby, which is a very popular small heirloom variety. It's called "ice-box" because it will actually fit in the refrigerator. We have only one vine, which I am actually growing up a trellis as an experiment because it requires so much less space. I first read about that in Square Foot Gardening by Mel Bartholemew and it's going well so far. One melon did crash to the ground prematurely, but I suspect that had more to do with bugs that anything else, because two melons are waxing fat and happy, dangling from the top of the trellis.  I'm growing cantaloupes this way, too, and they will fall off the vine when they are ripe, but I actually like that, since my trellises are not too high. I always know when one is ripe without them busting when they hit the ground. Speaking of busting, Darling begged to carry the watermelon back to the house, then immediately dropped it as soon as it was in her hands. I love that girl so much. I couldn't help but laugh. It busted a little bit (you can see it in the picture), but it didn't affect the flavor one bit. :)

It was sooooo juicy. The juice just ran out everywhere when I cut into it. It dripped down little chins and turned little hands sticky and was such a mess to clean up. But a lovely mess, because it was a homegrown mess in every sense. We had such a good time eating it. I taught the kids how to spit out the seeds as they ate. Darling caught on immediately and became an expert seed spitter. Doodlebug had a bit more trouble and the seeds just sort of fell out her mouth (I picked all the seeds out of Pumpkin's melons before giving them to him). I never could get a good picture of them spitting the seeds, but I wish I had been able to. Oh well. I have some blurry ones for my own memories.

When I was a child, my grandparents lived out on some acreage, and they grew watermelons every summer. My aunt, uncle, and cousins would come down and Papaw would put all the melons on ice in preparations. In the afternoons we would gather on the deck and cut open the most enormous, juicy watermelons you've ever seen and pass the salt shakers around. I don't think any watermelons have ever tasted so good as those from my childhood. When we were all done there was a contest to see who could hurl the rind the furthest. I don't think I ever won, not once. I guess hurling watermelon rinds was just not my thing.

As you can see, we completely devoured our watermelon. The kids ate it like it was their last meal on earth. Pumpkin had an enormous pile of rinds in front of him, and he actually gnawed one rind until there was hardly anything left, then carried another rind around with him all over the yard. I guess he was saving it for later. We all felt extremely proud that we grew it ourselves. It makes me happy to think of what a lesson in patience and perseverance (not to mention botany!) this was for them. I hope they will cherish these memories as much as I do. I can't imagine a better way to spend an evening.

Perfection Infection and the Mess I Made of Things

This morning, I read this excellent post about the "perfection infection" that plagues our society. "Perfection" is a world view that does not, has not, and will not make anyone happy. No exceptions. Where my view differs from the rest of the world, is that our willingness to buy into this view stems from our own arrogance, and not from anyone else. Even a low self-esteem is fueled by a preoccupation with ones' self, and stems from arrogance.

I know how the world looks at me: like I washed up after I had so much promise. Everything comes easy to me, yet I've failed at everything I've ever tried. I'm twenty-six, divorced with three kids four and under. I never finished college. I live with my parents. I was going back to school, but I stopped that, too.  How pathetic. But you know what? It doesn't matter. If it were someone else, I'd be saying the same thing. But for the first time in my life, I've got it together and got my priorities in line.

