I took the boys to the Monterey Bay Aquarium today. They have a new exhibit downstairs on Climate Change. It’s in the same hall where the river otters used to live, so one of the tanks has that little kid’s hideout next to it; you know, the kind where the kids crawl in get their own mini-view of the specimens while you wait a half hour for the novelty to wear off. I used to use this time to rummage my inbox.

Well, I had my sketchbook with me today. And now, in place of the river otters, Green Sea Turtles are swimming, young ones. The point of the turtle exhibit is to illustrate climate change on their population. I didn’t realize that the sand temperature where their eggs are laid determines the gender balance of the clutch. Sandy beaches are getting warmer, so scientists predict more females will continue to be born than males. I wonder how the girls feel about that..

Independence Day is more meaningful to me through these four eyes. These eyes are my periscope to the world, penetrating the thick layers of seemingly blind patriotism up into the joyful, sparkling night horizon. But passion, no matter the subject, is a powerful and human emotion. That said, I had a beautiful Fourth, perhaps more meaningful to me than any in my years before. The children, once again, helped me to see the Fourth for the fireworks.

I don’t know; I give them one more day together before the inevitable….

It’s a new year! I can hardly believe the difference I feel in its arrival. There is some magic behind those numbers, I don’t care how illogical this sounds; I already know this year will be different. And like all fresh starts, we’ve been making complete breakfasts (oh my goodness! As in, not cereal from a box!) during our mellow holiday, and let me tell you: this makes all the difference in the world. I will be awakening earlier once school starts again *just* so we can enjoy sitting down together to eat our breakfast. What a concept!

Check out how YELLOW our hen’s eggs are! Here’s the difference between store-bought eggs and home-grown:

This morning we made aebelskivvers. You know, the treat-filled Scandinavian pancake that requires that special pan with the little holes? These have become Chas’ favorite breakfast item, along with bacon. If he could have his way, he would get pancakes or waffles alongside (more accurately, underneath) his aebelskivvers, but this mama has only *so* much energy behind one cup of coffee. Not to mention the redundancy? And the sugar highs? Oh my!

This recipe is the best I’ve come up with, after some experimenting:

Basic Ebelskivver Batter

4 eggs, whipped up nice and bubbly

1/2 cup water

1/2 cup milk

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 tsp salt

2 tsp baking powder

1 T melted butter, for oiling the pan

Preheat the pan, mix up the wet and dry ingredients separately, then fold together gently until all floury gobs are gone. Let sit for five minutes (as the pan raises to a medium-high heat). Baste the pan holes with butter, then fill each hole in the pan 2/3 full with the batter. Next, top each dollop with a morsel of something yummy (our favorite? Nutella!) and then cover the morsel with enough batter to completely fill the hole.

When each pancake turns slightly drier around the sides, you will know to turn them over. Taking two chopsticks, use one to push the tip of each pancake down into the hole while using the other chopstick to assist the opposite end of the pancake up and over to complete the flip. In a matter of a few minutes, they will be done (the bottom–as well as the top–should look golden).

So I got a lot of work done today! It really pays to start the day off right with a good breakfast. Well, I actually had cream of wheat and orange juice but you get the point. I moved EARTH! (Well, a lot of earth for this little lady)

We have this sloping, southwest-facing backyard, well-suited for gardening. When they cut the Monterey Pine tree (the tire swing tree) down last year, the hill became filled with the mulch from the tree. I built raised beds at the top of the hill last spring (now topped with the chicken tractors!), but as with all projects I begin I had to take the entire garden build and break it down into steps, season-by-season. Well, it’s time for a new terrace, so that’s what I continued working on.

By sheet mulching (lasagna gardening) I added first a layer of chicken manure, then a layer of newspapers, then a layer of leaves, then cardboard sheets from broken-down boxes, and finally another 3-4 inches of bark mulch atop that. I’m sore already. It felt so completely wonderful being outside in the warm sun today. The boys later would come out and join me for a little conversation while I worked, but I was mostly alone with the cats and Seti, who would occasionally help me dig.

And then there were the chickens and the leftover aebelskivvers!

I hope you enjoy the recipe as much as all of us!

We discover two eggs from the newest hatch of Orpingtons (who knows which one layed them). They’re still warm, waiting for us under the southern sunshine. So we take them inside to the stove and turn on the flame. Chas picks the small stainless skillet and I let it warm up. He stands on his stool next to the stove, fat lip swollen round cranberry red, watching me grease the pan. Soon it’s hot, and we each crack an egg in, one by one. The yolks shine upright like marigold yellow balls.

With crazed maternal determination I clear a space in Ford’s bedroom for a twin bed that I haven’t bought yet. Chas will sleep in this spot, instead of the loft, because if he doesn’t fall out then eventually he’ll be kicked out and fall flat on his face again. I push furniture around like a house rat, carving a cozy, clean sleeping corner for Chas while he plays alongside me with a small white Lego trooper and a ginormous Burr oak acorn cap.

