Have fun learning, and feed millions

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 7, 2009)

Great ideas can come at the most unexpected times. John Breen, founder of FreeRice.com, was in the kitchen with his two teenage sons when inspiration hit. The Indiana-based computer programmer was trying to help his older child prepare for the SAT.

"The younger one made a mockery of the situation," Breen explained in a December 2007 interview with National Public Radio. "He kept saying, 'He doesn't know this word, he doesn't know that word.' So I decided to do something on the computer to help my son learn vocabulary words."

The computer program he developed was a multiple-choice vocabulary game. It wasn't long before Breen realized that his online learning tool had broader applications. Breen, who had previously created the Web site Poverty.com to help educate people about world hunger, launched FreeRice.com on Oct. 7, 2007. In the game he designed, players earn grains of rice, instead of points, for choosing the correct answer. Sponsors, whose banner ads run at the bottom of the page, transform the virtual grains players win into actual food. The United Nations World Food Programme then distributes the grain to needy people around the world. By the end of last month, more than 67 billion grains of rice had been donated through Breen's Web site. That was enough rice to provide a day's worth of food for 3.5 million people.

Although FreeRice.com has been around for about two years, it was a discovery for me. My friend Sharon touted its merits in a Facebook discussion, and her comment generated more than enough positive feedback to pique my curiosity. I went to FreeRice.com and after surveying it briefly, began playing the vocabulary game.

Although English Vocabulary was the only game originally offered, the site now challenges players in 12 other subjects, including Famous Paintings, World Capitals, Chemical Symbols, Basic Math, Spanish and three other foreign languages. In English Vocabulary, I had to pick the correct synonym out of four choices to match the given word.

Each time I answered correctly, I earned 10 grains of rice. Instead of being penalized when I answered incorrectly, I was given the correct definition to study and review. The program tracked my mistakes and repeated words I didn't know until I learned them. A "warning" on the site's home page said it all: "This game may make you smarter. It may improve your speaking, writing, thinking, grades, job performance ..."

After playing about a half-hour and racking up enough rice to provide a day's worth of food for one person, I felt pretty darn good. I was having fun, helping others and learning words at the same time. I wanted to share my discovery with my husband.

"Ralph," I called into the kitchen where he was reading the paper. "Come here a sec. I want to show you something."

Ralph walked into my office hesitantly. He probably thought I needed his help with some sort of problem. He was surprised to see me playing a game.

"I want to show you this cool site I discovered," I said. "You play a game and win rice to feed hungry people."

"What's the catch?" he asked as he sat down in front of the keyboard.

"There is no catch," I replied. "One hundred percent of all money raised by the site goes to the World Food Programme. Come on. Give it a try."

He continued with the game I was playing and was captivated immediately, probably because he didn't get a single word wrong. Although the difficulty level kept increasing, he answered word after word correctly. Instead of accumulating 500 grains of rice in the virtual bowl, my sweet and mentally sharp husband increased our combined tally to more than 1,000.

At my urging (I was growing weary of seeing him get every answer right), he moved on to another subject, French. It has been more than 40 years since Ralph sat in a French class, but once again, he aced the quiz.

We were well above 2,000 points when we decided to call it a night. In less than an hour, our mutual effort had yielded enough rice to feed four people for a day. In the grand scheme it's not much, but to those four people it means one less day feeling hunger pangs.

I was amazed by the FreeRice site. In a society that attaches a price tag to almost every commodity, we don't expect compassion to reign supreme. But compassion is Breen's stock and trade. His eureka moment resulted in a new way to do business — play a game, increase your knowledge and help others at the same time. Breen has proved that even small steps — a few grains of rice at a time — can make a big difference. The world is a little better because of one man's efforts.

Turtles have good reason to be nervous

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 31, 2009)

I scare turtles. I don't mean to. I certainly don't want to. But all I have to do is walk outside and turtles tremble. SPLISH! SPLASH! Two more of the hard-shelled creatures dive for cover.

The screen door is the real culprit — that and my preoccupied mind. Opened screen doors have a tendency to close loudly, especially if the person opening them (me) forgets to prevent the door from slamming. BANG! The wooden door swings shut. Another reptile dives for cover.

I live next to a turtle-dense lake. I don't know how many of the carapace-covered critters reside in our 12-acre pond, but I routinely see them basking on logs, rising to the surface for air and, occasionally, walking over land to lay their eggs.

Turtles are ancient beings that traversed the water-covered Earth during the time of most dinosaurs. There are 50 turtle species in North America, with 26 types in the Sunshine State. Of those 26, 18 types of turtles live in Florida's freshwater lakes and rivers. Fossil researchers report that most turtles look much the same now as they did 150 million years ago. The adage "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" applies to these well-designed lung-breathers.

The turtles I routinely frighten are usually sitting on top of a partly submerged oak log that I asked Ralph to place not far from our beach. My thinking was: (a) if he placed the log there, turtles would sit there and sun themselves (they do); and (b) if they came and sunned themselves, I'd be able to watch them while I'm on the beach (unfortunately, I can't).

My reasoning didn't take into account the self-preserving tendencies of an animal with a history spanning millions of years. If a turtle senses danger, its first instinct is to disappear. It does so by either retreating into its shell or diving into the water. The turtles sunning themselves on the oak log near our beach opt for an aquatic retreat.

I suppose they haven't gotten used to me yet. Ralph placed the log on the spit of land near the beach just a few months ago, and although the turtles discovered it almost immediately, they haven't been using it long enough to realize that I mean them no harm. These toothless reptiles have good reason to fear humans. Pollutants often contaminate their watery habitat, and much of it is lost to development. Although many animals prey upon mature turtles and eat their eggs, humans are their greatest threat. People hunt turtles for food, kill them for sport, harvest babies for the pet industry and run over them with cars and trucks. So much destruction has taken place for these remarkable creatures that the International Union for Conservation of Nature lists more than two-thirds of the world population of turtles as threatened.

In Florida, a regulation passed in July attempts to help waning turtle populations. The rule passed by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission prohibits the commercial harvesting of freshwater turtles in public and private waters. It is the nation's most restrictive turtle-harvesting rule. Scientists hope the new regulation will give declining turtle populations a chance to rebound.

I hope so too. Any animal that has survived for millions of years deserves a chance to continue living into the next millennium. I don't like scaring turtles every time I thoughtlessly slam the screen door, but if these gentle creatures need to react to potential danger by disappearing into the water for a while, I'll understand. The important thing is that they don't disappear forever.

Taking baby on walk down memory lane

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 24, 2009)

Thirty years ago, when I was a young mother living on Cape Cod, I used to slip my infant daughter into a blue corduroy Snugli and take her for long walks. Inevitably, Amber would fall asleep, I'd get some overdue exercise, and we'd both be outside feeling the breeze against our skin. Sometimes I walked along a nearby bike trail. Other times I'd head toward the beach or town, strolling alongside roads and stretches of woods until I arrived at my destination. Whichever route I took, I always returned home with two things — a sleeping child and a wildflower bouquet.

I was thinking about those pleasant hikes the other day when I took my grandson for a stroll through my daughter's neighborhood.

In preparation for our new role as grandparents, Ralph sorted through boxes in the attic looking for our old baby paraphernalia. One of his finds was our reliable Snugli. Even after supporting the rumps of four children and spending a good 16 years tucked away in an overheated attic, the Snugli remained in tiptop condition. After a fresh laundering, it was ready for a new generation of use.

