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We so embrace spring in New England. And why wouldn't we? We're under the hammer for so long. We have gritted our teeth. We have said so what.



But today, we are revealed. We are alive.



We walk out from the kitchen and sit on the steps. It's warm. Maybe life will be better.
YEAH? YOU THINK SO? YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO WALK BACK IN THE DOOR AND YOU WON'T BE SPENDING FIVE GRAND ON THAT IMPLANT?



Some people just refuse to be cheerful, don't they? Meanwhile, We remember other springs, or at least I do. I love Arkansas, where spring started long ago.

The azaleas.



For me, they stand for spring. I can't remember anything that I have ever seen more beautiful.

All right, all right, wait a minute. I do think the Finger Lakes are very beautiful and also this one overlook view we saw in San Francisco of the Golden Gate Bridge.


They are beautiful too. But Arkansas azalea season is like no other, I promise, dear reader.
DON'T FORGET THE SCORPIONS AND TARANTULAS AND POISONOUS SNAKES. THE MORE BEAUTIFUL THEY ARE, THE MORE DEADLY.

Yes, whatever.


Of course I didn't appreciate the azales when I lived among them. It was like a big blanket spread out over all the lawns. As long as I teach for a living, I will never get to see them.

AND THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE CHEERFUL?

WILL YOU SHUT UP ABOUT THE FREAKING AZALEAS?

YOU'RE THE ONE WHO WANTED TO TEACH. I REMEMBER WHEN YOU-------

Okay then, I guess I'll go inside now. In truth, the various mosquitos and flies and stinging things are coming to life along with everything else and it's time to bash some ants on the kitchen counter.
Then I look out the window for The Viewing Of The Back Yard.

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On a lovely spring day, dear reader, what better than to sit back, accomplish nothing, and reminisce about the past?

This is me back in the day, rushing down the driveway to greet my guests. I have forgotten the occasion, but I did love that dress. You probably didn't know I had pet albino peacocks, but I did. Little Throckmorton was my favorite and lived to be 30. I took him to the prom in a limo.

Here I am a few years later with some very cute but sorryass boyfriend. Ain't it the way, girls? I was trying desperately to make him fulfill his potential, live up to his dreams, or maybe, just maybe, get a job. Alas, he refused. We had some good times and I actually made that bathrobe out of dish towels. There's pancake mix under his arm. He went on to become a hedge fund manager and now works at Jiffy Lube. I'm thinking of taking my car there. Plus ca change, tous ces la meme chose.

Over the years, I occasionally dyed my hair. Now and then the PTA would honor me for chairing the Career Day extravaganza year in and year out. You sort of had to put on the dog for that.

This was taken during my Heavy Lipstick Era. At least one pound at all times was my rule. I also liked to drape things over one shoulder, as shown here. Problem was, I kept losing my stuff.

God, this was a very bad choice of boyfriends. He has just told me here that the chicken recipe I thought I was going to make that night was his mother's specialty. How would you feel, dear reader? Also that he has incurred four thousand dollars in parking tickets from using my car. I don't know what he is looking at in the picture, unless it is his suitcase.

This guy never bathed. He was cute, but I couldn't take the hygiene. You can see how sappy I was over him, but in the end I tossed him off that raft and learned how to steer it by myself.

I saved this one for last, dear reader, because it is my favorite. This guy looks a lot like the Unbathed One, but he was far smoother. He read me a big line of horse shit, and I went for it. God, we looked good in hats, though.

Enjoy springtime, my friends.

love,

becky

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Oh, I do love my coffee, dear reader.


It means everything to me.

But I confess, I fear I am still in the coffee bourgeoisie. I am not in the elite. I should use a better brand and I want to. There are those I have met who know better ones. They, those coffee snobs, have a certain aura I long for. I hate them for their knowledge and certainty and yet always forget to ask them for recommendations.

They grind their own. They are particular. I can't say I know anyone who grows their own.

That would really be impressive, wouldn't it? Probably you need good soil. And drug cartels operating in your back yard. Then you would know you are drinking a superior brand. All I can do is survey the coffee aisle at Hannaford's, pedestrian in the extreme. This is what you call rotgut. It's cheap, especially in that huge tub. For some people, looking down at that tub every morning means money saved, frugality, an avenue toward earthly and perhaps eternal redemption. I will just say this. I've already had a colonoscopy. Get me?

This will give you that nice bitter I-Am-Drinking-an-Expensive-Brand-and-Fk-Everybody-Else-feeling. But it has a certain taste, doesn't it? I'm not sure it's better than the tub.

