Mostly, it’s Pete’s butt.
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I knew that 18th and 19th century women wore separate pockets under their skirts. I have a friend who is an anthropologist and she does 18th c. historical reenactments and I have seen her embroidered pockets.
I have been wondering lately how we got out of the habit of those oh-so-helpful accoutrements. Especially as I hear my friends reply to clothing compliments with “Thanks! It has pockets!”
I bought some new, linen, work pants at Old Navy recently and was delighted to realize there are pockets deep enough to hold my phone without it falling out on the floor when I need to stoop down for something. I wear a Japanese style apron when I do yard work simply to give myself big pockets. Pockets are useful. Frankly, pockets rock.
I found this article and this other article that I find believable. There are others. But, they are pretty politicized and I don’t really buy it. I find “That just isn’t cute.” to be more believable.
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From a conversation with my cousins and sisters on our beach weekend:
Strawberries (1968)
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love youlet the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hillslet the storm wash the plates
Poem © Edwin Morgan, Gnomes, Carcanet Press Limited, 1968
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My pie will be strawberry. But, it will not have a heart because I’m not putting a crust on top. And I didn’t save out berries to make a shape.
This pie is 44 years in the making.
When I was a sweet, young thing in Florence, South Carolina, I was a frequenter of the Venus Pancake House. It was open 24 hours a day, only closed on “significant holidays” like Xmas, New Year’s and, maybe, Thanksgiving. It was owned by a couple of Greek men. I was never sure what their relationship was. I don’t think they were brothers because they looked nothing alike. Maybe brothers-in-law. Maybe just friends. Pretty sure they weren’t sweethearts.
They had a $2.50 lunch special that was a meat and 2 with bread and your drink. I often got fried fish, double cole slaw, corn bread and unsweetened tea. When the little theater crowd went in after rehearsal, I got pancakes, eggs over medium, bacon and enough coffee to float me home.
Every once in a while, Steve would make a strawberry pie. I LOVED that pie. And, of course, he wouldn’t give me the recipe. He preferred to sell me slices. When he got around to making it.
Decades later, a beekeeper brought a variation to a potluck. Her’s was blueberry and she shared the recipe. I have made it several times with blueberries and it is absolutely delicious. But, I keep forgetting to make pie when I have strawberries at hand.
Today, my loving husband brought home fresh, local, pesticide-free, ripe-from-the-garden strawberries.
And I am making a pie.
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This does crack me up and make me roll my eyes a bit.
To start asparagus, you plant “crowns” in early Spring. If I recall correctly, they show up at garden centers in February. The crowns look like old fashioned rag mops.
Alternatively, you can hope that I am your neighbor and that the birds will seed them into your yard as enthusiastically as they do in mine.
There are a couple more spots but they didn’t photograph well.
I am the Audience 