Waiting

So sorry to keep you waiting.

It’s happening to me, too.  I’m just waiting for Spring to pop.  And for our little mini-vacation next weekend, (we’re going to Bermuda, yay!).  Waiting for the pear blossoms I’m forcing inside to bloom, for root vegetables to be displaced at the market and for a time when I can stop filling the bird feeders.  And right now I’m waiting for my mom to come over, so we can take her out for lunch.  And then it’ll be back to waiting again.

At least it’s active waiting.  Yesterday I turned over the compost pile.  Last weekend I drew up a plan for the beds I want to make in the old garden.  Today I’m hoping to draw up plans for the new garden (I’m thinking of turning one bed over entirely to squashes and melons and the other to nitrogen-fixing and super-tasty beans).

There are a few signs of things to come.  There’s a little patch of snowdrops, and two tiny, brave yellow crocuses sticking their heads out of the dirt (my mom says the yellow ones are always first).  And there are the promises of flowers everywhere; on the trees, on the bushes, in the ground.  But still we wait.

Last week I was feeling itchy, I wanted to see signs of spring in the city.  So I walked across Central Park to the eastside.  I could hear spring.  The birds were in full courtship mode, but there were very few flowers.

The willows are turning yellow, the sea lion was doing outdoor yoga and the dogs were all aching to be off their leashes, but even in New York, with its earlier growing zone, it’s still a waiting game.

To keep myself busy last weekend, I took a walk in the woods to that mysterious old building with all the crockery and bottles.  With the leaves settled, I could find even more bottles and strange vessels.  I found bottles from two breweries that used to operate in the nearby town of Kinderhook and a pair of toast tongs.

But again, I have to wait, because there’s a beautiful, amber-colored bottle, that I think I just might be able to dig out of the side of the hill intact.  But only after the ground thaws completely.

Maybe in April.  For despite what T.S. Elliot says about April, I don’t find it so cruel.  To me March is the month that is toughest to bear.

But at least the Spring recipes are bursting forth.  Last weekend I was seduced by Martha’s Easter issue and made her mint and caper sauce for some pork chops (the cuts of lamb at the market were all too big for just two people), mashed potatoes with greek yogurt (I threw in some caramelized leeks and dill, too and didn’t bake them once, let alone twice) and warm radicchio and pea salad.

If I can’t have spring outside, I’ll at least have it in my belly.

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