Looking out my Backdoor: The Onion Fairy and Other Tales

I grew up reading Hans and the brothers Grimm and Aesop. I love fairy tales and fables. Back then, we had the unexpurgated versions, full of blood and guts. I’m not saying that was better. I’m simply saying that is how it was.

The stories, which I read over and over, never gave me nightmares nor did they leave me pining for the handsome prince to hack his way through the brambles and rescue me from the wicked step-mother. Naïve as I was, I knew that wouldn’t happen.

A few months ago, in a set-apart corner of my garden, I made a compost pit. Frequently, a couple thoughtful neighbors contribute their kitchen parings to my pile. If my kitchen door is closed, I often will find a bag of bits hanging on one of the fussy details of my wrought iron gate. When I take my own kitchen debris out to the pit, I grab theirs to dump also.

We all win. Our kitchen trash cans never stink. In a turn-about I cannot explain, the compost pit smells like fresh new earth.

The other morning, going out for my walk, I found a bag hanging on my gate. I gave it nary a look nor a thought.

Later, I grabbed the bag, and instead of carrot peels and over-sprouted potatoes, I found a perfectly wonderful bag of onions. My very first thought was “The Onion Fairy came by and gifted me.” Similar to the Tooth Fairy. Except I didn’t have to sacrifice something in return.

Speaking of the Tooth Fairy, my daughter told me that children are getting $10 and $20 dollar bills in return for their baby teeth. Inflation. Crimininaly. (Root word—crime) I’ve lost two adult teeth. They should have been worth a few thou. I saw nary a penny. But, in all fairness, neither did I put the well-used teeth beneath my pillow in hopes. Now there is a fairy tale that should be re-written.

Onions and tomatoes. My kitchen is overrun with onions and tomatoes. Tomatoes are from my own vines. They are so heavily laden that I’ve had to pick green tomatoes so the weight of the fruit doesn’t tear down the whole vine. I gave away two large colanders of green tomatoes last week. Tomatoes ripen quickly, so every day, tomatoes sneak into my meals.

Living alone, I have no restrictions or restraints on meals. I eat what I want when I want. I had a couple days when I didn’t feel like cooking. I made tomato sandwiches. Tomato and onion. Tomato and mayo. Tomato and lettuce and onion. Tomato and jalapeno and cheese. Tomato and re-fried beans and onion.

My favorite sandwich I concocted with a smattering of peanut butter, mayo and thick tomato slices. All my friends said, “Ewww.” I didn’t say it was gourmet. Think outside the box. It tasted surprisingly good enough to make twice and again.

Here in this area of Mexico we have an expression, “to cut face.” It is easy to figure the meaning.

My neighbor Lani had surgery. The bottom part of her eyelid was falling down and needed to be clipped and stitched up. Lani looked like a raccoon which had run into two doorknobs.

When I went to around visit her and saw her face, I figured she needed to be cheered up and what better than a session of cutting face. I told stories and we laughed. We laughed a lot. Most of the stories were on myself. But not all. When I walked home, I thought, not all that we label “bad” is bad. That hour of cutting face was the best medicine. You just never know.

One of my stories involved a huge fifth-wheel camper which looked like it was going to park itself in front of my wall. This is not the campground! I got on my high horse, got quite volubly territorial, pacing my living room, keeping an evil eye on the camper plus a couple cars and the truck pulling it. I mean, I was in a huff.

I was on the phone with my daughter while this beast invaded “my” back yard. Shame on me, to think it “mine.” Lola was outside pitching a fit. Dee Dee told me I sounded more territorial than my dog. That burst my bubble and brought me back to earth. The evil machine finally got turned around and found the campground. I blamed Lola for spinning me up.

Today I have a bowl full of ripe tomatoes. Wonder if Lani would like to find a bag of tomatoes hanging on her gate.

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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].