Thinking about titling this post “potpourri,” and misspelling it on purpose, I decided to find out the meaning of the French. It means “rotten pot.” Very unlike me to lose interest in words, but—that’s as far as I can take you in that direction today. Last stop before wild meanderings.

After harvesting okra twice without gloves or long sleeves (and these are big, bushy 200-ft rows of mixed varieties), I got all confident in the toughness of my skin and went down the beds again today, hoisting this branch aside here, brushing those leaves aside there, and picking the spines out of my fingers as I went. Since the plants are getting taller I no longer have to stoop the whole time, so my back doesn’t really hurt at all, after a morning of it. But I guess I got “spined,” finally, because my forearms look sunburned, and burned like Hades when I washed them in the shower. Oh well. I would have passed out from heatstroke if I’d tried to wear a long-sleeved shirt this morning, so everything feels feng shui.

Speaking of feng shui, and misusing the term because I feel like it (like I almost misused the word “puckish,” earlier, to describe my skin—glad I restrained myself there, though), this apartment is starting to turn. For so many lovely months it was “the treehouse,” the most romantic little apartment ever, though not really hip or large enough to have friends over, but now that it’s survived the storm of neglect my morning sickness has subjected it to, I have fallen out of love. I still love it, you know, as a friend, as somebody who was once really important to me, with whom I shared very intimate moments, but our time is over, and I’ve basically already moved out in my mind. I need a house, a real kitchen, a real shower and—if the gods are generous—a bathtub. I’ll totally miss the bedroom. But there are other similarly romantic bedrooms out there, in houses with real kitchens and showers. (Ours is this confusing plastic box which looks like it’s supposed to be the insert [?] or liner [??] of a built-in shower. You can hardly turn around in it, and it’s yellowing with age.) We just have to get Marshall a job … these contracts he’s been working on have been good for him in a few ways, but none of them financial. And then we will find a big beautiful house to rent, which will have room for my huge & expanding self and ultimately a little baby. And I will get all feng shui.

I see I’ve already mentioned Pregnancy. Ok, more on that, then: At our ultrasound last week, we found out it was a girl. Surprised no-one. Pleased everyone. Calmed my worries about the other-countriness of little boys. I’ve always felt like mothering would be no problem, but I realized a while back that it could be, if I had a boy—and now, I realize that it will be lots of problems, a never-ending string of them, no matter what gender this baby is, and mothering is a bitch no matter who you are. Even if you’re serene, it’s still a bitch. But—as I have been sort-of trying to remind myself—things that are a bitch are often also magic, or good adventures, or big promises. Life, for instance.

I haven’t been very emotionally healthy during this pregnancy so far, I don’t think; I haven’t been writing, or participating in my usual greeting-the-morning routine (coffee, stillness, reading, looking out of windows, prayers), or listening to my own soul. All understandable, as the first trimester was such a mountain of garbage/sharp rocks, but things are different, now, and I’ve come to a point at which I can re-enter my good life. I think. I feel like I can begin to re-establish my morning rituals, begin to write again, and to hear myself. This morning is the first time I’ve had vestiges of all three of those things: Coffee, though the beans were ancient; writing, though it was a lame-o journal entry; and listening, though it largely consisted of reading Aviva Romm’s The Natural Pregnancy Book and realizing that her words made me feel cared-for, and like I’m doing sacred work. I’m used to thinking of myself this way, but haven’t very often in the past four months. My domestic interior and wild interior are perhaps going to get feng shui-ed soon.

Last little dried orange of potpourri: We’re having pizza tonight. It’s like my favorite food of all time. We make a no-salt crust from a recipe in the Tassajara cookbook Dana & Greg got us for our wedding, a garlic and olive oil base for the toppings, and random mish-mash for toppings. It’s always good. ALWAYS. Probably because I get to have salty stuff on my pizza / half of the pizza, and because pizza is my favorite food of all time. But since we’ve had lots of cornbread and beans lately, it’s pretty exciting. We have tomatoes from the farm which will impart a flavor like the ringing of bells in school hallways, the degrees of shade thrown by Tuscan vineyards in August, and like every connotation of the word “hearth” you can think of.  And I have Italian sausage which will impart flavors like beef “Italian-style” sausage from Kroger. But whatever. It will be good.

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