Household Cleaning Plans

According to a radio report yesterday, couples who wash dishes together tend to stay together longer than couples who do not. It was a sign of the ability to take on an unpleasant task and complete it together. We do not do the dishes together—I cook, Mark washes, ninety five percent of the time—but we do clean the house together every Friday night or Saturday morning. It has become one of our long term rituals.

We did not always do this. For several years, Mark worked in Portland and came home for the weekends. During the week, I was teaching and busy figuring out that new job. We were often faced with a messy house and a pile of dirty clothes on Saturday morning, right when we wanted to go for a walk or talk with one another.  Without a system, we argued. Mark claimed that adding another requirement to cleaning the bathroom was Mission Creep; I claimed it was just Doing the Whole Job. Because there were no defined projects, no ends in sight, it was ugly.

Then I found Home Comforts by Cheryl Mendelson, aka “The Crazy Cleaning Lady,” at the library.  It is an excellent book; she takes on how to clean just about anything in the household in specific detail. She even explains the chemistry behind various cleaners. I was fascinated. Mark agreed that she was an expert.  I bought the book. When we argued about how to clean the tub, we could refer to the expert. If the author said to do it that way, it was done. No more Mission Creep.

She is also an advocate for a Schedule for cleaning. Some things need to be done every day (dishes), some things once a week (change the sheets), some things once a year (clear out the basement). It depends upon your household. I made a chart of daily, weekly, and monthly cleaning jobs and then divided the monthly ones up over four weeks. Now, cleaning the bathroom consisted of the weekly activities of toilet, sink, tub, and floor plus one monthly task, like washing the mildew off of the ceiling.  I made some adjustments to make sure each week took about the same amount of time and effort in the next few months. The week I wash the bedroom and living room floors has a simpler kitchen task, for example. The system assures me that each task will be done each month, so that I do not have to try and do everything in one week. I can let the webs in the corner go because I know that I will clean them next week, when I am not washing out the fridge.

The schedule has made a huge difference in our work. Now, on Friday after school, I make the cleaning list: the weekly tasks, the monthly tasks, and whatever else needs doing, like repotting the tomatoes.  We turn on the radio—rhythm and blues on Friday night, bluegrass on Saturday morning. I start with the kitchen. Mark works on the bathroom. Laundry moves in and out of the washer, depending upon who is closest at the time. We each have physical tasks and paperwork tasks. We finish at about the same time most weeks. We no longer argue about cleaning the house. In fact, we have both come to enjoy both the process and the results.

Leek Toasties: We just discovered this recipe in River Cottage Veg.

Slice a huge leek or two into rings. Saute in butter with salt, pepper, and thyme until soft. Pour about a quarter cup of milk into the pan and add a handful of grated cheddar. Heat until melted and warm. Spread over whole wheat toast. Eat with a salad for dinner. Every week in April.

March--

March-- the challenging month.

Robert Frost said that April was the month of constant changes, shifting from spring to winter when a cloud passed over the sun and that may be true in New England, but, in Oregon, March is the month of constant changes.I find myself moving in and out of the house, working quickly to button up the just planted garden bed before the rains begin, catching the plastic tarp right before it blows away. Then I come in, change out of wet and muddy clothes,  find my book, make a cup if tea, and settle down-- in a bath of sunshine. March.

This weekend, despite downpours, I planted out the first of the garden beds, filling one with broccoli, cabbage, beets, kale, and mustard starts that we planted on Candlemas and then covering it with the steel hoops and a light weight plastic tarp. The other bed is tucked in the south corner of the house, under the kitchen window and holds some large lettuce starts, arugula, and mustard, all of which will be eaten before it is time to plant out the corn and squash in the same spot.  The starts were ready, reaching out of their pots and tangling together. They had been living in the greenhouse, so they were already hardened off as well.  We will be eating fresh greens from our garden soon.

We also had a lovely walk through the woods this morning, visiting with friends, watching out for the spring wildflowers, climbing the hills around town. We got hoe just before the downpours-- which have now ended once again.

March. 

My Mother's Veggies

                Dinner tonight is one of my late winter, early spring favorites—a simple baked dish of fennel, parsnips, leeks, and potatoes, roughly chopped, married with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic, and baked in the oven in an old casserole with a lid. I was struck, this evening, by the differences between my veggie drawer and my mothers.