This is good too, but you can get it at the drive-thru. It's everywhere. I'm not sure how I would like it without the styrofoam cup.

I actually haven't tried this brand. Maybe it will be perfect. I like that swish spelling they use. Any time you can tart up a spelling, you might be onto a marketing coup.

This is pretty good. You feel your standards are high drinking this brand. Especially if you stand there and grind it. I never do this because I don't exactly know how to and I don't want to look like a doofus in Hannaford's. LOOK OUT! SHE HAS SET THE GRINDER TO HIGH AND HAS NO CLUE WHAT SHE IS DOING! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

Yech. You know your standards are low if you drink instant. This is worse than the cheapest real coffee. Why not just drink hot chocolate?

I am not against hot chocolate. This is good at 4pm. For an extra special treat, try mixing two of the packets in one cup. Yum. [Don't tell my scale this--that grouch is all over my case lately]

Don't know anything about this brand. I have scrutinized it in the grocery and ultimately decided against it. I always think I am supposed to read it backwards and that confuses me. Also it suggests Mexican or South American provenance and I fear it will make me sick. How stupid is that? I will try it soon.

This brand, over there to the right, has been recommended highly. I have never bought it because I don't think I would like green coffee. AGain, completely stupid on my part. But what were they thinking? Also it sounds like crunchy granola organic hippie stuff and that bores me. Hey, I'm just being honest. I am going to try this.

So this is what I drink. Mostly. It's pretty good. It's medium expensive. It's not 7.99 a pound like some of them, but it has a good taste. Besides, if you put in enough cream and sugar, who can tell? [Do NOT tell the scale I said that]

A bientot

love,

becky

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I'm finally getting back into a full reading routine. For a long time, I couldn't concentrate. I put the book down on my chest and stared into the middle distance. Or at the ceiling. But I have snapped out of it.

Alan Furst is a bloody genius. I adore his books. I would say they are an acquired taste, though, and if you get one in your hands, you might say what is Becky talking about? It's short. The plots are episodic and don't connect. Nothing big big big happens. But keep going, dear reader. You will get hypnotized.

Kingdom of Shadows is the third or fourth I have read. None of them disappoint. They are stylish and sophisticated, spare and witty. I am planning to read every one.

This one is called A Map of Home and it is about a smartass Palestinian girl growing up. Her language is shocking at times, but her journey is familiar and heartrending all the same. I couldn't put it down. Author Randa Jarrar.

I am getting ready to be transported and obsessed by Sylvia Plath and her husband Ted Hughes and his various lovers. But before that, I am now reading

Daughter of Fortune by Isabel Allende. It is very good. I like a book that teaches me things and I am learning about Chile from this book.

Here's a really dumb statement, but I mean it from the heart.

It's truly amazing how many countries there are and how each one has its traditions and slang and landmarks and wisdom. And in each one, a woman's story is similar.

A number of years ago, I kept track of every book I read. I wrote down the plot and how many stars I gave it on a piece of paper (okay, it was a coupon). My car was littered with them. Finally, I gathered them all up, brought them inside, and tabulated them. I made a list. I have that list in the table next to my bed and I'm sorry I haven't added to it in the intervening years. I've gotten sloppy. But here's the point.

Most of the books on the list were written by women.

I guess that means something about me. It's something I shouldn't forget. I'm interested in women and what they do and what they think. And so are other women.

But of course I still like Alan Furst. And John Irving and Tom Wolfe and some of those other whaddyacallits, men.

A bientot

love,

becky

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In order to merit inclusion in the BHF, an object must have served for more than a few years. It must have always performed in a manner pleasing to her. This lets out most humans. See that microwave? It's a Johnny-Come-Lately. It will never be in. But the saucepan right there, perched a bit precariously I admit, hits a ten. It holds a lot, it doesn't boil too fast, and it cleans up well. In fact, I may start dating it. It evokes an earlier era with its graceful Harvest Gold presentation. What has it not held in its generous interior? Soup, pasta, experimental food items, even rainwater in the dining room window. It has served as a temporary jury-rigged double boiler for chocolate mousse pie and a jaunty last-minute addition to a drunken costume . And so, hats off to this proud representative of the cookware group, one that came into Camp Becky as a member of a color-coordinated ensemble, but has survived its companion pans by at least a decade. [ed. note: I'm dumping this beast soon: the Teflon is worn off and it takes more effort to scrub the broccoli stains out than I possess these days. But give it a little glory before it goes]

"Edgar Allan Poe was a fictional writer."

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