Somehow I make it home within the next hour from the Ikean labyrynth with a twin boxspring and four bed legs, and then somehow I put the bed together.

Thirty minutes later I arrive at the school. The yellow leaves are falling from maple trees atop the long blue afternoon shadows and while we wait for Ford to appear from the classroom, Chas and I stare out into the open field, quiet as mice. A jet from San Francisco scores the cloudless turquoise sky with a thin white contrail towards Los Angeles by way of the coastline. In the rear view mirror, Chas watches it pass and rests his head against the glass window. Then he asks me when we are flying to Houston.

In one week and two days, I reply, showing him 9 of my fingers, and he bites his lip to stifle his glee; I bite my lip, cringing.

My mornings begin under a pile of cats and children. If the sun hasn’t risen, a cat will. She will begin purring and licking my nose with dry, coarse sandpaper kisses; at this point it’s hard to stay asleep, and Booger kitty has the edge on this game.

On Halloween eve she successfully commanded me to awaken and then feed her, and as I made coffee she stopped mid-breakfast to crunch and smile back up at me, quite satisfied. One can measure the contentedness of a cat quite easily by purr strength and coat gloss, but in Booger one can faintly discern a smile. Her eyes glint.

Our days parted briefly as I drove the boys to school. As we pulled away we watched her bat an acorn through the yellow leaves in the driveway.

When it was time to feed the quail and the chickens, she sat atop the covey box and watched, knowing how good fresh quail taste (she really knows.) And then she climbed a tree for no reason.

Many hours later, the boys were home again, playing Star Wards in the backyard. The chickens were ranging. Booger sprawled flat atop the big white planter on a new bed of borage seedlings, and I, miffed, pulled her off the flattened sprouts and shook my head. I brought her warm fluffy body up to my face and hugged her close, very snug for a cat, but she doesn’t mind that. She is a mellow cat. One thing I love about her, besides her luxurious fluffy, long Oreo cookie coat, is her sweet manner. Again, she is always smiling.

The odd thing is that I have to grieve for losing all of this, because when Damon pulled in from work he found her on the road in front of our house. The pavement, days later, was still shiny and red, and I am beginning to wonder how I can possibly keep enduring these seemingly routine losses of joy and warmth and family from my home. Only two months ago we lost her brother, George McFly, to an early Monday morning commuter.

Damon, the man who steps up without fail, quietly buried her while I cried. I could hear him in the dark outside, an occasional shovel grating stone, while Chas sat next to me on the sofa. Chas put his small hand on mine. He let me mutter my sadness while he listened.
He asked me what it feels like when we die. I told him that I don’t know. I told him that I imagine it’s muffled and peaceful and white, like snow. Everywhere.
And then I felt like crap for being downer mom. Am I supposed to lie?

I can’t lie to the kids. But they are too young to be men, and they already react with a farmer’s mentality, Ford reminding me that “it’s okay, mom, cats come and go.”
But it’s not okay, and the Borage seedlings are now tall again, and the quail are still being fed and the cats are still playing, all as if nothing is changed or missing, even though it just aches and aches in those blank spaces she used to occupy, smiling.

School. The nourishing routine began. They needed this. And Chas started kindergarten.

With this came new friendships, early mornings slicing carrots, spreading jam, checking homework. Chas is eager to please his teacher; he often reminds me of the one important thing to do when I am bogged down in these daily details.

“Mommy, are you staying with me at school today?”

I volunteer now, like many other parents at our school. On Mondays I spend the entire day in the school garden, raking, mulching, planting, weeding, thinning, harvesting, my handiwork echoed sixfold by eager little kindergarten helpers. They take turns. When teacher Kathy isn’t looking, I let the most dexterous child handle the pruning shears to collect rosemary sprigs. He is ready, despite the rules.

Chas plays alongside us in the garden, with no interest in garden maintenance. There are bridges to build and battles to fight under the live oak canopy. He steps back into the sunlight occasionally and his flaxen halo glows in the bright morning light.

It is the little school up in the mountain. We love it here.

Ford is in a classroom with seventeen other children, mostly girls, and, according to his teacher, he is raising his hand at every question, jumping at each opportunity. In the whole-school music class, he volunteers to sing solo. At the same time he is navigating new social ground. He made two close friends on the first day of school, a magnetic, spinning connection over goofy faces, animated gestures and general silliness. And he has discovered the comic book.

In the car on the way to Santa Cruz, on a golden Friday afternoon, Ford sits in the backseat of the car with a stack of paper and a pencil. He draws. By the time the sun has set and I lay the board back atop the car, I look into the backseat to find a stack full of comics that he has drawn. They include page upon page of alien species on lush, fruity topography choosing flowers to eat, introducing themselves to other species. There is no war, no battles, no conflict other than which flowers to eat. There are so many, after all, from which to choose.