Although Amber and Scott have a spiffy new stroller complete with several cup holders and storage bins, I brought the Snugli with me when I headed over to baby-sit. I'm glad I did because it came in handy. About an hour after Amber left, the baby began to fuss. When even a bottle of warmed milk didn't do the trick, I decided to try the Snugli. After tucking my grandson's 8 pound, 4 ounce body into the soft fabric enclosure, we headed outside for a stroll. Almost immediately, he calmed down.

My daughter and son-in-law live in a lovely subdivision in Winter Garden. It's an older neighborhood with well-maintained yards and wide sidewalks. As I went out the front door, I turned left and started walking in what I expected to be a quick loop around the block. It turns out that subdivisions — or at least that particular subdivision — are not designed for quick loops around the block. A left at the nearest cross street followed by another left at the next two intersections did not bring me back to Amber's house as expected. Instead, it took me in a circuitous route around the neighborhood until I finally — about an hour later — navigated my way back to Amber and Scott's address.

I'm not complaining. It was a good walk, a long walk and a soothing walk for baby Atom, who managed to pass most of the time in peaceful slumber. What it didn't do was yield a bouquet of wildflowers the way my walks on Cape Cod did.

As it turns out, subdivisions, even older ones in more well-established neighborhoods, do not lend themselves to wildflower foraging. In fact, foraging for any sort of plants would be unacceptable behavior in places where the only flowering plants visible are those planted by homeowners to accentuate their landscapes.

In the years when I lived on Cape Cod, subdivisions were a rarity. Most of the homes I passed on my outdoor forays were well over a hundred years old with landscapes that reflected decades of plantings. In the spring, blooms from ancient hedges of lilacs and forsythia overflowed onto roadways. Wild roses and beach plums flourished near the bay. Clusters of delicate violets and the edible red tops of clovers escaped domesticity and wandered out of yards and onto the wayside. Tall stalks of Queen Anne's lace, black-eyed Susan and fluffy milkweed flowers grew with abandon along stretches of woods. I'd walk along my chosen route picking a flower here and another there until, before I knew what was happening, I had gathered a beautiful bouquet.

I haven't been back to Cape Cod for years, but I imagine that most of the stretches of woods have given way to modern housing units where, as in Florida, homeowner-association rules restrict what can and cannot be planted. I understand the need for rules, and I'm glad my daughter and her family live in such a tidy neighborhood with individually designed yards, but I can't help missing the wildflowers. I miss knowing that no matter where I turn, I'll find flowers growing by the wayside waiting to be picked.

Now, where did I put my sunchokes?

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 17, 2009)

Gulf fritillary butterflies seem to share my affinity for Helianthus tuberosus, a member of the sunflower family more commonly known as Jerusalem artichoke or sunchoke. For the past few days I've been looking out my porch windows and watching the orange butterflies land on the bright yellow flowers. Although we're both attracted to the blooms, there's another part of the plant I'm also fond of — its edible tubers.

In April, I bought a couple of pounds of Jerusalem artichokes from my local grocer with the intention of eating a few and planting the rest to harvest in the fall. I've always liked the way sunchokes taste. They have a crisp texture and a slightly sweet, nutty flavor. Although the potassium-rich tubers can be boiled, baked, grated, diced and added to stir-fries, I've always preferred to eat them fresh, like an apple — scrubbed free of dirt before biting into their crunchy goodness. For me, the cheery, daisy-like flowers are a bonus — I'm after the underground rhizomes.

Sprouts began to appear shortly after Ralph and I buried about two dozen of the stubby tubers in a bed of enriched soil. A few weeks later, those sprouts developed rough leaves and tough, hairy stems that grew taller by the day.

"I can't remember how big they grow," I said to Ralph as I watched the garden bed fill with leafy, green clumps. "I hope I picked a good spot."

Plant placement is an art I have yet to master. Twice before, I grew sunchokes in what turned out to be inappropriate locations. I made my first mistake on Cape Cod, and about 10 years ago I miscalculated again in Florida. Both times the plants took over their allotted space, spreading into areas where I didn't want them to be. Jerusalem artichokes are notoriously invasive. If even a small piece of a tuber remains in the soil after harvesting, an entirely new batch of flowers will emerge the next year.

On both of those previous occasions, we managed to eliminate the sunchokes by rigorously harvesting each individual tuber. Now, over a decade later and with previous lessons in mind, I was ready to try again. I chose my location carefully, picking a garden bed completely contained by the house on one side and by a curved concrete walkway on the other. I felt confident the tubers could not escape.

What I didn't take into account was the plant's tendency to sprawl.

Helianthus tuberosus are tall plants — much taller than I remembered. After five months of growth, they stand about 8 feet high. If they stood up straight their height wouldn't be a problem, but they don't. Like many tall plants, sunchokes tend to lean over. To make matters worse, the plant's leaves and stems have a rough texture that's unpleasant to touch.

Unfortunately, the spot where I planted them is right next to our porch door and alongside a concrete path that we use daily. When the stalks lean over, they interfere with both the walkway and entry.

Darn! And I thought I was being so careful this time.

This morning Ralph tried to solve the problem by wrapping a rope around the stems and tying them upright. It was an effective, if not particularly attractive, method. After viewing my husband's handiwork, I suggested we think about relocating the entire patch after we harvest the tubers.

"Got anyplace in mind?" he asked.

I said I did.

"Maybe behind the compost pile?" I suggested. "They could do their spread-and-sprawl thing and not be in the way of any walkway or doors. And if we planted them there, I could see the flowers from my office."

"That might work," he replied.

It's difficult picking the right place for plants. You start with a packet of seeds —or, in the case of Jerusalem artichokes, with a basketful of rhizomes— and try to imagine how the mature plant will look. How much space will it take up? Will it interfere with other cultivars? Will it grow too tall, blend in with other plants or become practically impossible to eliminate if you want to remove it? Although I've made just about every mistake you can make with plant placement, I still find the process exciting.

The Helianthus tuberosus I planted in April are almost ready to harvest. Come September, I'll have quantities of homegrown tubers to eat and share with others. Most people have never tasted Jerusalem artichokes, and I'd like to change that. Despite their negative features — a tendency to sprawl, an invasive growing pattern and rough-textured foliage that irritates sensitive skin — sunchokes have much in their favor. These easy-to-grow perennials not only produce a versatile, flavorful and nutritionally rich vegetable, they have pretty flower heads that butterflies find irresistible.

When I weigh the plant's pros and cons, the pluses win out. Maybe next time I'll pick an appropriate location where the sunchokes can stay indefinitely. I know the Gulf fritillaries would like that and, after three wrong choices, I'd like it too.

There's a fungus among us — and we like it

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 10, 2009)

My husband is a fungi. I know - it’s a (s)poor joke, (there I go again…) but the truth is, my sweet partner of almost 40 years happens to be a big fan of edible mushrooms. That’s why he was so excited when a package arrived last week.

"What've you got there?" I asked after seeing the contents of a large box sprawled haphazardly across the kitchen counter.

"The dried mushrooms I ordered arrived!" he said with unrestrained enthusiasm.

"Oh, yeah," I responded with a tinge of skepticism. "How many mushrooms did you get?"

He handed me the invoice. On it were listed a dozen varieties of fungus with intriguing names such as matsutake, chanterelle and candy caps as well as a few suspicious culinary monikers, including one called "yellow foot."

"What kind of mushrooms are these?" I asked while examining one of the many 1-ounce packages of what looked like small pieces of brown cardboard.

"I don't know," he responded with a giddy smile. "I ordered an assortment so we could try lots of different types. Which ones do you want to taste first?"

"You pick," I said, aware that this particular pleasure was mainly his to enjoy.

