Looking out my Backdoor: Goo-Goo-Googling along

I woke up with yellow eyeballs. The color was not quite glow-in-the-dark neon yellow, but definitely, the whites of my yes sported a sickly yellowish cast, gunked with matter.

In lieu of a thermometer, I felt my Ford-bumper with the back of my hand. Felt normal to me. All systems functioning.

Next I did what any modern person with access to internet knows not to do but does it despite themselves. I consulted Dr. Google. “What causes yellow eyes, O Great Oracle?”

Frankly, I didn’t care for any of the options on offer but felt like I needed a starting point, so I chose malaria. I might have picked extreme delayed reaction to excessive alcohol consumption but it’s been a while.

Besides, I pondered, perhaps it is hereditary. My dad contracted malaria in the Army with a relapse when I was very tiny. I remembered it as a horrific time of nicotine-soaked sheets (Camels unfiltered and roll-your-own), fear pervading the atmosphere and a gray-haired doctor with the requisite black bag who came to the house with shots and pills.

All things considered, I have three fresh mosquito bites in the fold of my arm as evidence.

Other options niggled at me in the background of my mind but I have a powerful defense system in place, ignored the whispers and got on with my day, doctoring my eyeballs frequently with Manzanilla Sophia drops, a proven Mexican remedy for eye irritants, made with sterile water and chamomile tea. Besides, the last thing I wanted was to go to town to the hospital for tests while the Ugly Virus runs rampant.

Later I was out among my buckets peering beneath leaves, searching for a zucchini to eat for dinner. Leo asked me if I’d ever eaten squash blossoms. I’ve had squash blossom soup. It’s good. He went on to describe squash blossom quesadillas and fried squash blossoms.

The more I thought about it, the more appealing fried squash blossoms became, especially as I have two buckets of zucchini. And a lot of blossoms.

I was afraid if I picked all the blossoms, though, I’d not have enough squash. Silly woman, we are talking about zucchini here, more notorious than rabbits.

So I punched in Garden Google and discovered that squash has male and female blossoms. True to form, the males are for pollination and the females do all the work. Learning to distinguish between the two is easy. Use your imagination. I just had to leave one or two males for pollination and I could eat all the other flowers. Interestingly, there are more men than women.

Next I opened the door to Kitchen Google and looked at several ways to prepare the blossoms for frying. It’s not rocket science. It’s not even kitchen science. So I figured I’d ignore the suggestions and prepare the blossoms “my way.”

In the morning, while blossoms are in full bloom, I took scissors out to the buckets, cut off five males leaving about an inch of stem on each, pinched out the centerpieces and threw them away. Took the flowers into the kitchen and refrigerated the blossoms until I was ready to eat.

I beat an egg in a shallow bowl. Poured masa (fine cornmeal for tortillas) into another bowl, seasoned it in simplicity with salt, pepper and paprika. Sliced off small chunks of soft farmer cheese and stuffed each flower. Dipped the flower in egg, then masa, quickly, creating a thin coating.

Next I lay each blossom gently into the hot oil. Shallow. Frying is frying. You can deep fry them if you wish, but a little dab will do you. About a half minute on each side and the flowers are ready to eat.

This whole thing may have been a huge mistake. Five minutes later, I’d licked the platter clean. I hope fried squash blossoms doesn’t become my new ice-cream. I can’t wait for morning and more open blossoms.

Fortunately blossom season is short. If I plant two more buckets with squash seed, I might get a second season. I might get fed up. I might get as wide as I am tall. I might.

My eyeballs? Oh, they are fine. The whites are white again. I must have had a mild infection or an irritant of some sort. Dr. Google misdiagnosed. I do not have malaria. I told Josue to put a hold on my casket order.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].