My sisters Make Things. My response? Potato salad.

The sisters of my heart make things, almost without exception. This is an interesting perspective for me, as I've always been richly blessed in this part of my life with friends so dear that the very word, friend, is not adequate to describe them. And as different as they are from one another, there are some threads of commonality. This breathtaking pink flower was made from rare, beautiful and oh-so-French antique ribbon by Elisabeth at Mon Amie Ribbonerie. She's also a gifted songwriter, singer and producer so music is something she makes, too, but it's not as visible in blog land.

Every now and then, something delightfully pickled will come to me from Jayne's garden; in this case, okra. Long years ago Lis and I were assigned to a video production crew and had lunch together. Though I'd known her loosely and admired her intensely from afar, this was the first time I'd sat down to a meal with her. She made turkey sandwiches with baby Swiss cheese and served them with pickled okra, commercially made but delightful and something I'd never tasted before and immediately loved. Years have passed, but when Jayne brings me a jar of pickled okra made with love and care in her own kitchen, I am always thrilled by the taste, by the homegrown nature of the thing, for she has grown the vegetables in her own organic garden AND done the cooking, flavoring and preservation. Imagine!

And there are other sisters dear, who make other things. Miss Jo makes something bittersweet and eternally hopeful every year with her classes of drama students, lighting the way to the stage for them. Remember me telling you that I'd learned public speaking poise (if one can call it that) from Sister Patricia by sheer force of having to sing in front of 400 people at the Cathedral? Whether any of Miss Jo's kids go on to the stage in London or New York doesn't matter. What matters is that she has given them confidence, shown them how to see into themselves, given them Art as something real and accessible, and taught them to make it part of their lives. And if you read Ms. Moon and her intriguing accounts of Life at the Opera House and Movie Making with Elusive Legends, you have an idea how valuable this insight can be, regardless of age or stage of life.

Debra makes poems to bring you to your knees, poems to make you glad to be alive and poems to make you glad to have lived through some things and rejoice. Miss Judy makes music other people can bring alive. Without her, the MadriGalz would not continue, because she teaches us how to harmonize, how to hear each other and ourselves, how to amaze ourselves. Lulu makes living space magical. She did it at our beloved Cafe Alcazar, and she does it at her own house with color and flowers and tiny, perfect touches, and at your house if you're ever fortunate enough to get a card from her when a much-loved pet has died or you've taken a fall and need a warm hug from a friend. Katie makes people feel good. It sounds so little, doesn't it, but it is so, SO much. Clare makes astonishing designs for things, including tattoos. Every single one of you makes something that makes life better.

In an effort to remain in step with my swan-like sisters, here is what I can make: potato salad. It came to me from my sister-in-law (I am not making this up), Elvis, and yes, she did grow up in Memphis. Apparently it was a common name then and there, regardless of gender. Anyway, she taught me to make this. And because it uses pickle juice, I encourage you to make friends with your local farmers and crafters, because the more homemade, the better. Enjoy.

Summer Potato Salad

Peel and dice about 8 medium potatoes, and two or three eggs (hard-boiled). I use those small baking potatoes that you can get bagged at the grocery store, but Yukon Gold or small red bliss potatoes are also really good, and you don't have to peel unless you're married to Rod, which I'm pretty sure you're not. Boil the diced potatoes with a teaspoon or so of kosher salt until they're tender and then strain and set aside. Chop the hard-boiled eggs and add to the potatoes.

Dice one small onion, one or two stalks of celery and two or three kosher dill pickles to as fine a dice as you like; add to the potatoes and eggs and toss together.

Now you have to make a decision: mayonnaise or not? If not, use olive oil and go from here. If so (and I do use mayonnaise in my version), combine about 1/2 cup of mayonnaise with a couple of tablespoons of mustard and a couple of tablespoons of juice from the pickle jar. (This is where having Jayne donate pickled okra to your cause becomes even more alluring.) If you're not using mayonnaise, you can see how olive oil, mustard, and pickle juice would combine for a lovely dressing. If you have fresh dill, chop some and toss it in. Season the dressing with kosher salt and a touch of cayenne pepper. Toss over the vegetable mixture gently and serve at room temperature if you can. It's great out of the fridge, but that first taste while it's still warm will make you very happy. I promise.