We settled on a random assortment, but before any cooking could commence, the dried mushrooms had to regain their lost moisture. Ralph submerged the flat slivers in a small amount of water. Within minutes, the liquid was absorbed and cooking could begin.

He then coated a large cast-iron pan with a small amount of olive oil and added a spoonful of crushed garlic before placing the rehydrated mushrooms in the sizzling oil. A heavy, woodsy smell permeated the air. Using a spatula, he stirred the heady mixture until the mushrooms were soft and well-coated with garlic oil.

"What do you think?" Ralph asked as we began our taste test.

"Interesting," I remarked. "They're a little chewy and tough, but flavorful, too. Which ones are these again?"

We were sampling a mixture of maitake, black trumpet and lobster mushrooms.

Of the three, maitakes were the only ones we had previously tried. Ralph discovered maitakes — also known as "hen of the woods" — after reading an article about them by medical doctor and author Andrew Weil one of my husband's favorite sources of health information. His Web site, www.drweil.com, says that "maitake has anti-cancer, antiviral and immune-system-enhancing effects and may also help control both high blood pressure and blood sugar levels."

Weil's endorsement motivated Ralph to purchase a supply of dried maitakes to incorporate into our diet. Much to the chagrin of my 17-year-old son, small pieces of the meaty, nutty-tasting mushroom were soon appearing in omelets, stir-fries, soups and just about any other appropriate (or, from Toby's perspective, totally inappropriate) meal.

Ralph's fascination with mycology more than compensates for our son's lack of interest.

Back in the 1980s, while still living on Cape Cod, Ralph traveled to Washington state to attend a weekend mushroom cultivation seminar with Paul Stamets, founder of Fungi Perfecti. Stamets is a pioneer in edible and medicinal mushroom cultivation. After returning home, Ralph began growing his own crop. About six months ago, my husband repeated the process in Florida by inoculating shiitake spores into a stack of freshly cut oak logs. Thanks to the recent delivery from Oregon Mushroom, we have no shortage of other mushrooms to sample while waiting for the shiitake spores to produce edible fungi.

So far, in addition to maitake and shiitake mushrooms, Ralph and I agree that morels have the nicest texture and most pleasant taste. After working our way through each type, we'll probably reorder only our favorites.

"This was just a sampling," Ralph explained while he reorganized the remaining packages. "I just wanted to try a few different types to see how they taste."

I guess that makes him a sporadic spore-addict. Sorry, the temptation to poke fun(gi) was just too hard to resist.

Grandson's birth marvel to behold

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 3, 2009)

I just experienced the birth of my first grandchild. As I stood at the foot of my daughter's bed, I saw how slow, painful and messy birth is. It's also amazing. More than amazing, really — it's in the company of marvels.

It's not as if I haven't seen it before. Four times I've labored over my own children's births, but on each of those occasions I was on the grunt end of the job. It's completely different being in a position of receiving. Not that I actually caught my grandson or did anything more helpful than offer support, encouragement and an observer's perspective on the baby's progress, but it was a role I assumed with eagerness and appreciation. I was there to receive the result of love — my love for my daughter and her husband, their love for each other and the product of that union: my grandson, Atom.

Despite his name, Atom's birth was not explosive. After more than 41 weeks of pregnancy and a labor that lasted well beyond two days, my daughter's 7-pound, 4-ounce offspring finally decided to grace us with his presence. As I stood alongside the calm obstetrician, I watched my tiny grandson inch his way into the world.

"I see his head!" I announced as a sliver of crown began to appear. With each contraction, his rounded pate grew more and more noticeable before retreating. There was an ebb and flow to his movements, as if he were hesitant to make the final transition.

"Shall I give up this cozy abode for a world unknown?" he seemed to be pondering. "Shall I make my entry now or wait a little longer?"

Giving birth is a visceral experience. Even in the most secure location, the birthing table is anything but a bed of roses. I saw firsthand how new life emerges from a primordial slime. Babies may be born out of blood and agony, but amid the suffering and the mess is an overwhelming sense of happiness, expectation and joy. Do we experience such an emotional slurry at any other time in our lives? So many positive feelings combine with body-wrenching anguish and passion.

Throughout her long labor, I reminded my daughter that her pain would vanish with the birth of her son, and immediately after Atom finally decided to slide into the world, that's exactly what happened. Amber's face lit up with smiles while Scott's paled with the momentousness of the occasion. As the attending nurse laid my daughter's first child in her arms, I felt my heart swell with appreciation for everything that enabled this moment.

I now join the ranks of grandparents around the world doting love upon children of the children they gave birth to themselves. Life is nothing if not an amazing journey, and as I pass yet another bend on this byway, I delight in the marvel that is my grandson, Atom.

Discover if you have the grape de-seeding gene

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 27, 2009)


I got a call last week from friend and grape grower, Tommy Free.

"The grapes will be ready on August 1st," he said. "We got a lot of good rain this year and the vines seem to be producing even bigger grapes than usual."

Free has been producing purple muscadine and bronze-colored scuppernong grapes on the west side of Clermont's Lake Apshawa since his parents moved there from Ocoee in 1987. In the 18 years since our family has lived in south Lake County, I don't think we've missed a single August grape harvest. Picking grapes is one of my favorite late summer rituals.

After receiving Free's call, I e-mailed Jenny in Massachusetts and Timmy in Seattle.

"Tommy's grapes will be ripe when you visit," I wrote my two out-of-state children. "When you get home we can go over and pick them together."

Jenny has been hankering for Florida fruit. "Will there be ripe starfruit when we're there?" she asked a few weeks ago. I had to tell her no. Last winter's freeze severely damaged our carambola tree — commonly called starfruit because that's what the fruit looks like when sliced. Although new leaves have since formed, it is nowhere near harvest time. Ditto for the papayas, another of Jenny's favorite Florida treats.

"Figs and grapes," I told her, "that's what will be ripe when you arrive."

Timmy likes both but Jenny is not a big fan of the former. That's because, like her father, she has difficulty de-seeding certain types of fruit.

"How can you eat them that way?" Ralph always asks when I sit down to consume dozens of scuppernongs in rapid succession.

I have no idea. It's an unconscious act. That's not the case for Ralph or Jenny. I've always found it perplexing that both lack the oral dexterity needed to separate a seeded grape's individual parts. They have the same problem with pitted fruits like cherries and loquats. Are such abilities (or lack thereof) inheritable traits? Are some of us actually born with a fruit de-seeding gene?

If there is such a gene, three of our four children inherited it from me. Not only do I adore the sweet flavor of scuppernongs, I actually like the process of separating the tough skin and small seeds from the juicy flesh. Part of the fun in eating muscadine and scuppernong grapes is the process — pick them, pop them into your mouth, squeeze out the flesh, spit out the seeds and wait while an aromatic landmine of sweetness explodes in your mouth.

The best way to enjoy the amazing sweetness of a Florida grape is to pick them yourself. Fortunately, Free's vineyard is one of several local u-pick farms that have survived the economically unstable times. According to the Web site pickyourown.org, there are eight farms in Central Florida, including Free's Lake Apshawa Farm & Nursery, providing u-pick muscadine grapes to the public. Like all small farms, it's best to call ahead before visiting for availability, hours and price.

Grapes grow on vines trained to twine around horizontal wires. This makes them easy to pick without much bending or reaching. Look under leaves for the ripest clusters and be selective. The softer, darker skinned muscadines and the more bronzy-colored scuppernongs are the sweetest. In less time than it takes to stand in the checkout line at the grocery store, you can fill a bag with golden and purple fruit, pay for them and be on your way.