                My mother was a good cook of her time. She knew how to use garlic and onions, salt,  and pepper.  She was ahead of her time, experimenting with  Chinese cuisine for a dinner party. But, her range of vegetables was limited.  She kept onions and potatoes in the under the sink, carrots, celery, iceburg lettuce and pink tomatoes in the fridge, broccoli, spinach, and peas in the freezer, and canned corn and lots of tomatoes in the cabinet. Occasionally she peeled and boiled a hubbard squash, which was always deemed “wet.” For Thanksgiving, she cooked creamed pearl onions to rest next to her excellent stuffing. We had the occasional—and, in my mind, disgusting—Boiled Dinner, where cabbage and turnips were boiled to death with corned beef. There were apples, oranges, and bananas.

                We still eat most of these veggies, except for the boiled cabbage and pink tomatoes,  but we have added so many more. We eat fresh greens—kales, mustards, chard, argula, cabbage—all winter long. In spring, we add asparagus and mushrooms with fresh eggs. Summer is the feasting season with tomatoes, cucumbers, peas, broccoli,  green beans, zucchini…And then fall brings in the heavy squashes and root crops of potatoes, beets, carrots, and parsnips. Our palate has expanded, mostly because of the garden. Parsnips and kale grow well here. I had to learn how to cook them.  Now, I cannot imagine my kitchen without them, in season.

                I am glad my mother fed me her full range of vegetables as a child. I was never allowed to be picky; I had to eat what she put on my plate, even if it was boiled turnips.   I remember her kitchen when I lift down her cheerful casserole dish which we used—still use—for baked mac and cheese and toss my mixture of veggies in.

Sunday Morning in the Greenhouse

It was a cloudy morning, cool and misty. I cleaned up the greenhouse, washing away the remains of honey and wax from straining the hive; swept the floor; consolidated bags of potting soil. Once the space was clear, I moved the spring crops in-- they have spent the last three weeks in my classroom, growing under lights.  I planted some kale, lettuce, argula, and mustard starts  in the ground and watered them in. They look a little beat, but will recover. Once everything old was in order, I brought out the tomato and pepper seeds and planted them, two by two, in the deep six-packs. They will go to school on  Monday morning to bask in light and warmth until Spring Break. The planting season has begun.

Emporia, Kansas

             Emporia Kansas has a memorial to fallen teachers on its campus. It is a replica of a one room schoolhouse set on a knoll, with a pair of black granite plinths carved with names. It is on the edge of town; the highway purrs in the distance beside the football fields on one side, on the other is an empty parking lot.  It was a still peaceful evening in late June when we visited. School was not in session. There are 113 names on the two slabs, 113 adults who died in school,  protecting their children they were hired to keep safe—and most of them have been added in the years since I began teaching.  We studied them—there was a clump of deaths in Texas back in the 1930s—but the rest of the names were familiar, even though we had forgotten—how can you forget?—a few. Springfield. Columbine.  Roseburg. Sandy Hook.         

  

I was a fairly new teacher when Kip Kinkel walked into a high school in Springfield Oregon, about fifty miles south of here.  The idea that a student would walk into a middle class suburban school and begin shooting was unfathomable. There had been shootings Near schools before, of course, but not At school. It was different. Not a pattern. After Columbine happened, one of my ninth grade girls, given to drama, was afraid to walk across the quad to the counseling office. “What if a shooter came in?” she asked. I assured her that she would be fine and sent her on her way. Schools began to search for patterns, to interview kids who wore trench coats and failed English class, who were not engaged. The biggest change, though, was that kids stopped wearing trench coats. No positive changes in the gun laws. No increase in mental health screenings.  Then the Two Towers came down and our attention shifted elsewhere.

  

              I have been teaching for twenty years now. I have distinct memories of at least two students who terrified me because there was nothing behind their eyes. They never did anything in my class to raise suspicions, but I watched them closely anyways.  We all know these kids, like we know the ones who shine so brightly in our classrooms.  And the unfathomable is now….commonplace. Another shooting? We say. Something has got to change. But nothing does.  This behavior is now normal. And my confidence that we will be fine, that we are safe at school—or in any big crowd of people-- has slipped away. I don’t think I would send a young girl worried about a shooter out into the building these days. I’d let her stay where she felt safe, at least for a little while.  Because I know, now, that it is just a matter of time. It could happen here.  And we would just be more names on the plinth.

