Supper club

I joined a supper club. At my church. Somehow that sounds very hot-dish, sensible shoes, permed hair, coffee in flowered cups. Someone in their 50s. Oh wait, I am in my 50s. I actually looking forward to it, the set-up is that we meet at each other's houses once a month and everyone brings something. I'm bringing oatmeal-raisin cookies because I'm really good at baking and not so confident about the rest of the courses. My son's not coming but I'm broiling him some chicken. I had to ask at the meat market how to do this and she looked at me as if I was asking them if chicken was edible in the first place. When she realized I really did need direction, she very gently and not even a little bit sarcastically said, "You just put it under the broiler." She suggested some olive oil and salt and pepper, she pushed for paprika, onion powder and garlic powder but I think I'll keep it simple.

Temperature change

Last week, even my bones were warm. I went across the street to the little garden the park ranger is letting me take care of and the daffodils and early lilies were taking no mind of the foot of mulch the park dumped on them last fall. Spikes of green underfoot, tiny fists of buds on the stiff hydrangea stalks, even the coral bells (which I was sure would be forever drowned under the weight) were sending their first scalloped leaves through to test the air. Back home, outside my window, white blossoms of the star magnolia tree multiplied by the day, filling up the lower pane of the glass with shimmering petals. Even after the sun went down, their whiteness drank up every bit of available light and they were faintly visible in the deep indigo evening. Then, the New England weather, which perhaps had been distracted with the task of planning a long and miserably humid summer, remembered it had a reputation to uphold and WHAM BAM. I had to turn the heat back on, lower the few storms I had cheerfully raised the week before and put on an extra blanket. In the morning, the magnolia flowers no longer held their faces to the sun but rather hung, somewhat pitifully, from the ends of their branches. They reminded me now of old ladies' hankies, soft brown stains from too many dabbings at a damp neck, pulled from a long forgotten pocket. When the tree releases its remnants of bloom, they'll go in an afternoon of breezes, looking like a snow squall as they fall to the grass and street. For now, though fragile and old, they're still dancing and waving in the cool morning.