Florida is famous worldwide for its citrus fruit and coconut palms but even many longtime residents are unaware that the Sunshine State also produces a distinctively flavored table grape.

Grape season in Florida is short — lasting only until the end of August — but it is a decidedly sweet period of time. Take advantage of one of the state's best-kept secrets. In the process, you might discover the possession of yet another secret…the fruit de-seeding gene.

(for more information about Tommy Free's u-pick grapes, call 352-394-3313.)

Parallel-less lives...

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 20, 2009)

My son and I recently met with his soon-to-be college roommate to discuss the logistics of first-time house sharing. After deciding who would provide what piece of communal furnishings and which pieces of shared cookware, we headed back to our separate cars.

It was pouring.

"Where'd you park?" I asked Laura as we stood beneath the building's sheltered overhang watching the rain.

"Way over there," she said, pointing to the far end of a large parking area.

"You're going to get drenched," I said. "Too bad you didn't park closer."

Next to the building was a line of cars — our minivan among them — lined one behind the other alongside the curb.

"I wouldn't have parked there," explained the college junior. "I never learned how to parallel park, so I always look for parking spaces away from other cars."

I was incredulous.

"Didn't you have to parallel park in order to pass your driving test?" I asked.

"No," interjected my 17-year-old son. "It's not part of the test."

Turning to Toby, I asked, "You don't know how to parallel park either, do you?"

"No," he said. "You never taught me."

He's right. I didn't.

I taught my son many things during his months of student driving — how to drive defensively, obey speed limits and use turn signals. I emphasized the importance of checking mirrors before changing lanes, explained how to merge safely into traffic and cautioned him not to ride the brakes. We practiced driving in fog and rain, on congested highways and on unpaved, bumpy roads. We drove into parking lots and repeatedly pulled into and out of parking spaces, but we didn't practice parallel parking at all. It never occurred to me to teach Toby how to wedge a car between two curbside vehicles.

If we lived in a city, this never would have happened. By necessity, city dwellers learn the ins and outs of curbside parking. We live in an outlying area. I can't think of anywhere within a 20-mile radius of our home where one would absolutely have to parallel park. Nonetheless, not having a need to do something regularly doesn't preclude the need to do it at all.

"You're going to have to parallel park when you are living in Orlando," I warned, but their returning stares said, "You poor, clueless adult."

OK, so maybe they won't need to learn. Perhaps parallel parking will become just as irrelevant as hand signals, driving gloves (hint: that's what glove compartments originally were designed to hold), hand-crank windows and — thanks to the Internet and GPS units — paper maps. I still need a key to start my car, but some drivers don't. In the future, I suppose, push-button ignition systems will make car keys archaic.

I feel torn. Even if it's seldom practiced, shouldn't all drivers at least know how to parallel park? On the other hand, if there are enough alternatives — multilevel parking garages and lots filled with acres of macadam — why put the effort into perfecting an unnecessary skill?

As my youngest child ventures out on the highway of life, I trust that the lessons he has been taught will serve him well. His education may not have prepared him for every situation, but with a good grasp on the basics, I'm confident the rest will fall into place. Until then, for those long walks from the back of life's parking lot, it wouldn't hurt to keep an umbrella under the seat — just in case.

Our family's fascinating bears fruit

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 13, 2009)

It doesn't get much better than this," Ralph said as he approached the bedroom with a heaping bowl of fruit.

We were about to settle in to our evening routine of pre-sleep TV watching, a ritual that includes — on my husband's part — some sort of after-dinner snack. Tonight his concoction was a large dish containing bite-size pieces of his three favorite fruits: apricots, raspberries and figs.

The apricots and raspberries were store-bought, but the figs were homegrown. Our small, gnarly fig orchard has been extremely productive this year. For the past week, in the late afternoon, Ralph has walked outside with an empty one-gallon black bucket only to return a few minutes later cradling the heavy pail with both hands. Inside are dozens of plump LSU purple figs, a nematode-resistant strain that does well in our climate.

"Do you see what I picked?" he inevitably asks, even though I saw it yesterday, the day before and the day before that.

"That's great," I say again, understanding his need to restate the obvious.

After years of longing for quantities of homegrown goodies, Ralph finds it hard to believe the harvest he dreamed about is finally here. I find his enthusiasm endearing.

As I watched my partner of 38 years savor his post-dinner snack, I couldn't help thinking what a fruitful family we are. That is to say, our pantry is always full of the season's freshest fruit. While others may stock up on canned goods or meat, our quantity buys tend to involve some sort of perishable produce. Right now, in addition to plates full of figs sitting on the counter in various degrees of ripeness, shelf space has been allocated to peaches, bananas (some homegrown, some from the store), mangoes, apricots, cherries, cantaloupes, watermelons and a South American delicacy called mamey sapote. In our freezer are enough plastic zipper bags of hand-picked blueberries, blackberries and mulberries to make several dozen pies.

Outside, edibles dot our property. There are wild patches of blackberries, elderberries and passion fruit in addition to all the fruit trees we've planted — figs, bananas, mulberries, loquats, starfruit, Surinam cherries, papayas, persimmons and assorted citrus. Two years ago, our oldest son planted a small orchard of peach, nectarine, pomegranate, guava, plum and avocado trees, and we added two cold-hardy mangoes. Timmy's fruit trees have all prospered, but our mangoes got zapped during last winter's freeze.

Fruits have always been one of our main family themes. I can't count how many times we gathered up the kids when they were young en route to one you-pick farm or another. Family vacations centered on farm stops where we could get out of the camper and stretch our legs while filling up baskets (and mouths) with fresh-picked edibles. In season, we've garnered quantities of blueberries, blackcaps, raspberries, strawberries, grapes, apricots, lychees, wineberries, apples, pears, figs and various nuts. From the time our kids were big enough to walk on their own, we taught them how to pick only the ripest, juiciest, plumpest fruit.

Although our children are no longer little, fresh fruit still excites them.

"We have been enjoying all the great fruit that comes ripe this time of year," our daughter in Massachusetts, Jenny, wrote in our family's monthly newsletter. "Twice we've gone and picked strawberries to eat, eat more of, and freeze the rest. The blackcaps are ripe here, too, and we have some big bushes within a short walk, and even a few great ones right in our back yard!! It's fun to take a walk early in the morning and gather berries for breakfast (and just eat some, too)."

Passing on an appreciation for nature is a worthy legacy. As I sit in bed watching my husband savor his after-dinner treat, I see much more than a single serving of his three favorite fruits. I'm looking at a family history flavored by the sweet taste of fresh-picked food. For almost four decades we have planted, picked, sorted, frozen, baked with and shared our harvests with others. We've known both the satisfaction that comes from growing your own and the pleasure derived from discovering new sources of homegrown goodness.

Ralph's right. It doesn't get much better than this.

Breathe in...breathe out

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 6, 3009)

Breathe in ... breathe out.

We do it about 20,000 times each day. That's more than 7 million times a year for every year of our lives. From the moment of birth until the instant of death, people process the world through the act of respiration. Good air (oxygen) comes in. Bad air (carbon dioxide) goes out. Breathing is an action so automatic — so second-nature — that most of us are barely aware it's happening.

Not me. For as long as I can remember, I've been attuned to how well (or not well) my breath is flowing.

I was one of those kids with allergies — dark circles under my eyes, a constant stuffiness-runniness in my nose and a soggy, white tissue permanently affixed to my clenched right hand. I never went anywhere without a supply of Kleenex wadded up in pants pockets or tucked into the side pouch of a backpack or purse.