The truth is, I married a man I never really loved because I thought he was safe. I was devastated by things that went on in my parents' marriage, and I thought, "He'll never do that to me. We'll have a good life together." I was dazzled by his potential. I was blinded by the desire to be married and plan a wedding and play homemaker. I made him up to be something he was not, and refused to acknowledge the doubts I had because he was going to "get me out of Arkansas." He had these big dreams, and I thought, "that's the kind of life I want." That's all I focused on instead of, you know, the way he treated me. I saw how smart and talented he was, but I ignored how he wasted it. I glossed over the fact that we didn't match up in our spiritual views. I discounted the fact that we grew up with two different views of marriage. I built him up into Prince Charming, and then was stupid enough to be shocked when the armor came off. Yes, I was that stupid girl. And then I wasn't strong enough to make it work. I wasn't strong enough to stick it out and just live with my mistakes. I loved his family, really more than I loved him, and I wanted to be a part of it because I so desperately craved that stability after it was broken in my own family. I have a deep confession to make: I knew by month two of our marriage that I had made a horrible mistake. But I was also so ashamed to be that girl who ran away after six weeks of marriage that I just kept pretending to love him. And then I was pregnant and I felt I had to stick it out for the baby. I thought, "I'm stuck now, so I might as well make the best of it and put my whole self into this marriage." So that's what I did. I failed him by not being honest with him from the start. I thought only about what a fool I would look if I broke up with him. I never thought about him, and how he thought he was marrying someone who was crazy about him. I never thought about how I was derailing his life, too. He deserved better than that. And then I was ready to step up and make it work, but he wasn't. And that's when he failed me. I was standing there, going, "Let's do this. We've got kids, we can make it work. We can still have a good life together." But he was off playing video games instead. And it got to the point where I just couldn't keep pretending anymore. I was crazy about my kids and being a mom. I thought, "This is what I'm on this earth to do. Everything else was just killing time until I got here." I begged him to jump in and experience it, too. I begged him to go the park with us. I got answers like, "I've already played with her today." "I just don't feel like going anywhere today" "Alright, but I don't want to be there more than 20 minutes." "Maybe next weekend." And what was he doing instead of being with his family? Playing video games. Watching movies. Surfing the internet. Oh, he was working, too, but he was off every weekend, and he didn't spend it with us, although we were home together. The point of this? We were both idiots. We both wrecked our marriage. My family needs to realize that I made horrible mistakes and it wasn't all his fault, and his family needs to know that he failed miserably as a husband. If I wanted to be treated better, then I should have married someone else. If he didn't want to treat me better, then he should have married someone who didn't expect to be treated better. We were both stupid. And now our kids have got to pay for it. That's the real tragedy. And that's why I'm living with my parents and pushing off school until they're older. Because they deserve to have a magical childhood, no matter how stupid their parents are. They deserve to have a mother who's there to see every magical moment, who bakes cookies with them and takes them to the zoo. They deserve a mother who can read them the same story ten times in a row because it's their favorite, who lets them finger paint, make a mess (as long as they clean it up!), and thinks that a tea party with Mr. Jumbo is the social event of the season. They deserve a mother who'll dress up in gossamer wings and a tutu and dance around the backyard singing while looking for fairies, even though the neighbors just shake their heads turn the other way. A mother who is an expert in the art of giant bubbles. Who'll dance around the living room with abandon even though she's a terrible dancer. They deserve a mother who can get along with their father, and move on no matter what happens. A mother who will shut her mouth no matter how much she wants to bust his balls (because she's not perfect, either). Who will welcome every visit from their dad, because they are his children, too, and she can't ever change that. They deserve a mother who will take on every tantrum and never let it slide because she's too tired or has to be at work. They deserve to have a mother who can out sit them at the dinner table until they eat their vegetables. Because it's for their own good.

I could never give them that if I were on my own. They would be in day care, one of fifty kids supervised by two workers who would rather be somewhere else. Bullied and ignored, or worse, they would be the bully because their mom is always too tired and overworked for them, and they are desperate for attention. And for what? For some superficial show of independence that is worthless in the grand scheme of things.

My parents understand that. They know that what my kids need more than anything else after what they have been through is their mother. And that's why they are taking care of us: not so I don't have to pay for my mistakes, but so my kids don't have to pay for my mistakes. We're blessed that they are in a position that they can do that. They are the real heroes here. They are better than I deserve.

I blew it. I know it. I pretty much have no chance at a loving marriage now- I have no illusions about that. I'm looking at being single for the rest of my life, and that's okay. I can still be happy. Because I made the mistakes, but God provided the answers. I am the luckiest woman in the world because I can advance the Plan of God without fear of persecution for what I believe. I have a comfortable life in a free country. I won't lie, there are times when I think it would be a relief to go back to school. To only be responsible for myself! There are days when I am so close to losing it I have to go scream into a pillow. Or worse, I do lose it a scream at my children. I'm always so ashamed of myself when that happens. It happens less and less because I'm stretching and growing, but I'm far from perfect. If I went back to school, got a degree, got a job, got my own place, maybe got married again, the world would look at me and say, "Finally, she's got it together!" But I would be remiss, because my orders are, "raise three children to the best of your ability."  Not "go out and do something for you and raise your kids in your spare time." It isn't about me anymore. It hasn't been since the strip first turned pink. And it doesn't matter if the world thinks I'm the biggest loser in the world. God gave me three children to raise, and I'm going to do it to the best of my ability. I'm going to give them everything I have, till there's nothing left of me but some water and a few minerals. And when that job is done and I get new orders, I'll give everything to those, too, until God takes me home. No one has to know what I'm doing: God knows. And that's enough.

