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chameleon boy

I made one of our favorite fall dinners this evening: delicata squash soup.* The bits of produce leftover from the prep inspired some silliness.

*I added roasted garlic and used Italian sausage instead of bacon. Extremely tasty.

bounty

I love the farmers market at this time of year, the slight golden cast of the light makes all the produce even more enticing. There are few things more picturesque than piles of winter squash in all their variety and bulbousness piled in a wooden crate with a small white-lettered sign written in chalk telling the price per pound. I bought two delicata, which do indeed have a delicate flavor and are especially tasty when grilled.

I also bought some plump cherry tomatoes and a pound of green beans, a ball of fresh goat's milk cheese from Mystery Bay Farm, and a loaf of organic walnut cranberry bread, a slice of which I'm eating now topped by - yes - the chevre. I might eat nothing else all day.

I find the market very therapeutic. It's best to go early, before the tourists wake up and when the selection is best. This being a small town, I see lots of people I know. The market is a good place for social chit chat, and nobody expects you to stop for too long before moving on to fill your shopping bag. (Of course you must bring your own bag.) I love it that most of the farmers are young people, many of whom have babies strapped across their chests. That organic farming is seen as a desirable way of life for young couples raising a family gives me hope for humanity. I love the clichéd beauty of the displays of produce in wooden crates or lined up on a table shining like jewels. There is a calm to be had walking through the market in the morning, even though there is activity all around.

Women weave, girls hand out dog biscuits, a man sings and plays guitar; the coffee wagon is busy, the lines at the bakery tent and the taco truck are long; the barbecued oyster stand sends salt-scented steam toward the bright morning sky. I gather my bounty and then I take it home.

papers on my desk in the morning sun

first piano lesson

Hijo had his first official piano lesson yesterday.

Due to unusual circumstances, I was able to tag along. The teacher sat him down at the piano and asked him if he knew how to play anything.

"Sure," he said and proceeded to play, not perfectly, but adequately, a Coldplay song that a friend of his had taught him.

"Well," the teacher told him, "I can tell you're going to be really good." 

Hijo smiled. I smiled. Even if that piano teacher says that to every kid who sits down on his bench*, I was grateful that he said it to Hijo. He was feeling pretty confident in his ability to learn to play, but having your teacher share that confidence with you within the first five minutes is really important.

The teacher pulled out a simplified version of Michael Jackson's "Beat It" which he gave to Hijo to take home and "see what he can do with it." Then they opened the beginner's book and Hijo learned the names of the keys and notes.

Watching Hijo start piano (and also band in school) has stirred up all sorts of memories and longings in me. Music seems to be one of those things that you abandon as an adult, because you have too little time, or you feel that if you aren't fantastically talented at it, it's not worth doing.

What happened to doing something simply because it's fun, because it brings us joy?

That's what I've been thinking about.

*bench=three small plastic orange schoolc chairs stacked on top of each other.