Things haven't changed much for me in adulthood. Although I've figured out which allergy medicine works best and have successfully managed to avoid dairy products (a major allergic trigger), I still find myself tethered to a clutch of tissues. And those dark circles beneath my eyes continue to elicit the occasional crass comment.

"Who gave you the two black eyes?" some witless twerp will inevitably ask. As a child, I found such thoughtless remarks devastating. Now I give them the attention they deserve, which is no attention at all. I find myself annoyed more by the offender's lack of sensitivity than by the words themselves.

Despite a lifetime of labored breathing, the situation during mid-June became particularly severe. Allergies, however, were not the culprit. An injured rib affected my breathing, making it extremely difficult to get a good breath.

"Just one breath — one long, deep breath. That's all I want," I murmured to myself. And when that breath finally came, I inhaled so gratefully. Fresh air — oxygen — was all I wanted. It was the only thing that mattered. Life was complete.

I promised myself that when I got better — when my bruised rib healed and I could once again breathe with relative ease — I would treasure each moment, each inhalation, each release. I'm at that point now. The hurt that caused my chest to feel like a compressed squeeze box has finally abated. I can catch a breath easily. I'm free of aches and pains. Even my allergies seem to have improved.

Sometimes it takes an injury, an accident or an illness to make us realize how much we stand to lose. Little things become significant when threatened or compromised. I'm not pleased to have allergies or a bruised right rib, but I'm glad for the insights those ailments provided.

Life is nothing if not full of surprises. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring — what problems, what joys, what pleasures, what woes. In light of such uncertainty, the only thing to do is to live each day fully and appreciate the little things that make life worthwhile. Simple things like breathing that we tend to take for granted.

Breathe in ... breathe out. It's what life's all about.

Rain, rain: Unnerving or mundane

The view from the porch on a rainy day.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 29, 2009)

I've been enjoying the summer rains. The steady tattoo on the metal roof is a soothing sound on a hot afternoon.

I didn't always feel this way. When we lived on Cape Cod, rainy weather made me nervous. The house we lived in had two large skylights, and one of them leaked. I never knew when it would happen. Sometimes it would rain like crazy and we'd have no problem at all. Other times -- maybe when the rain came from a certain direction or with enough force -- water would work its way through the seams and seep into the house in a steady stream.

Although my clever, inventive husband can usually fix anything, the leaky skylight had him stumped. He repeatedly caulked, flashed and sealed the glass, but no matter what he tried, rain inevitably found its way around the repair. Many a rainy night I lay in bed tired but too tense to sleep. My ears were on alert, listening for the drip-drip-drip of rain falling on the yellow pine floors. I'm glad those days are over. As much as I enjoyed the expansive view those skylights provided, I don't miss the anxiety they caused.

In Florida, we live in a skylight-free home. When we built our house, I wanted to install some overhead glass, but Ralph was insistent. "Never again!" he declared. "No more skylights. No more leaks."

He was right about the leaks -- our Florida home doesn't have any. No matter how hard the rain falls or how long a downpour lasts, I don't worry about drips seeping through to ruin ceilings, stain floors or infiltrate siding. Now when it showers, I simply sit back and enjoy the show.

And what a show it has been! After months of drought, plants have responded with a flush of new growth. If one measure of happiness is the loudness of song, then birds and frogs must be a happy lot. Lakes respond, too. After so many wet kisses, water levels have begun to rise. It's a slow dance back to normality, but with the percussive beat of raindrops pouring down, a seasonal rhythm is once again in play.

I find myself gravitating to the porch on rainy afternoons. From beneath the shelter of a well-sealed roof, I can watch the liquid world in action.

Puddles form on the dirt driveway. Droplet-sized splashes dot the lake's surface while a cool breeze replaces the stifling heat. Often I see rainbows.

I've never prized precipitation more than I do now. We went without regular rainfalls for so long, I'd forgotten how uplifting a downpour can be. Rain can be revitalizing. It washes away dirt, dust and stickiness, replenishes the aquifer, increases lake levels and quenches the parched throats of both animal and plant life. It can also be fierce. As my leaky skylight taught me many years ago, even a light rainfall can cause heavy damage, given the right conditions.

As we work our way through the first month of hurricane season, I'm hoping that the conditions for destructive storms don't materialize. Let lakes fill with water. Let plants drink their fill. But let's hope that people enjoy inclement weather within safe, dry shelters.

Learn to keep life's dangers in perspective

Simply Living

(First Appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 22, 2009)

During a recent medical appointment, my daughter and I sat in the waiting room while a large-screen TV tuned to Central Florida News 13 blasted the midday news.

"With these hot temperatures," the reporter began, "health officials are warning residents to be aware of amoebas, an invisible but potentially deadly organism found in bodies of fresh water."

"Great," I thought. "As if the news wasn't scary enough with wars in Iran and Afghanistan, nuclear testing in North Korea and swine flu cases reaching pandemic proportions, Central Florida News 13 has kindly given us one more thing to worry about -- invisible amoebas lurking in overheated freshwater lakes and under-chlorinated swimming pools. That's just lovely."

The report went on to quote an Orange County Health Department official who urged swimmers to take precautions. A local lakeside resident emphasized the importance of becoming educated about water dangers while a would-be boater decided to forgo an afternoon of family  fun on the water after hearing (probably from the reporter) about the potential presence in the lake of "deadly amoebas."

Come on now. Do amoebas actually pose a threat serious enough to keep boaters and swimmers out of the water when the thermometer hits the 90s? Is a report like the one my daughter and I watched necessary in these already overly anxious, tremulous times? Or is it just another example of the media overemphasizing uncommon risks because they're rare and therefore seem more newsworthy?

As with most threats, it's important to separate fact from fear. According to an information sheet produced by the University of South Florida for the Lake County Water Authority, Naegleria fowleri live in fresh water worldwide. Although the single-cell protozoan is common, infection is rare. In order for it to enter human anatomy, water containing the amoeba must be forced up the nose or ears.

That might happen during falls in a high-impact sport such as water skiing or when jumping or diving into water. The infection is not transmittable from person to person and cannot enter the system by swallowing water. The amoeba does not live in salt water. Preventive measures include staying out of stagnant water or poorly maintained swimming pools, wearing nose plugs and earplugs when submerged and avoiding underwater swimming entirely.

The federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention illuminates further:

"Infections are very rare even though Naegleria is commonly found in freshwater. In the 10 years from 1998 to 2007, 33 infections were reported in the U.S. By comparison, during the ten years from 1996 to 2005, there were over 36,000 drowning deaths in the U.S."

Florida ranks third in unintentional drowning, according to the Florida Department of Health. Between 2001 and 2005, 2,327 people drowned in the Sunshine State, an average of 465 people a year.

Let's see if I have this straight: Over a 10-year period, an average of about 3 people per year nationwide were infected with a deadly amoeba while an average of 3,600 people per year (more than 1,000 times as many) drowned. If the media's objective is to inform the public, wouldn't it be more effective to increase water safety education instead of terrifying us with unlikely demons?

Life is dangerous business. In 2007, according to U.S. Coast Guard statistics, 75 Floridians died in boating accidents. The same year, automobile accidents claimed 3,221 lives, according to the state's Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles. And the Florida Department of Health reported a whopping 41,956 deaths from heart disease.

Any life lost to disease or accident is a tragedy. We can take measures to minimize risks, but we can't avoid them all. To live a happy life, people must learn to analyze information, make educated decisions, apply precautions and, above all, keep things in perspective.