Of Memories and Muscadines

We all have them: those golden, pure, perfect memories of a childhood summer day. The ones that it seems no amount of time can diminish or fade. They are burned into our mind's eye forever, and we wouldn't have it any other way.

I don't know why this one particular memory stuck with me. Nothing special happened, nothing kids today would find particularly interesting. We were just a bunch of kids, I think 5 or 6 of us, all cousins (two of them were my brothers), visiting our grandparents' house out in "the country".  It was a hot, late  summer afternoon and we walked down the looooonnnggg, winding driveway towards the road, where we picked wild muscadines for Mamaw to make into muscadine jelly.  Of course, we ate tons of them straight off the vine. I still remember the little "pop" as they burst in my mouth, and that rush of wild, tangy flavor, and the bitterness if you got one not quite ripe.

This has been one of my favorite childhood memories, perhaps for the simple fact that I was included in the group of "big kids" for once. Perhaps it was because we were partaking of a tradition in the spirit of pioneers: harvesting food wild from the land!  I was a very sentimental child like that. Whatever the reason, the mere utterance of the word "muscadine" will bring it all back. So it's no surprise that when we were picking strawberries back in June at a local U-Pick orchard and they advertised that they would have muscadines in August, my sentimentality took over and I pre-ordered 2 gallons worth: one each of red and white muscadines.

Let's fast forward to late August, after a phone-call to let me know that my order was ready and a drive to the orchard to pick it up, and I have 2 gallons of muscadines sitting on my kitchen counter. And, for laughs, let's throw in the fact that I don't know how to make jellies, jams, or sauces that muscadines are typically used for, so I have no way to consume them unless I eat them like grapes. By myself. All two gallons. It's nearly enough to make me wish I'd never heard of muscadines!

But after a few minutes of allowing myself to wallow in buyer's remorse, I decide to get on with it. They're just grapes, after all, and I am a fully-grown Homo sapien with complex rational thought, problem solving skills, and opposable thumbs. No way are those grapes getting the best of me! I head to my first line of defense: the internet! A feat of man no mere Vitis rotundifolia could ever conceive of! I begin my research and quickly succumb to another weakness of mine: fascination. Damn, if those little buggers aren't fascinating! Here's a bit of what I uncovered:

Muscadines are native to the Southeastern United States. They were discovered in 1584 by Sir Walter Raleigh. The name muscadine comes from the word, muscus, which is the root of the muscat grape, as well. Early settlers called the new, wild grape of America after a grape they were no doubt familiar with. A golden/bronze muscadine was found growing and then cultivated along the Scuppernong river, and so were given the name scuppernong. Muscadines are no doubt the red-headed step-child of the wine industry, but for no good reason other than blatant wine snobbery and ancient prejudice. This little jewel of the South is high in vitamin C, vitamin B, and manganese, and are higher in calcium, fiber, iron, and zinc than most other fruits. But muscadines are also a significantly better source of that "miracle" compound, resveratrol, than their more popular grape cousins. Wondering where you've heard that word before? Resveratrol is that compound found in red wine that is thought to reduce abnormal cells and lower your risk of heart disease. It has been in the news recently as containing the key to "The French Paradox", and is also thought to have anti-aging benefits.

So now I am totally thrilled that I have 2 gallons of muscadines on my counter, and I can't wait to try some recipes. I found a recipe for muscadine jelly that doesn't seem too intimidating, here. I will let you know how that turns out, and hopefully I'll some muscadine recipes of my own to post. But for those of you wanting to try muscadines without all the work, there's always muscadine wine!

Sources on Muscadines:
Paulk Vineyards
USDA Website
Birmingham Business Journal

For A little Bit on Arkansas Wine:
Wiederkehr Wine Cellars