Looking out my Backdoor: Philosophy or compost? Food or Love?

Some days, it is a great comfort to me. Other days, a rather delightful joke, makes me chuckle at myself. I can still hear the laughter in my friend’s voice as he said to me, all those hundred years ago, “Tomorrow things will be different. They may not be better. They may not be worse. But they will be different.”

I was a bit of a drama queen back then, a bit hooked on adrenaline. Even tragedy held excitement. I was prone to jump to conclusions, to make decisions and leap into action without assessing the height or depth of the cliff. This is my self-assessment based on memory and we all know how flawed that is! Yours may not be, but my memory is, well, creative.

My friend’s words stuck with me and taught me that no matter what is going on today: bliss, tragedy, illness, desperation, hilarity, love, boredom, grief, work without recompense, no matter what, tomorrow will be different. Circumstances shift. Feelings adjust. Clouds move in. The sun comes out. Stuff like that.

I’m not going anywhere with this. I simply like to share bits of my philosophy. I would share my personal favorite conspiracy theories but I forgot where I hid my tinfoil hat.

This morning on my way into the backyard for a sun-sit, I was waylaid by one amaryllis. When I moved here, there were perhaps 150 amaryllis bulbs that bloomed January through April. The following year, 200. I counted. I split them and moved them about. 300. 400. Then, NONE. Digging revealed an army of fat curly worms. Worms ate all the bulbs.

Being from Montana, I remembered hail storms, early freezes, drought years, grasshoppers. Happens, doesn’t it? A whole crop crippled, wiped out, in a blink. One lonely amaryllis buried in the dirt, waited out the storm, the worm, these four years. I like to think the flower is as happy to see me smile as I am to see its beautiful face.

Much of my current pleasure comes from my flowering yard, the fruit trees I’ve planted and my bucket garden. And my compost pit. Composting is new to me. It has been a learning experience for both me and my gardener, Leo. He does the hard work. I beam at him. I beam at my plants.

Making compost is easy with daily sunshine, plenty of fuel in grass and leaves and horse poop from across the way; how could it not succeed!

A mere four months after we began filling the pit with lawn and kitchen scraps, Leo was able to mulch all the trees and many of the plants with rich humus.

Immediately, my lime tree, which had been in hibernation and suffering from curly leaf, pruned and enriched, perked up. The papaya, which itself came close to being chopped into the pit, has a dozen baby fruits. The mango is leafing into spring. Seedlings stand strong, ready to pot into prepared buckets.

In February, I will be eating (and sharing) tomatoes and squash planted in November, both which managed a slow grow through winter.

Our tiny community thrives on food-share. I fill baskets with extras from my garden. Lani and Nancie, our resident bakers, frequently bring around cookies or invite us over for cake. Kathy bakes artisan bread, and she explains, “It is more than we can eat and doesn’t freeze well.”

To me, sharing food, whether a meal or cookies or garden tomatoes, is the same as partaking in Communion. Sharing food is a holy act. This is my belief and I don’t ask you to buy into it.

When I get hungry for pate de marlin, I share it with Ariel. He and I are the only ones who eat it. I don’t have a recipe. I put ingredients together until it tastes right. Pre-pandemic, I took a batch to a pot-luck dinner at Nancie’s. Ariel and I scooped large spoonsful onto our plates. Nobody else touched it. Pate de marlin is our special connection.

A couple days ago Leo plunked a bag onto my patio table. I peeked in. Smoked marlin, cream cheese, a handful of cilantro, a huge onion, a jar of nacho style jalapenos. And a packet of Crackets (like Ritz).

“Do you think this is a not-so-subtle hint?”

Leo likes how we all share food. He says, “Sometimes food is love.”

Love — Communion. The same thing.

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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 sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.