Unlike the boater interviewed by News 13, I intend to take full advantage of our lake during the hot summer months. Are there amoebas in my lake? Probably, but that doesn't mean they are out to get me. By taking safety measures -- keeping my head above water, avoiding high-impact water sports and wearing nose plugs when submerged -- the already slim risk of amoeba infection can be further decreased.

When the temperature goes up, I plan to cool down in the water. Anyone up for a swim?

Chess doesn't get the respect it deserves

SIMPLY LIVING

My 17-year-old son is away this weekend playing in a chess tournament. As a parent of a child who has been playing in chess tournaments since he was eight, I find myself wavering between feelings of amazement and disappointment. The kids I’ve met over the years at competitions are an amazing lot. They remain calm under pressure, endure long hours of intense concentration yet somehow manage to stay focused and analytical. While other sports depend at least in part on luck, winning chess players succeed by out-thinking and outmaneuvering their opponents. What I find disappointing is how little attention chess players receive for their achievements. Our basketball-football-soccer-golf-crazed society is rarely interested in the accomplishments of its mental athletes.

The last time a chess tournament made headline news was 1997 when IBM’s chess-playing computer, Deep Blue, defeated then-world champion Garry Kasparov. The only other recent event to catch the attention of the media was the death in Iceland on January 18, 2008 of 64-year-old expatriate and infamous chess maven, Bobby Fischer.

Last July, when Melbourne, Florida resident Makaio Krienke tied for first place in the Under 2000 division of The 35th Annual World Open in Philadelphia, the 17-year-old didn’t return home to a rush of reporters knocking at his door. He eased back into his everyday life without fuss or fanfare. Even 14-year-old Ray Robson of Largo, the youngest chess master in the state of Florida and the youngest International Master in the United States, is relatively unknown outside the chess community. Yet Robson has been astounding the chess world for years. Since he was nine, this holder of seven National Scholastic titles has represented the United States in international scholastic events.

Last week while clicking through TV channels, Toby and I chanced upon coverage of the Scripps 2009 National Spelling Bee. A day or so later we also watched the finals of the National Geographic Bee. Like thousands of other viewers, the mental acuity displayed by the young contestants bowled us over. I’m glad the media covered those events but I couldn’t help wondering why important chess events don’t receive similar coverage.

The chessboard is one of the few level playing fields in the world of competitive sports. Men, women, boys and girls – able-bodied and disabled - compete against each other in divisions determined not by age, gender or physical condition but by strength of mind, mental agility, and performance.

One would think a society that medicates more than 2.5 million of its children for attention deficit and hyper-activity related disorders would pay more attention to a game that teaches players to think slowly, clearly and logically.

Toby began playing chess when he was four. By the time he was six he was routinely defeating his father and older siblings. During summers, while his peers were off at soccer or basketball camp, he joined a band of loyal players at chess camp. Instead of shooting hoops or practicing blocking, the kids at chess camp worked on improving their endgames, developing tactics and honing techniques.

His hard work paid off. After years of competing in dozens of small and large tournaments, Toby is the third highest ranked under-18-year-old in Florida. I have no doubt he’ll achieve his present goal – to earn the title of “Master” before entering UCF this fall.

Benjamin Franklin once said, “The game of chess is not merely an idle amusement; several very valuable qualities of the mind are to be acquired and strengthened by it, so as to become habits ready on all occasions; for life is a kind of chess.”

Franklin was right. Chess is much more than an idle amusement. It’s a sport. It’s a discipline. It’s preparation for life. Isn’t it about time society took notice and gave it the attention it deserves?

Idle hours sooth mind

Simply Living

I did something the other day I don’t usually do – I was idle. I sat by the lake, looked out over the water and enjoyed the view. I wasn’t reading a book or talking on the phone while I sat there. My laptop wasn’t next to me and the television wasn’t on. I wasn’t even listening to the radio or MP3 player. I was sitting - simply sitting – in a beautiful place, being at ease.

Being idle used to be easy. When I was a kid, I’d spend hours lying on the lawn, watching clouds change shapes as they rolled by. I’d go out in my rowboat and drift along, the breeze pushing me from one end of the lake to the other. I’d climb up a crabapple tree and let my mind wander. I had no special agenda and suffered no guilt. Being idle was part of being a kid. It felt right.

That’s not how it feels now.

Adults are supposed to be busy. We have Responsibilities and Important Work. Page 135 of the Grownup’s Handbook specifically states, “Spending time sitting around staring at still water is wasteful and self-indulgent.”

Perhaps it’s a misprint.

It is important to take breaks from the everyday world in which the simultaneous performance of multiple tasks has become the norm. It may even be essential. Just like a computer that needs periodic rebooting, people need to refresh our idea of what normal really is. Normal is being outside and feeling the breeze. Normal is watching the sunrise or the stars fill up the sky at night. Normal is being a part of the natural world instead of existing for days on end within the confines of our technologically connected, air-conditioned abodes.

Despite such feelings, I still find it difficult to be temporarily unproductive. The other day, while I sat staring at the lake’s calm surface, my thoughts kept jumping from one unfinished project to another. In the house, there were dirty clothes to wash, floors to vacuum and bathrooms to clean. In my office, emails filled my inbox, there were articles to write and topics to research. In the garden weeds had grown so tall my back ached just thinking about pulling them out. Yet my resolve remained solid. I knew I needed some time to do absolutely nothing. I was due for a break.

Some months are more hectic than others and that’s how May had been. Although several good things happened in that month, including one child’s wedding and another’s graduation from community college, I still felt overwhelmed and weary. Even celebrations can be stressful. Sitting by the water was my way of being refreshed. Watching the day ease into night, listening to the chorus of chirps, splashes and leaves rustling in the breeze was a kind of elixir, a temperament tonic.

We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Sometimes doing nothing can be the best move of all. It is not my intention to make idleness a full time occupation but I want to feel free to relax as needed without a shadow of guilt or regret. Smart adults learn to turn off the constant stream of mental chatter and tune into the everyday wonders of natural living. In my copy of the Grownup’s Handbook, that lesson is underlined in red.

Otters adorable? Just ask a turtle

Sitting on a slightly submerged island of peat in the rain, an otter makes quick work of a large soft-shell turtle.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 1, 2009)

If you had asked me in 2001 to describe an otter with one word, I'd have chosen "playful." Not anymore. Thoughtful observation over seven years has modified my view of these semi-aquatic mammals with a penchant for sliding down slippery slopes and frolicking in the water. I now think "brutal" would be a more appropriate description.

I began observing otters in 2002, the last time Central Florida suffered from a prolonged drought. Our lake — created before we bought our property as a byproduct of a peat-mining operation — was down that year to the lowest level we had ever seen. Water was so low that a small island of peat appeared in the middle of the lake, about 200 feet in front of our house. We saw our first otter on that island, and it was to the very same spot — re-exposed because of the recent drought — that an otter returned.

The North American river otter is a member of the same family that includes weasels, minks, badgers and wolverines. Stretching about 40 inches long and weighing around 20 pounds, otters have sleek, black bodies, strong, short legs, webbed feet with five sharp claws and long, muscular tails. At first glance, a freshwater otter looks like a cross between a drenched chocolate lab and a fur-covered dolphin. At second glance, it looks like the well-conditioned predator it is.

There's no denying an otter's attractiveness. With round eyes, whiskered faces, small ears and diamond-shaped noses, these protected mammals are the epitome of adorableness. Try telling that to the animals on which these voracious carnivores dine. Crayfish, mollusks, frogs and fish might be the mainstay of an otter's diet, but that's not all they eat.

Recently I watched as a solitary otter perched on the slightly submerged peat island and slowly devoured a huge, soft-shelled turtle. Although rain fell incessantly, the otter's dining habits were not the least bit dampened. Raindrops rolled off his oil-rich pelt while he munched upon his meaty meal.