Owl Calls

February is a lovely season. Once the pruning is done, there’s not a lot of garden work yet, so there is time for long winter walks. This afternoon, after the laundry was folded, groceries, purchased, house cleaned, and starts moved inside (it has been nippy at night, we went for a walk. The day was kind of grim—forty degrees and cloudy—but that’s what wool hats are for.  We headed up to Dimple Hill from Oak creek, a steady slow climb for about two and a half miles, with a view over the valley. This time of year, we stick to the old logging roads to avoid mud pits. As we climbed, we covered the local, nation, and international scene, decided that “working from what’s working” and “raising the lowest boat” were not in direct opposition to one another, and considered dinner. Our voices rang through the woods. It was cold to start with, but we shed layers as we climbed. The top of Dimple Hill was clear. We could see over the entire valley from our bench in the trees; we quickly put our layers back on in the light breeze. Spring Queen crowned the hills; small purple flowers that bloom early in sheltered spots. The peace enveloped us.

On the way down, we were silent. At first, there was only the sound of our feet, left, right, left right, on the gravel road. Crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch. We turned the bend and into the valley. A barred owl called from one ridge. My ridge, my ridge, he claimed. Left foot, right foot. Crunch, crunch. A second owl, from the other side, responded. My ridge, my ridge. Soon, we had debating owls. Left ear, right ear. My ridge, my ridge. We dropped down further and picked up the sound of Oak creek. Stream on one side, rivulets on the other. Left ear—my ridge, rivulet, gravel underfoot. Right ear—my ridge, stream, gravel underfoot. The rhythm deepened. Then the sun came out and turned all of the trees, wearing moss like old wooly sweaters, a brilliant shade of green. The ferns perked up and glowed deeper. The usnea, hanging from the trees in long, spooky drifts, turned from grey to green.  The forest glowed and echoed with winter life. Owls, streams, feet on gravel.

Then, the sun descended behind the ridge. The temperature dropped.  The owls stopped their debate. The road widened. We could see the gate ahead, and, beyond it, the parking lot.  And we were left with the sound of our own feet, once again, on the gravel.

Slug Prevention

It is that time of year—one warm dry weekend and gardeners want to get out and Plant! At least some lettuce seed.  Start the garden….but then, there are the slugs. How to avoid having your entire crop munched down to nothing overnight?

 I’ve fought this battle for years. When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest, I had never encountered hungry slugs. There would be one or two climbing around the garbage pails in New England, but nothing like the herd that slides through the garden every night here. My beans were munched down to stumps in two hours.  I went out with a flashlight and spotted them—tiny, slimy grey creatures with little horns seeking anything green. They lurked under the parsley during the day.  I stalked them with a fork and jar of soapy water, but that gave me nightmares. I tried beer traps, but that didn’t work. The slugs perched on the lid and looked down into the pool, but never dove. I sprinkled sluggo, which helped, but not enough. I still lost crops.

One year, I replanted a row of beans a few weeks later and they jumped out of the ground and put on a leaf a day, healthy and unmunched. What was different here? Timing. When I planted my seeds or seedlings when the ground was warm enough for them and there was enough light to support vigorous growth, they outgrew the slug munch. It was a revelation.

In retrospect, it seems obvious. Gardeners have been gardening for hundreds of years, planting seeds at the recommended times. If there was a way to push the season forward, it would already be discovered. Nineteenth century farmers were far more eager for the first green sprouts than I am; they did not have access to the grocery store. The collective knowledge is far greater than my own. I need to heed it. So, now, I let my garden be during those first, false warm days in late January. I repair the raised beds, maybe build a trellis, dream over the seed catalogs, or take a long walk in the woods. In early February, I will plant the first round of spring crops in six-packs and raise them under lights in my classroom.  But nothing goes in the ground until late March.  It’s not perfect, but I am no longer stalking slugs by a dim flashlight before bedtime.