Earlier in August as Cracker Bearelle and I planned a couple of small dinner parties, we had decided that on these occasions she would run the dishwasher, bot loading and unloading it, tasks I loathed. And so as I struggled with resuming my daily routine, I left the dishes to her and the dreaded dishwasher more and more.

But it didn’t take long for me to realize that automatic dishwashing wasn’t the time- and labor-saving solution it was cracked up to be. For one thing, inevitably, all of the dishes wouldn’t fit in the dishwasher, so that even on those nights Cracker Bearelle took care of the dishwashing for me, there were still pots and pans for me to dread attending to. For another, the dishwasher routinely failed to dry certain items, so a dishwashing and putting away left a dish drainer full of Gladware and other oddments that I had to dread putting away. And lastly and perhaps worst of all, the dishwasher did not always clean the dishes properly, so that with disturbing frequency I would pull a dirty utensil out of the drawer or dish out of the cupboard and be thoroughly disgusted.

Fortunately, on the last Saturday my father was alive, Cracker Bearelle and I atended an all-day introductory workshop for a beginning meditation class, attending our first weekly Wednesday session just two days after his death. Meditation practice consists of sitting at least twenty minutes every day and in practicing awareness in routine daily activities like brushing one’s teeth or washing the dishes. I find myself in agreement with Thich Nhat Hanh

In his classic book The Miracle of Mindfulness Thich Nhat Hanh famously reminds us that one can wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes or one can wash the dishes in order to wash the dishes. I find myself in agreement with Thich Nhat Hanh when he says that he can understand why one might prefer to use an automatic washing machine, but is perplexed that anyone should need an automatic dishwasher. I also agree that of the two goals of washing dishes, the latter is the more felicitous and meaningful aim.

So at least for the nonce, I am washing the dishes in order to wash the dishes with as much awareness as my feeble mind can muster and, gratefully, without, as formerly, weeping and gnashing of teeth. Amen

On Wednesday Eggplant Week continued with eggplant, tomato and feta sandwiches. This was one of those recipes that require the salting of the eggplant before getting on with the recipe, as I understand it, to draw out the moisture and (and this part, I don’t understand) to decrease the bitterness (what bitterness?).  Eating my sandwiches I regretted that I hadn’t peeled the eggplant after broiling, but a plus of this recipe was our discovery of our liking for flatbread.

In departure from our usual Stir-Fry Thursdays, the next night found us digging into an eggplant, tomato, and smoked mozzarella Tart. Well almost: we couldn’t find smoked mozzarelli, not that we actually looked that hard, so we have something more to look forward to with this dish. 

Our windfall of eggplant exhausted (and it is a true fact that we bought eight eggplant, a mixture of medium and large, for only two bucks at the Farmers’ Market), Friday night we ate a simple supper of pasta with basil pesto and slices of supermarket Texas toast.

Saturday morning when we returned to the same vendor for more eggplant, one of the vendors said to the other with something approachin awe in his voice, “They already ate all that eggplant.” We did in deed!  Not to mention that after the Satrday market we went home to prepare a meal of penne with sausage, eggplant, and feta, corn on the cob, cheddar bread, and peach cobbler (with ice cream of course) for our first houseguests, our friend Amy and Baby Poppy.

After a good visit over lunch, Cracker Bearelle and I read over some of the emails following our first phonedate a year ago yesterday. Many things amazed us about these early messages, their sweetness among them, but I was especially pleased to find myself writing to her about fixing penne with sausage, eggplant, and feta around this same time last year. 

For date night, we drove out to Bernheim Forest. By the time we got there there were less than two hours before closing time and it had started misting rain, but we were able to take a little walk, find a number of the landmarks of the place, and experience enough of its natural beauty to know that we would like to return with more time on our hands and a picnic basket.

Having planned to eat our supper out and finding ourselves in the mood for a lighter fare, we settled on Vietnam Kitchen, where we shared fresh spring rolls, a ligher version of pad thai with chicken, rice, and, you guessed it, eggplant stuffed with pork and shrimp with carrots and green beans. A double eggplant day!

Recently during a phone conversation a close friend of mine cast aspersions on the eggplant, maligning its taste and color and texture.  When I asked her if her mom had ever fixed her eggplant, she answered that hers was not an eggplant family.  This response did not surprise me because, although I suppose that there are people out there who really and truly do not like eggplant, I believe that, on the whole, dislike of eggplant is tantamount to lack of familiarity with this beautiful, sexy, tastilicious fruit of the land. To know the eggplant is surely to love it. 

Though I have vague memories of my mother frying eggplant a couple of times when I was small, up until my first vegetable garden, now four summers ago, my only real experience of the eggplant was my sensual and aesthetic pleasure in its form, color, shapeliness, and feel when I encountered it in the produce aisle.  So apart from this, I had no good reason to decide to plant eggplant in my garden.

Or maybe I did have one good reason, the reason that governed many of my gardening choices: I wanted to get to know it, and growing a plant from seed fosters a certain intimacy. 

I found eggplant a beautiful plant, lovely in its form, and even lovelier in flower. And, although many of my master gardener friends, reported having troubles growing eggplant, I found the plants remarkably carefree and prolific. 

After one has made a few batches of eggplant parmesan and after one has begun to realize that eggplant isn’t nearly as easy to give away as, say, tomatoes,  one finds oneself faced with an urgen need to expand one’s eggplant repertoire, and PDQ. 