Watching the otter eat the turtle was an eerie flashback to 2002, when a pair of otters made fast work of the lake's hard- and soft-shelled turtle population. Over the course of three months, our shoreline became scattered with the hollow remains of many an otter meal. As otter sightings became more frequent, sightings of live turtles decreased.

Observing an otter chew its way through the flesh of a living turtle is nothing less than disturbing. In our Disney-ized view of the world, cute, cuddly animals aren't supposed to be vicious killers. They're especially not supposed to look like they're having so much fun while devouring their still-alive victims. That's exactly how these adorable critters look. Otters not only prey upon smaller animals, they seem to take pleasure in playing with their food.

As the otter in our lake consumed his oversized dinner, the rain-slicked mammal repeatedly changed position and refreshed himself with swims. He took breaks for grooming and breaks to rest, but he always returned to his partly eaten, still-moving entree as if he hadn't a care in the world. The otter had done what large predatory animals do — he had hunted for food and scored a meal. Success was in the proverbial saucepan, and if that saucepan happened to be my lake, well, such is life in the wild kingdom.

In order to survive, otters need to consume 15 percent of their bodyweight every day. They do that by hunting over a 50-mile territory. I'm happy that an otter has chosen our lake to supplement his diet with carapace-covered flesh, but I'm equally as unhappy to see so many turtles perish in the process.

The balance of nature is not always pretty. As the otter in our lake so ably demonstrates, sometimes the cutest animals can be the cruelest. Call them playful — otters are certainly that — but don't forget: The very same critter that looks adorable while sliding down a mud-slicked river bank isn't nearly as endearing when it tears into a turtle's flesh.

So much in life lies in perception, and first impressions don't always show the full picture.

Music can fill your soul, lead to soul mate

Jenny and Brett listen to Bill Staines perform their pre-wedding concert.

Simply Living

(first appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 25, 2009)

During the early 1980s, most children grew up on songs from Sesame Street and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. That wasn't the case in our family. Our three oldest children — all born between 1979 and 1983 — were more likely to have memorized the words to "Abiyoyo" and "The Marvelous Toy" than "Won't You Be My Neighbor?"

Tofu, brown rice and freshly picked veggies may have nourished our children's bodies, but folk music fed their imaginations. We listened to the recordings of dozens of artists, but one musician stood out from the rest — Bill Staines. We discovered this New England singer-songwriter at a Boston coffeehouse shortly after his career took off in the '70s, and it was like chancing upon a kindred spirit. His sensitive lyrics, soothing melodies and gentle presence resonated with our homegrown, country lifestyle. By the time Ralph and I were ready to start a family, Staines had already produced several albums, all of which we owned and loved.

If you had visited our much-lived-in Cape Cod home during those early years of our marriage, one of Bill Staines' recordings would probably have been playing. His music was a trellis on which our daily routine was twined. Songs such as "Bridges," "Roseville Fair," "Annie Drew" and "So Sang the River" filled the air and wound their way through our subconscious. We sang along while fixing meals, folding diapers or weeding the garden. Ralph tape-recorded the songs each child favored and, at night, they fell asleep listening to a continuous loop of their favorite tunes.

Given such a background, I was not surprised when my second-oldest child called from her home in Northampton, Mass., about six months ago to make an announcement. Jenny and her fiancé had booked Bill Staines for a private concert the night before their wedding.

"He's available," she said excitedly. "We're thinking of having the concert in a little chapel across the street from Brett's parents' house."

Brett's family lives in the village of Leyden, Mass., just south of the Vermont border, a few hours away from Staines' hometown of Dover, N.H. It turns out that Jenny and her siblings weren't the only children weaned on a diet of folksy tunes. Brett and his brother were, too.

"One of my friends knows the words to all of Bill Staines' songs just like I do," Jenny mentioned a few years ago during a phone conversation. "He grew up listening to Bill's music just like we did. Bill's performing in town this weekend, so Brett and I are going to go together to see him."

That was one of the first times Jenny mentioned Brett, but it wasn't the last. After the concert, the two friends continued to spend time together. A few months later, they finally realized that folk music was just one of many common interests. Friendship grew into love, and a wedding date was set.

Now that two of our four children have entered married life, I often think about what makes a marriage work. Marrying your best friend certainly helps, as does being kind, respectful and patient with each other. It's important to laugh and play frequently and agree on values and priorities. And don't underplay the importance of music. Music is a combination of poetry, philosophy and adventure. Songs tell us stories that transport us to places and times we could never experience otherwise. You can disappear into music — lose yourself and return, gaining energy and insight in the process.

I'm delighted to know that my daughter found a life partner who grew up appreciating the same folk artists she did. Music provides such strength and support. The simple framework of a three-minute tune can steady values, encourage dreams, broaden views and stabilize character. Having Bill Staines perform at my daughter's pre-wedding concert was a gentle way to begin a marriage — with harmony, sweet rhythms, melodic interpretations and lyrical inspiration.

Songs for today that will last a lifetime — they're the beginning steps up a ladder of love.

Watermelons minus water equal tasty treat

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 18, 2009)

"I just ate the most delicious watermelon," my daughter told me last week. "I asked the guy at the produce stand to pick out a good one, and he really knew what he was doing."

Despite my best efforts, I never know what I'm doing when choosing watermelons. A ripe melon should sound hollow when tapped, but my aging ears must lack acuity. To me, one thumped melon sounds like another.

Another much-touted technique is to select a melon with a flat yellow patch on its underside. A yellow or cream-colored spot purportedly indicates ripeness, while a white patch means the melon is still green. My success rate with that method is about 50-50.

I've tried pressing my thumb into the indentation left by the stem. If the impression gives, the melon is supposedly ripe. Sometimes that works; sometimes it doesn't. My less-than-stellar record at judging ripeness has affected my desire to buy watermelon. Why waste money on an oversized edible that takes up valuable fridge space without yielding a reliably flavorful reward?

My attitude changed when I discovered drying.

Have you ever tasted dried watermelon? Unless you have a home dehydrator – an inexpensive kitchen gadget readily available in stores — the answer is probably no. You won't find dried watermelon lining the shelves of your local market alongside apricots, pineapples or any of the other more common dehydrated delicacies. That's unfortunate because dried watermelon is manna for the mouth! Evaporate the liquid — watermelons are 93 percent water — and what remains is the sweet flavor of summer fun.

My son Timmy was the first person in our family to try dehydrating slices of the pink flesh. Before Timmy's experiment, we used to juice unwanted melons, but juicing is a messy process. Although the liquefied drink is tasty and refreshing, the work involved is hardly worth the effort.

But dried melons, now that's a different story.

"Oh, my gosh!" I moaned after my first bite. "This is unbelievable!"

After three to six hours of drying, a chunk of watermelon about an inch thick and a few inches long turns into a flat red slab. Although seedless melons are obviously better suited to dehydration, fruits with seeds also can be used if the seeds are first removed. The dried product can be refrigerated or frozen for later use, but in our house, that rarely happens.

"It's so good, I can't stop eating it," I told my husband this morning after finishing off one full rack and beginning another.

I hadn't planned to dry that melon. We purchased it for a family outing, and although nine of us attended the picnic at Rainbow Springs in Dunnellon, most of the melon went untouched.

"Not a very good one, is it?" Ralph asked after slicing off a sliver and giving it a taste.

For the following three days, the bottom shelf in the fridge grew stickier as the volleyball-sized orb took up valuable space. My annoyance grew each time I opened the door.

