pumpkin day brunch and politics

It is time again for politics, the choices slim, the candidates sadly alike, which means life will go on as usual for me. I suffer white liberal shame. It doesn't really matter what happens in the current election process: white life is good. I will vote, and I will vote against what I think is the greater of two monsters, but I understand that eventually, likely not in my lifetime, the smoke and mirrors of the USA will shatter and vanish and all of the abundance, ease and irresponsibility will degrade into a third-world existence. I saw Mad Max. All of them. From the safety of my vortex of a sofa.

I remember some freshman test-grading work that I did for my sociology professor and advisor, and reading this answer to this question:

"Please describe the differences between first and third world countries."

The answer was this, "Well, the first world is first, and not second. The third world is after that. It is neither first or second. It is third."

The penmanship was atrocious. But really, an oversimplification to be sure, but was she wrong?

My husband will carve his pumpkin today. It will be fabulous and mine will be ordinary. I've come to accept this. I'm going to do the Pope.

This morning I made a facebook special brunch that looked so simple online. All you do is: line muffin tins with hashbrowns, pre-bake, top with crumbled bacon, spinach, egg and cheese. Bake. Eat. What they don't show is this: re-hydrating the hashbrowns (45 min.) grating a bunch of cheese (15 min.), pick all of the baby spinach out of the salad mix (can't believe they left that out) and realize there is no bacon. None. (And on Sunday, in Yamhill, I wouldn't buy the bacon that may or may not be for sale.) Then wash all the damned bowls. By hand. Cheerios is easier.

In Yamhill, the field behind us is greening, rains are beginning and I'm making butternut apple soup for dinner. It has mango chutney in it. I'll post the recipe if isn't awful. 

lakeside

It gets dark in Yamhill. Not as dark as we'd like, but still, we see the stars. Many many more than Portland gets. Now that the arbor vitae (juniper) are gone, at night, there is a long stretch of blackness from our backyard to the highway. At night, I pretend we live on the edge of a lake and I can see the headlights of the cars that drive around the lake. When the wheat starts to grow -- or whatever it is they planted, the VanDuyck's who own the field -- there will be swishing and waves on my lake and I will lean back in my Adirondack like an Appalachian queen. Yep.

We made the mistake of going into Portland today, a semi-tradition for us, to the Greek Festival. Paper bowls of soulvake and loudema-somethings-- little balls of deep-fried dough soaked in honey, spanikopita and baklava. Too much honey for me. I couldn't finish but a bite of the baklava and tossed it -- a greek sin, I'm sure. We tried to make a quick getaway, but had to visit a sick friend in the hospital and Kurt left his phone so had to turn around and go back. Argh.

And, I had to get bras. New, smaller, shinier, foamier. What are these things? Do they hold their shape? Will they hold mine? Laundering tips? I had to get sized, thanks to Sylvia at Macy's, and I bought a handful of new ones. All my life I have been relegated to the beige white black of triple-D dom. Now, as I think I have mentioned, the choices are endless. I don't trust the mechanics as I have been accustomed to armor-like construction, but I no longer need support, just socially appropriate coverage.