N125

In beautiful Guana State Park, we're having a banner year for turtle nests. As we see more news stories about turtle hatchlings being released in other locations than the Gulf of Mexico, including the northeast Florida coast, I find myself fascinated with the topic. Well, after all, who doesn't like to see pictures of what we like to think are rescued animal babies, being released into what we hope is safe habitat? In species like most of the sea turtles still extant, we know nature is doing its best to ensure survival against daunting odds, if for no other reason than the sheer number of eggs one female produces in a season. There are lots of nests every year, each with many dozens of eggs. The hatchlings face human encroachment, predators, artificial light, beach driving, inadvertent daytime hatching...so many obstacles that serve to prevent their reaching of the open ocean and relative safety.

And it's one of the very few things we can all feed good about in the wake of this incalculable disaster. Most realistic people probably realize that this will be with us long, long after the well is finally sealed and cleanup efforts solidly underway.

Okay, okay. Nevertheless, most years see 90-100 turtle nests along the beaches of Guana in northeast Florida. These are watched over by a tiny, dedicated army of volunteers who get up in darkest dawn to check the nests, to mark the new ones made during each long, starlit evening and report the status to the biologists who keep careful track. The biologists in turn mark the date of the nest, and know down to a pretty specific estimate, when the hatchlings are due to emerge. They monitor nest viability and do all they can to ensure the success of each clutch.

But except for extraordinary interventions like the ones the news channels are reporting occurring as a result of the oil spill, they can't affect the number of nests. The turtles labor up the beaches every summer season, and most summer seasons they produce roughly the same number of nests. But not this year. As I've discussed before, this year, there are nearly 200 nests along the Guana beaches. This Sunday Rodney and I were delighted to photograph N125, which is the 125th nest in the northern section of the state park's environs. I find this nothing short of magical, and wanted to share pictures of some of the labors of the turtles, who must find their way from the water to the safety of the high beaches near the protective dunes to lay their precious eggs. And of course I couldn't finish without including a closeup up of N125, for which we continue to root as though for the Braves or the Red Sox. Yay, sea turtles!

Booksmith Recollection IV: Peter Bogdanovitch

This was the view he would have had, Mr. Bogdanovitch, as he set up a scene and began shouting at the young woman at the other end of the block. He was standing with the Cathedral on his left, looking down toward that very small, very last building on the same side of the street. This tiny block was home to so much of what was central to my life, for a long time and through much change.

I worked at the wonderful Booksmith, as many of you know. I learned the fundamentals of small business there, where it was closely tied to the magic of matchmaking though admittedly the matching of books with people is less fraught with disastrous possibilities than matches with no books involved. Some of the friendships that would frame my whole adult life were born there. We gradually began the long process of mourning the demise of the small, independent bookseller, and we figured out how to keep our professional affinities alive in times of drastic change.

Just up the block was the Cathedral. I was born with a love of singing and perhaps some small talent, but it was at the Cathedral that my voice found its wings, coaxed and nurtured and enriched by Sister Patricia. More friendship came to me, or (in the case of Miss Jo) returned to me, and here again, the architecture on which I was building my life was made strong. Here I learned how to be a friend and how not to. Here I learned about love, and about having sisters, an ironic lesson for one whose family includes 3 half-sisters. Here I learned that people really can love you forever, no matter what, and that you can love people in the same way. The lessons I would need to be a married person, to be a mother, to be a friend: too many of them to count were learned on this tiny block. At the Cathedral end of that block, they were all learned against a backdrop of musical scores. Standing in front of that very large congregation, I found some reserve from which I could sing week in and week out without being crippled by stage fright. So well-integrated is that lesson that to this day I'm able to talk in front of people without more than a gentle nervousness. Sister used to say, "As you rehearse, so will you perform..." and she usually added some reference to not goofing off, or working harder. She was right in many ways, not the least of which was repetition helps improve performance, and training shows, often just when you need it most.

In large measure I grew into the person I am in the tiny neighborhood described by that block. And one morning, as I stepped outside the beautifully embossed brass door of the Booksmith to hang out the "Open" sign, the street was deserted except for a handful of people all focused on the same job of work, a man in big glasses standing in front of the Cathedral shouted down the street, "HEY! You there! Get off the street!!" And then I saw the camera, and realized what the job of work was: they were the movie crew we'd heard about, come to town to shoot a movie. The shouting man was the director, Peter Bogdanovitch. (Another of his movies had enjoyed a summer run during the time of my first high school job at St. Augustine's drive-in theater, but that, my loves, is a tale for another long winter's evening.)