"Why do I keep buying these things?" I muttered to myself. Then I remembered the dehydrator.

It took my husband about 15 minutes to cut the melon's flesh into bright-colored chunks and layer them on five of the dehydrator's plastic racks. He switched the power on and a stream of warm air immediately flowed through the cylindrical container. The dehydrator ran for about three hours before Ralph turned it off for the night. In the morning, he switched it back on.

I shuffled toward the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from my eyes, when my senses grew excited. My ears picked up the hum of the motor while I inhaled the aroma of summers past. I lifted the dehydrator lid to uncover a rack filled to perfection with nature's own candy.

I ate the dried equivalent of about half a watermelon that day. I'm a sucker for sweets, especially the make-them-yourself, all-natural variety.

Watermelon season is just beginning, and although we try to pick the ripest fruit, it's easy to misjudge. It's also easy to correct our mistakes. When concentrated, even the blandest melon is sugar-sweet. Seek the essence and discover excellence. Now's a great time to give drying a try.

Mother's Day for feathered friends, too

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 11, 2009)

This year, Mother's Day was for the birds — and I mean that in the nicest way.

The two sandhill cranes that live on our lake have finally become parents. Although it was their second attempt this spring to create a family, the days leading up to Mother's Day found the devoted couple attentively tending to their offspring.

In March, the same cranes laid eggs and took turns incubating them, but a predator managed to slip in and steal the clutch before the babies hatched. I thought that was the end of this year's parenting attempts. Fortunately, I was wrong. Three weeks after the first eggs disappeared, the birds resumed nesting — same nest, two new eggs, one more chance to make baby cranes.

By the beginning of May, just in time for Mother's Day, the cranes' desire for a family was realized. Mama Crane began strutting her stuff with two fluffy-feathered babies by her side. How exciting!

I've been watching the sandhill cranes for months. In February, I managed to capture on video their mating dance, the male bird's short but provocative demonstration of his strength and virility. In March, I followed their nest-building activities and listened to their bellowing cries as they made it clear to other sandhill cranes that our lake was their territory and theirs alone.

Strong instincts?
I waited hopefully as two large eggs sat in the birds' roughly constructed nest and sighed disappointedly when I looked through my binoculars one day and discovered that the eggs were missing. By the time April rolled around, I didn't know what to expect. Everything I had read suggested that cranes do not reproduce twice in one season. Apparently, the cranes must have missed that memo. Either that or their parental instincts were exceptionally strong.

Maybe I identify with the sandhill cranes more than most because my own childbearing experiences did not go as expected. My first attempt to create life also ended prematurely. Despite the sadness of our long-ago miscarriage, Ralph and I never abandoned our dream of a family. Within a year, I was pregnant again and gave birth to the first of our four children. Twenty-nine years later, my oldest child is married and about to become a mother herself.

Common thread
The circle of life is an awe-inspiring phenomenon. It doesn't matter if the subject of that cycle is people, plants, birds, mammals, insects or tiny one-celled creatures. Regardless of our differences, the desire to reproduce and nurture new life is one thing we all have in common.

As I watch the sandhill cranes go about their daily routine with their babies by their sides, I feel a special connection to not just the birds but to mothers everywhere. Despite our physical diversity and biological differences, mothers share a universal need to impart knowledge, overcome struggles and avoid danger. Bottom line: We want the best for our children.

Being a mom is no small task. It might just be the greatest work a female of any species will ever do. Sandhill cranes go about the business of parenting free from Hallmark reminders of a job well done. They do it because that's what nature intended. That's what nature demands. Their reward comes not from receiving gifts but from giving life. Isn't that what being a mom is all about?

Pulling weeds yields crunchy culinary gems

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 4, 2009)

I go a little crazy over freshly picked food.

Consider betony, Stachys floridana.

Betony is a low-growing, square-stemmed plant in the mint family. That's the same lineage, Lamiaceae, shared by basil, mint, rosemary, sage, savory, thyme, lavender and coleus. In our yard, betony grows with abandon around irrigation spigots and in the enriched soil surrounding our fig trees.

Above ground, this Florida native forms a verdant carpet topped with small, rather nondescript clusters of pink blooms. Below ground, masses of white tubers stretch in every direction. The bulbous, peanut-sized nuggets attach to greenery by a series of stringy roots. A tenacious plant, betony is not at all shy about invading garden spaces. Its aggressive growth pattern is reason enough to label it a weed.

But it's such a tasty weed.

Although all parts of this versatile herb are edible, I'm partial to the tubers. Mild-flavored and slightly sweet, with a water chestnut-like consistency, the bite-sized rhizomes produce a satisfying crunch when munched raw. Ralph recently weeded around the fig trees and returned with an overflowing bowl of betony.

"Yum!" I said in anticipation and turned on the tap to fill the sink. Because they grow underground, the tubers require a good pre-eating soak and scrub. It's a pleasant enough process, and I usually nibble my way through the task.

As anyone who gardens knows, there is nothing as flavorful as fresh-picked fruits or vegetables. Any food eaten minutes after being plucked, picked or — in the case of Stachys floridana — dug from the earth, is sweeter, crunchier, and more energy-rich than produce that had to endure transportation and storage. Betony is no exception.

That first batch disappeared quickly.

"Where's the betony?" my husband asked a few hours later as he stood before the open fridge.

"They're gone," I embarrassedly admitted.

"You ate them all? You didn't save any for me?" Fortunately, he sounded more astonished than annoyed.

"They were so good I couldn't help myself," I explained before realizing how little that justification helped my case.

A few days later, my husband brought in another batch. This time I dutifully set aside plenty for him to enjoy later. Rather than devour a whole bowlful in one sitting as an unnamed glutton might do, Ralph is a prudent eater. He nibbles on one or two tubers with a meal or as a snack.

However consumed, betony is a welcome addition to the pre-summer diet. The tubers are ready to eat in April and continue producing quantities of below-ground growth for months. That's part of the problem — it's so prolific. Although it's not listed as an invasive plant by the Florida Exotic Pest Plant Council, many people understandably label it noxious. I empathize. If I didn't enjoy eating the tubers so much, I'd consider it a pest plant too. Sometimes I do. When it appears in unwanted spots, we attack the bed with shovel and rake and hope for the best. Inevitably, we miss a few roots, and from them a new crop develops.

Betony exemplifies the confusion over good plant vs. bad plant. Do a plant's many assets outweigh its disadvantages? What makes a wildflower a weed?

On its plus side, betony's medicinal properties have a rich history. "This is a precious herb well worth keeping in your house," wrote Culpeper in the 17th century. In ancient Rome, the chief physician to Emperor Augustus wrote a treatise that proclaimed betony a cure for 47 diseases. Today, over-the-counter betony supplements are purported to strengthen the nervous and cardiovascular systems, relieve headaches and aid digestion.

On its negative side, betony is difficult to get rid of without resorting to potent herbicides.

I asked Linda Roberts, executive director of the Florida Wildflower Foundation, to weigh in on the wildflower-vs.-weed question.

"It's just a matter of knowledge, tolerance and taste," she responded. "People like me who enjoy natural beauty will see these as wildflowers. However, those going for the manicured-lawn look will see them as weeds. We have so many beautiful wildflowers in our midst. People need only to learn to appreciate them for what they are."

If you already have betony in your garden or lawn — and it's likely you do — rather than struggle to eradicate the pest with poisonous chemicals, consider readjusting your perception. Betony is undeniably a weed. But it's a weed that provides free food for the taking. Dig up some tubers and try them. You might find yourself going a little crazy over freshly picked food too.