For the most part, those summers cooking only to please myself, I simply improvised: sometimes I baked the eggplant with onions and okra and tofu, adding terriyaki sauce near the end of the cooking time, and ate what I still think of as “baked stir fry” over rice; or I cut open the eggplant, baked it, scooped out its inside, mixed it with tomatoes and cheese and whatever else I had on hand, stuffed the eggplant shells and stuck it back in the oven until it was heated through. 

But even as I was consuming my tasty eggplant improvisations night after night, I was also collecting delectable-sounding eggplant recipes.  And now that I’ve found a captive audience for my cooking in Cracker Bearelle, the time is finally ripe to expand my eggplant repertoire.  Last week, by the way, I did make the obligatory eggplant parmesan. But this week we’re branching out. Last night I tried penne with sausage, eggplant, and feta. The recipe was fairly simple, consisting of a basic meat sauce with eggplant, served over penne.  We will definitely be adding this dish to our summer favorites. Tonight I made the more labor intensive, lots of veggies to chop, Mediterranean Stuffed Eggplant  For some reason the recipe directs one to  scoop the pulp from the raw eggplant, which I found difficult to do. Perhaps there is an elegant technique of which I am ignorant, but until I know it, I will be cooking the eggplant first as I used to do.  This dish was very tasty, but due to the amount of effort involved, I imagine I will only fix it occasionally.

Tune in tomorrow to follow the continuing saga of eggplant week.

For me, one source of particular pleasure and enjoyment is sitting down to a meal that Cracker Bearelle cooked for me.  Whether it is Sunday morning (or, as it will be today, evening) French toast, chicken enchiladas or tacos, or a big pan of lasagna, I look forward to these special meals. 

Another new found source of particular pleasure and enjoyment for me is sweet, especially chocolate, treats, a pleasure that abstaining from chocolate most of the time affords.

Last night for date night I esperienced both of thse treats: a supper of enchiladitas, followed by a trip to Homemade Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen for dessert.  Contrary to our usual practice, I had Cracker Bearelle narrate ALL choices of cakes, pies, and cookies and after much deliberation settled on the chocolate cake with butter cream frosting.  Chased with two glasses of milk (they offer free refills on milk; how brilliant is that!) the cake was delicious in an almost overpowering  kind of way.  Though I wouldn’t want to eat it every day or, for that matter, every week, it was the perfect treat.

Anyway, given the fact that we are trying to live like responsible adults – - living within our means and working to pay off debt and trying to save – - , a condition to which we refer in vernacular shorthand as “being poor,” but which really just means that we have committed ourselves to no longer spending whatever we want whenever we want (as is the American way)…Anyway, a couple of days ago we woke among our visions and dreams and found oursleves beginning to be overwhelmed. 

Luckily, for quite some time we have been working through Feathering Your Nest: An Interactive Workbook and Guide to a Loving Lesbian Relationship and had just come to the chapter on setting and achieving goals as a couple.  So with a little guidance last night we were able to come up with a set of core values for our relationship and to set goals and priorities according to those values.  Then we set some long-, short-, and mid-range goals. 

For instance, next month we want to go on walks together a couple of times a week and, instead of the housewarming we’d thought we’d have, give two small dinner parties since we both prefer more intimate gatherings and, perhaps, as a way of setting a precedent for having others in our home on a regular basis. 

By the end of the evening, far from overwhelmed, we felt like travelers who, after much aimless disoriented wandering, had finally laid hold of a good map, and bearings taken, were setting forth again with exhilaration and purpose.

In both our families of origin Sunday dinner was usually eaten mid afternoon, so we decided to continue with that tradition, so after a late morning trip to the gorcery store, I set to work.  I had further complicated already complicated recipes by printing them out strangely, so ordering my tasks and keeping the two fruity, chicken-brothy recipes straight left my intellectual capabilities somewhat overtaxed, and I began to wonder if the products would justify the processes. 

I am happy to report that they did. Cracker Bearelle was much delighted with the meal, and my tastebuds were quite happy too.  In the couscous I especially loved the contrast of the sweetness of the orange-juice-soaked cranberries with the mouth-turning sourness of the pieces of fresh lemon.  When it’s time to plan the menu for our first Thanksgiving alone together in our new home, I will definitely want to consider serving the cranberry couscous with turkey breast.

What I think has improved most in the time since I’ve been homemaking with Cracker Bearelle is my attitude toward housekeeping tasks: I no longer make myself miserable dreading them, and I’ve begun to really incorporate them into my daily and weekly routine. Another difference is that now these tasks are a part of my chosen role, tasks I perform in order to keep things nice and running smoothly in or home, rather than, as before, senseless repetitive chores that take time away from my real work. And it seems a good thing to be more firmly tothered to the physical sensory world, a connection that anchors and nourishes my intercourse with abstraction and the life of the mind.

After some intense, though amicable, negotiations, Cracker Bearelle is going to rise by 8:00 tomorrow morning so we can get out to the Bardstown Road farmer’s market hy 9:00.  After the makret, Cracker Bearelle is going to hole up in her cofee shop and do some serious work, while I take the TARC home where I’ll hang out and make chicken salad for supper which we’ll eat after the $.25 ice cream social and a late afternoon showing of HP and the HBP. After that, who knows.  But it’s been a great week and it’s sure to be a fabulous weekend.