Back into the store I stepped, away from my closest brush with moviemaking, to wait for Gamble Rogers to browse through a copy of Wooden Boat, to wait for Mr. Montagnaro to pick up a stack of erudition and art books and tell me about the blue collar working person passion for opera in Italy, to wait for you, maybe, and all you brought me in that tiny, dusty, beautiful library of books and sisters and learning, down the street from the heart of music, emerging spiritual thought, sisters and music. What a block that was you shouted down, Mr. Bogdanovitch. What a street. What a town.

Dogs and endings

It was a happy weekend for many reasons, not the least of which was the matching of a rescued foster dog with a really nice family who give every sign of being a great forever match. Callie (the spelling is actually "Caleigh" but since it always trips me up I've given you the phonetic, easy version) is a sweet female about 2 years old, who was clearly used as a puppy mill and just as clearly spent most of her life before she came to Boxer Aid & Rescue in a crate. She was a challenge for us, not because she wasn't housebroken (she is). Not because she wasn't eager to please (she is), and not because she was badly-behaved (she wasn't). No, poor Callie came to us with A TAIL, and as people used to Boxers, it took us by surprise. It banged into things. It knocked tables over. On many hilarious occasions, it whipped into the faces of the other dogs, so that Calvin, our charming, wide-bodied male, averted his head when she came too close, blinking his eyes cautiously. But some very nice people saw her online, came to meet her, and took her home this weekend. Happy people, happy Callie, and I dearly hope, happy ending.


Coincidentally, I heard from April's adoptive family this week, too. I've written about April here; you may recall. She is a canine survivor of breast cancer, and one of our favorite foster dogs, ever. Her family informed me a few weeks back that she has a recurrence of cancer, inoperable, and they will continue to love and care for her now, while she feels great, and through the onset of symptoms to the end of her life. Here's some of what her adoptive family said:
"We are very, very blessed to have April. She is doing very well and has spoiled us tremendously. April is exactly what we were looking for and is our perfect dog. We will send pictures from the cancer walk where April wore a cancer survivor shirt! ...we especially like it when she GRUNTS as she is talking to us! And LORD, some days she “talks” more than some humans! Thanks for all the prayers being said for April...we understand the issues April has, but we try not to dwell on them each day...as long as she is happy, we are happy..." I had to laugh out loud reading this, because April is one of the most vocal dogs I've known, making a determined, grumbling sound when communicating with her people. And though she has inoperable cancer, she'll have a great life until she can't, any longer. She's a great dog, and she'll be give the love and dignity of a great ending.

Often I talked to Rodney's dad about dying. He couldn't remember he had Alzheimer's, but he said over and over again, "People should have an off switch; I should be able to say I'm finished, There should be a CHOICE". I talked to my dear old friend Carrie about death. Her perspective was more of the "Live strong and live long" variety, though she embraced the notion of living well and living at home when she knew the fight had ended. There are more examples, but I always end by thinking about the high standards with which we treat pets (dogs, in my case). I always think of standing shoulder to shoulder with the vet; I always think about crying my eyes out but being grateful for the joyful release from suffering.

And I think now how shamefully small the comparison of a dog's life is to that of any human, and do not AT ALL presume to draw a parallel. I am grateful for Carrie's life, for Lynn's life, for Helen's life, for Charley's life, and for so many others, lived with grace and humor and breathtaking courage and grace. For me, the lives of dogs and in some ways, the death of dogs, have made the loss of each of those humans just a tiny, tiny bit more bearable.

And so: here's to you April, and your darling family. Here's to you, Callie, and your delightful family and future. And here's to all of you who have gone before, human or canine. Love, love, love.

Welcome to the sea turtle nursery at GTMMER

So I return from my long sojourn in the French countryside of my TV screen, and immediately annoy everyone with yet another sea turtle lecture, but this is BIG, people. Although you probably can't see it in my bad photos, this nest is labeled "N (north) 112", meaning it's the 112th sea turtle nest marked in the northern half of Guana Tolomato Matanzas Marine Estuarine Reserve in 2010. There are an additional 85 nests in the southern section of the park, meaning that so far there are nearly 200 sea turtle nests along this 8-mile stretch of Atlantic beach. An average year sees a total of around 90 nests in the whole season, which runs from May to October. And, as one of the turtle volunteers told us this morning, no one really knows why.

