Author Archives: Maggie C

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About Maggie C

Stained glass artist, woodworking artisan, writer, respecter of life.

Summer Solstice

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The first day of summer dawns hot and dry; not like it used to here in the moderate Pacific Northwest of my youth. The air outside is stifling, so I stay indoors listening to the hum of the fan and worrying about the young plants in my nature garden. The shrubs and berries and grasses – all native to this area – are not supposed to need supplemental watering because they are acclimated to thrive in their natural environment.

But this climate, altered to unnatural heat and drought, is not what Mother Nature signed on for when she gave us the delicate mosses and ferns, the soft evergreen needles, the supple, shiny leaves of shrubs like snowbrush and Oregon grape.

This evening a breeze will pick up and give at least the illusion of coolness to the air. I will visit the garden to make sure the ladybugs, bees and butterflies have water in the little pool I made for them. And I will utter an apology on behalf of my species for the damages this planet has endured. The rain, when it comes, will be happily welcomed.

Imperceptibly,

summer solstice pendulum

pauses, shifts, recedes.

dVerse haibun Monday: Solstice I

Weekend Wildcard ~ Cowboy Style

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My daughter texted me this morning:

Question… if you asked me how I wanted my eggs and I said “cowboy style,” what would that mean to you?

My answer (of course!) was “however they turn out.”

She said that was her understanding as well, but no one else she had consulted was familiar with that phrase in terms of egg cooking.

“Cowboy style” was pretty much how I got my eggs all the time growing up. They might be “over easy” if it was a hectic morning with little time for breakfast. If the cook (Mom) got distracted and the eggs stayed in the skillet too long, they became “over hard.” If the yolk happened to break, you got your eggs scrambled.  

Was “cowboy style” just a Mom-ism? A more kid-friendly way of saying “you’ll get what you get and like it?”

That was fine with me. In fact, when my dad took to making omelets, he was soooooo slooooow at it, that I would have much preferred cowboy style. Come to think of it, when I make omelets now, I do them cowboy style. If they stick in the pan and start to break up or if I get impatient waiting for the eggs to set, the menu changes and they become scrambled eggs. No muss, no fuss (another great phrase, by the way).

A google search of “cowboy style cooking” came up with a posse of recipes with lots of “yee-haw,” “giddy up” phraseology, and even a reminder to “wipe the cow patties off your boots” before sitting down to eat. (Let me jus’ wrangle up an eye roll emoji right here, y’all.)

The definitions of cowboy style are myriad: easy to make, hearty, cooked all in one dish, cooked over the campfire, bone-in (so you can pick it up and eat it with your fingers), …

Then there’s the outlier (or should I say “outlaw-er”) recipe for Cowboy–Style Baby Green Salad with ingredients like shaved Pecorino Romano cheese, extra-virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, sea salt and freshly ground pepper.

I would have imagined a cowboy salad to be more along the lines of a wedge of iceberg lettuce with Ranch dressing (out of the bottle), which coincidentally was also a staple of my mom’s recipe repertoire.  

Well, boy howdy! I have a hankerin’ to rustle up some eggs now, so I reckon I’ll stop right here and mosey into the kitchen to make breakfast. Y’all have a great Sunday!

Brainstorming in a Vacuum

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“I wonder if I – “

“It wouldn’t work.”

“But what if – “

“You can’t. No training; no expertise.”

“But – “

“Can’t afford it.”

 “I’m curious,” I say. “Do you even know

what we’re talking about?”

He glances up from the newspaper.

“Does it matter?”

For dVerse Quadrille #129: Curiosity

Spring Harvest

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As my native habitat garden takes shape, I’ve been drawn to it almost daily. In the wet fall I checked for problematic standing water at the base of the young crabapple tree and marveled at the resilience of rain-battered kinnikinnick. In winter I fretted over snow-covered Oregon grape and ice-encased flowering currant.

As spring unfolded, I searched bare twigs for the slightest hint of green, watched tiny sprigs rise from the ground and swell into verdant foliage; and now – finally – flowers are maturing, bugs are pollinating and wild strawberries are sending out runners to claim yet more ground.  

I always considered autumn to be my favorite season with its crisp rain-filtered air, crunchy carpets of fallen leaves and trees dressed in flame-inspired palettes. Now, I believe my favorite season is whichever currently holds sway over my everchanging garden.

lupines point skyward

blooming flower moon beckons

who will eclipse whom?

For dVerse poets Haibun Monday: flower moon.

kinnikinnick
Oregon grape
red flowering currant
wild strawberries
large leaved lupine

The Afterbeat Waltz

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[to the Tune of the Tennessee 
Waltz (two-three) (one-two 
and-a)]


When I was Seventeen
High school band Agony
Playing the French horn, you
See (two-three), (one-two) while the

Rest of the Instruments
Soared with the Melody
I got the Slow after-
Beats (two-three) (one-two). 

Chorus:
I re-
Member the Days in the
Stuffy band Room as the
Teacher's baTon counted
Three (two-three) (one-two) I would

Wait for that Moment when my
French horn would Shine as I
Sweetly played Two after-
Beats (two-three) (one-two) 

instru-
Mental interLude here. Find your 
Horn, play aLong dear, and
Soon you will See what I 
Mean (two-three) (one-two). If you're

Lost in the Melody
Listen for Me and I’ll
Carry you Through to the 
End (two-three) (one-two). 

Oh the
Waltz would start Playing with the
Saxophones Braying, the
Oboe would Try to com-
Pete (two-three) (one-two). Clari-

Netists’ reeds Squeaked as the
Flautist's breath Peaked, and the 
Trombones’ spit Rattled and
Leaked (two-three) (one-two).

Chorus:
I re-
Member the Days in the
Stuffy band Room as the
Teacher's baTon counted
Three (two-three) (one-two) I would

Wait for that Moment when my
French horn would Shine as I
Sweetly played Two after-
Beats (two-three) (one).

dVerse poetics: Meet the Bar ~ Waltzing