grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

back home in Dallas…

By

On December 5, I write poolside. Barefoot. My herbs are lush and vigorous, relieved to have survived the blazing summer.

Hole-in-the-wall restaurants, tucked into favorite neighborhoods, satiate Tex-Mex cravings. Cheese enchiladas with extra jalapeños, gooey white queso so amazing I could eat like soup. Top Shelf margaritas, hold the salt. Did you save room for sopapillas?
 
Grand old ladies sit side by side, rooted to the ground for one hundred years, proud and strong with perfectly aligned porches. Overnight, garland adorns columns. Swags of red berries and bells replace fall wreaths. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Munger Place, Dallas, Texas

Lucy and Annabelle tug and strain on their leashes, then stop to greet neighbors and sniff out smells buried in dry grass. We gather with friends on Harry’s porch for happy hour.

A few blocks away, a tall green rectangle juts into the night sky, a floating box glows holiday red, a rotating sphere boasts a dazzling display of white lights. The heavens are illuminated by neon. 
Dallas Skyline

talya

Musical Pairing:

Texas (When I Die), Tanya Tucker

burning down the house!

By

Two months ago, our house nearly burned.

In the spirit of fiction writing, I exaggerate a bit, but it was a close call. I was in Arkansas and therefore not responsible nor a suspect. John returned from work to a smoke-filled downstairs. Dallas fire fighters paid us a visit with sirens blaring—it was that bad.

A basket of napkins smoldered atop the microwave, too close to a hot halogen light. 
basket o’ cloth napkins

What if John had worked late or gone to happy hour?
bottom of cabinet. nice.

The underside of our cabinet is extra crispy. Inside the cabinet smells of a rump roast grilling on a Weber. For hours I washed glasses, doors and shelves. 

I heated lemon slices which I thought might eliminate the odor.
With the kitchen door ajar and ceiling fan whirring for hours, a swarm of mosquitoes moved into our home, hiding in corners and underneath furniture. Yes, DallasHasMosquitoesYearRound!

I burned my favorite candle to a nub, almost starting another fire.
The citrus and rosemary chicken baked for dinner masked the smell for one episode of Mad Men. 
An open sack of Dunkin Donut coffee absorbed a touch of the odor, but smoked my favorite coffee.

I ignored it. I packed my car, locked the back door and drove to Dairy Hollow for a writer’s retreat. I became a witch for Eureka Springs’ Halloween, the streets filled with zombies and ghosts. Real or imagined?

In Fayetteville, purple and orange pansies grow where weeds once lived. I painted the last louver door! Thanksgiving at my sister-in-law’s—I only baked a pecan pie and potato casserole, a major departure for me.

Fearlessly, I wrote in the Ozarks, making new friends, thinking fresh thoughts.

Never once did I think about my Dallas kitchen, 350 miles southwest, smelling of forest fire mixed with Pine Sol. Yet,

ItStillStinks.

I suppose I shall be forced to paint. Ideas, anyone? anyone?

talya

Burning Down the House, Talking Heads

Mad Black Woman

By

This week I am attending a one-week writer’s residency program at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs. During this time I will re-post some of my favorite blogs from the prior year. Maybe you missed one? 

originally published 06/25/12…



Our neighborhood Target Pharmacy is fantastic. The pharmacist is an efficient, knowledgeable, no-nonsense kind of guy, and I appreciate that. He gets me in and out and goes the extra mile when a call to the insurance company is warranted. Plus he’s bald. I like bald. 


His staff of young ladies are friendly and call me by name. I like that too.

Last summer I oddly bonded with these pharmacy people due to a bizarre encounter. Like a fiery car crash on Central Expressway, everyone watched although it was nasty. Now that summer is here again, I worry that a repeat performance might occur…

On that excessive-heat-index-orange-ozone-alert-day,  I sat in one of two chairs at the end of the pharmacy counter waiting on a prescription. Twenty minutes, they told me. With a new Angry Birds Seasons already downloaded on my iPhone, I was all set.  

In the other chair, a handsome 20-something Hispanic guy. He too played a game on his iPhone. We nodded to each other sharing the iPhone gaming connection. The two chairs were attached like those at the airport, our shoulders practically touching. To the average Target shopper we may have appeared to be texting each other like siblings sitting on the den couch together.

Me:     He thinks I’m pretty cool to be playing Angry Birds…
Him:   Look at that old woman playing Angry Birds!…  (but I digress)

Behind the pharmacy counter, the serious, busy pharmacist and three young employees, worked diligently with heads down counting pills and answering questions on the phone. 
As I am pitting angry birds against fat pink pigs, I hear a ruckus building a few aisles over. Heading my direction. Our direction. Fellow Gamer noticed and looked up as well. 

A GINORMOUS black woman sporting spandex and a bright pink halter came rolling a shopping cart along the end cap aisle parallel to the pharmacy counter yelling, “SCUSE ME! YOU’RE BLOCKING MY WAY!” Fellow Gamer and I both wondered who is blocking your way? She was still 4 aisles over in nail polish remover… But she pushed the cart like it was a self-propelled lawnmower, apparently on a mission. In no time she was on the flat Tory Burch heels of an unsuspecting wisp of a pale white woman, probably mid-30s. “I SAID, SCUSE ME!! YOU’RE BLOCKING MY WAY!!” Her tornadic voice boomed through the pharmacy into housewares and grocery, thawing frozen foods.


Pale Wisp jumped like a baby rabbit into the nearest aisle stammering, nearly crying, “Oh I am soooooo sorry, please excuse me, soooo sorry.” She scampered through the headache relief section and out the front door. I never saw her again. 

I had a strong urge to defend Pale Wisp, but feared Mad Black Woman was wielding a knife in that barely constrained bosom. Sadly, I am only Weak White Wimpy Woman. I scanned the pharmacy area, eagerly looking for John Quinones. Did I have time to reapply lip gloss? I was certain there was a hidden camera by the blood pressure machine. Although I had failed to intervene, there was likely still time…

Instantaneously, all pharmacy aisles evacuated to accommodate Mad Black Woman’s super-sized shoulder chip and matching attitude. She BARKED to the pharmacy employees, “WHERE ARE THE FEMININE HYGIENE WIPES??!” Her voice echoed… echoed… echoed… echoed…

Silence. All around. Pin dropping silence. ‘I S-A-I-D WHERE ARE THE FEMININE HYGIENE WIPES…wipes…wipes…wipes?” repeated Mad Black Woman.

One brave young employee answered rather calmly, “On aisle 7.”

“WELL YOU WILL NEED TO COME OVER HERE AND SHOW ME! I CAN’T FIND ANYTHING IN THIS STORE!” (picture head sway / “talk-to-the-hand” motion) I think she actually stomped her hoof.

Brave employee actually escorted Mad Black Woman and her push mower to the feminine hygiene wipes.  Bald Pharmacist looked around in shock with that did-I-just-hear-what-I-think-I-heard look on his face. Speechless. Annoyed. Disgusted. 

So now this woman was not only rude as hell, but everyone in Target and across the street at What-a-Burger knew she needed to wipe down her hoo haa. And she had no problem killing Pale Wisp to do so. Evidently time was of the essence. 

Where was that camera?

The pink pigs and angry birds had been abandoned in my hand.
My mouth gaped.
In slow motion I looked over at Fellow Gamer.
He looked over at me.
He smiled,
shook his head
and said,
“Dallas’ finest.”

talya

Musical Pairings

Purify Me, India Arie

“I hate rude behavior in a man. I won’t tolerate it.” Woodrow McCall (Lonesome Dove)

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!