I'm sure there are theories, and certainly there's interest. As we walked along the beach last weekend, we encountered a 6-man golf cart filled to capacity with turtle volunteers and, we discovered, turtle experts. We asked about the numbers, since we've noticed what seemed like an unusually high number of nests this year. They confirmed what we suspected but had no real evidence for: an unusually busy turtle nesting season. So here are the plain, rather dull photos, without glamour or fast-moving drama; just the awareness of this simple, prolific goodness to warm your hearts. Whatever bad or sad or uninspiring news you saw or read or heard today, this is its happy counterbalance. Enjoy, my dears.

Postcards from le Tour

It's been a long, hot, delightful 2-1/2 weeks, capped by a cold and rainy climb of the largest peak in the Pyrenees, but I am making my way back to la vie ordinaire (my friend Jayne can correct my appalling French later), which includes my blog.

The charming country roads and villages, tiny cities, elegant chateaux and crumbling Norman ruins were wonderful. The bike racing was an interesting sideline, and during the early part of the race, provided frequent glimpses of my TV boyfriend (or more accurately, my Tour de France TV boyfriend), Fabian Cancellara. Yes, that's him in the photo, pedalling his head off. And here are the rest of my vacation photos, carefully shot for your viewing pleasure. (Oh, that frame in the background is just the outside of our TV - you can ignore that.)

It seems surprising, but it was actually rather like a series of miniature vacations, watching the action taped by my long-suffering and indulgent husband in 3-hour blocks every evening after work. I'd work a normal day, come home, pour a glass of wine, and immerse myself in the scenery and, almost as an afterthought, the racing. Even if you don't dive into (or off the) deep end as I do, you may want to drop in for a few episodes next year. The roads through the Alps are narrow and winding, with sheer drops down some sides and patches of bright snow down others, and all are lined with positively crazy people who've clearly camped out for days or maybe even weeks to be in position. Some of them run alongside the riders, waving - or wearing - flags, bizarre wigs and even more bizarre costumes. There are signs, most of which my limited French prevented me from translating, though the British cycling expert who has very good French was able to hint at the meaning of one that was particularly uncomplimentary to President Sarcosi. The roads twisting through the flatlands are gloriously brightened by fields - acre upon astonishing acre - of sunflowers, and beautifully flowing fields of lavender...one can hardly imagine what it must be to breathe the fragrant air. And when the race rises into the heights of the Pyrenees, history seems to come alive. Every historical novel I've ever read suddenly seems to have touched on the endless Medieval struggles for primacy between France and Spain, with powers like England and the lowland countries playing their own roles. In more modern times, the voice of the Basque people in Spain is ever more audible. Watching the racing, it's clear that the EU has in no way dimished national or regional loyalty, and it has removed not one single nutty supporter of this or that flag or cause. It's lovely.

And all kidding aside, I MISSED you guys. Though I've only been writing this blog since the beginning of the year, the return to disciplined writing has been more satisfying than I ever imagined. The generosity of your reading, sharing thoughts and comments, and most unexpected of all, development of new and nurturing of long-treasured friendships has been breathtaking.

And while I've been away I've kept notes of all the things I want to share with you. There's big news on the turtle nest front. I've been helping with the concept of a "Best of Our Blogs" collection with The Surly Writer (whose editorial skills are considerable) and our pal Suldog. My dear friend Katie is bound for Africa (again) and this time, my young son is going along, too...so. There is much to discuss, and I promise to dive in as soon as Le Tour passes under L'Arc de Triomphe.

Thank you for being patient, for staying tuned, for reading, and for sending your affectionate greetings.

What I'm (Virtually) Doing on My (Virtual) Summer Vacation

You may not even have noticed the quiet sounds of distant crickets chirping, coming from Eat Here over the past week or so. Just in case you did, I thought I'd let you know the quiet will continue for a couple of weeks, while I indulge my guilty pleasure and watch the Tour de France obsessively on TV through the month of July. A couple of years ago I discovered that I could immerse myself in villages, chateaux, cathedrals: the beauty of Europe in the form of a high def travelogue and best of all, it included a race compelling enough to be entertaining to Rodney. This was Before the Blog, of course.

Sadly, as I have to work and sleep and stuff while watching 3 hours of The Tour every evening, there's not much time for the blog. Happily, it's mindless and relaxing and makes for an excellent virtual vacation. And the ideas for writing continue to flow in and I continue to keep notes of things I want to tell you. I'll be back with lots of new photos and notes on the beach (I saw a turtle nest labeled "N 71" this week, which means at least 71 turtle nests in Guana State Park so far) and every other thing we talk about here. Keep well, keep writing, and keep in touch.