Finding my center

Hey guys! 

Been gardening and writing and reading and taking yoga and figuring things out in my head. My cousin's super-talented wife is helping me redesign the Lance. I'm dense when it comes to technology – borderline luddite. Rebecca offered to help make this site look snazzier, which I'm apprehensive to do because when I started writing it, I could give two-shits about design. I just wanted a place to write. A little bit of structure to my mornings. A creative way to pass the time before Joe woke up.  

I've been sleeping in later and Joe's been waking up earlier, which means we've been rising together, drinking coffee together. Not much lag time between my waking and his. Oddly, parts of me are rubbing off on him. Parts of him are rubbing off on me. Kind of like how when you stick a sliver of soap on top of another sliver of soap they become one. Joe does this with his bars of Irish Spring. Whenever a bar runs out, he sticks whatever's left on top of a new bar of soap. It always makes me laugh, the tiny nub of Irish Spring glued to the full bar of Irish Spring, like the soap is wearing a green derby cap. He does this so he never wastes soap. Very thrifty that Joe. 

He dug me a vegetable garden last week and I've been nuts about watering it in the morning. Nuts about watering my other plants too. PK is baffled by my sudden bursts of domesticity. To quote, "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd care about petunias." 

I told Joe I was quitting the Lance last night. I told him I want to write a book more than anything in the world and I've made zero progress on that front, but we'll see ... 

If Rebecca makes this site look freaking cool, I'll have to keep posting and just suck it up and write my fiction book regardless. My stupid annoying fiction book. Even if it means waking up before Joe again. My sanity depends on it. My center, so to say. 

Anyway. It's 1:30 in the afternoon here in St. Pete, Florida and I've got a lunch date with Zipper Boy. 

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PS. I took the photo at last year's Langerado Music Festival on the Big Cypress Indian Reservation outside of Fort Lauderdale. Group yoga, y'all. Throw your flubby thighs in the air and spread 'em like ya just don't care. It's liberating. 

Homegrown tomato virgin takes a bite

The tomato has been picked. 

After 10 minutes of staring at my first red tomato in all his round ripe perfection, I picked him, cradled him in my arms and tiptoed him to the kitchen, where I laid him down on a cutting board and halved him with a steak knife.

I picked some basil too. Cut mozzarella as well. Sandwiched it all together and then gazed again at the cutting board in rapture. Squealed even. Brought it all to my mouth and then stopped. 

I removed the mozzarella from the tomato and put the basil leaf off to the side. I couldn't bring myself to mask my tomato's virgin taste. I wanted him in his purest form. No creamy cheese. No pungent basil. Just my unblemished handsome tomato and me.  

He was delectable. Exquisite. Quite possibly the most succulent, luscious tomato I have ever tasted. The first bite was so gratifying I took another and another, until all that remained was basil and mozzarella, rendered useless by my tomato's flawless tang.

I squealed again. 

"THIS IS AMAZING!" I yelled from the kitchen.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," Joe yelled back from the living room.

"THIS IS THE MOST WONDERFUL TOMATO ON EARTH. IT IS A SUPER TOMATO."

"Good. I'm glad you think so," said Joe, who hates all vegetables and fruits.

"MY STOMACH IS REJOICING! BABY, YOU'RE MISSING OUT ON THE TOMATO OF A LIFETIME."

"I'm OK with that," he replied flatly. 

As I returned to the living room with juice trickling from the corners of my mouth, Joe perked up from his basketball game and said, "I'll have to make a sauce when the rest of them are ripe."

I stopped. Licked the juice from my lips. 

"Oh hell no," I snapped. "These tomatoes ain't for sauce. I'll plant you a sauce vine if you want. I'm eating these guys raw."

Bite me, slice me, dice me

I'm suffering from a supreme case of writer's block. 

So what do I do? Well. As always, there's Lance. 

I come here more than I should whenever I'm stuck on a story; a paying story. It helps me get over uninspired humps. 

Sometimes.

Today I spotted my first big, red tomato hanging off one of two tomato plants I planted three months ago in the front yard.

If anything should inspire me, it should be this. I've never grown an edible thing in my life. Well, basil. But that doesn't count. The pug could grow basil in his food bowl if he slobbered on it every day. 

The tomato plants were my mom and Joe's idea. There were four big pots in our front yard when we moved into this house, in which the previous owner had planted squatty palms and purple ferns. When we closed on the property, the squatty palms and purple ferns were scorched from too much sun and wilting from too little water, so I pulled them out of the pots and stuck them in the ground, where they are much happier and healthier.

In two pots I planted tomatoes and oregano. In the other two, I planted marigolds and bushy pink flowers. Within a month my bushy pink flowers had tripled in size. And my tomato vines! Ah! I had so many little green buds I felt like Fannie Flagg. The front of my house had suddenly taken on a Better Homes and Gardens look. 

When a storm whipped through the neighborhood last week, I ran out the front door to stake my bent tomato vines to sturdy twigs. After much nurturing, whispering and watering, I couldn't bear the thought of losing my tomatoes. They looked so pathetic in the wind and rain, bent over like a child with a stomachache. I never felt so much like my Oma than when I called for Joe in a panicked yelp, to bring me scissors and string so I could tie my vines.

Now that I've got this big red one sort of poking out at me, willing me to pick it, slice it and serve it over mozzarella and balsamic, I'm freaking out. What if it's too soon? What if it's too late?

If you know anything about tomatoes, please share your wisdom. I'm a novice vegetable grower, whose new hero is this guy: former Baltimore Orioles manager Earl Weaver. 

Weaver, the 5-foot-7 short-tempered, smack-talking "Earl of Baltimore," used to grow tomato plants down the left field line in Baltimore's old Memorial Stadium. He and head groundskeeper Pat Santarone had a contest every summer to see who could grow the biggest, juiciest crop. Rumor has it Santarone once grew a tomato so big it wouldn't fit in his ball cap. 

According to former first basemen Boog Powell, the mens' tomatoes were so large, "one slice would way overlap the bread." And according to Cal Ripken Jr., whose father worked for the Orioles in the 1960s and 1970s, Weaver used to fertilize his giant tomatoes in the Orioles bullpen using horse manure lifted from the Preakness Stakes. 

I wonder if pug manure would have the same effect. 

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PS. To everyone who donated to my Ride for Roswell: THANK YOU! THANK YOU! In two weeks I raised $675 for the Roswell Park Cancer Institute – $175 OVER my initial fundraising goal. 

PPS. About Saturday's hair post: the top photo was the $50 haircut. In these trying economic times I suggest patronizing beauty schools. No one will ever know your 'do cost five bucks. Unless of course you blog about it.