What I Made Today: More Annie

Today is Annie's birthday. No wonder she was so persistent in my thoughts yesterday. If she were still alive (as we say) she would be caught up to me with those five months between our ages, and we'd be celebrating her 66th birthday. There will be at least one shot of whiskey in my future today. Irish, if I've got it, that much is clear in the ol' crystal ball of my third eye. Annie loved life. And her life was remarkably blessed, despite the illness that nibbled at her toward the so-called end. She loved life, and she did not fear death. I mean, hey, she talked to dead people.

Yeah, she loved life. She loved corn chowder, too. In those lingering days of hers, whenever I'd make a batch, especially when the corn was in season, I'd bring her a pint carton of the stuff, even when her appetite was fading. Now, whenever I make corn chowder, she's with me. When I'm enjoying a bowl of corn chowder, I think of Annie, in unison with thoughts of my mom, who would so often say, "We'll offer this up to So-and-so," while sitting down to enjoy a meal. Enjoying food on behalf of and for the dead was a regular mom thing. So now, whenever I have a bowl of corn chowder, I offer it to Annie. It's a sweet little ritual rooted in the familial, one that shows up more frequently as my years and mileage tally.

I made other dishes, too. After all, I'm part kitchen witch. I remember making polenta for her once. It wasn't my best effort. I felt bad about that, even though her appetite was quite unpredictable by then, and I'm confident she didn't eat much of it. As already noted, I made other things, too. It was always a good reason to visit. Not that I needed one.

When COVID descended my visits diminished, side by side with her appetite. I neither wanted to be responsible for bringing the pandemic to her, nor bringing it home to my spouse. I was so cautious then. Still am. I may have already been sending her occasional cards at the time, simple love notes, but I know that gesture picked up after COVID landed. All the love notes were my own, handmade, artful expressions, and each offered a personal message within the fold. I have them somewhere, and *knock wood* I'm gonna look for them today. Not long after her passing her widower mailed them to me, tied together with a ribbon, along with a gift of tumbled crystals that are resident in one of my Tarot boxes. No wonder I think of her so often, there are carbon-based reminders all around me. Those crystals, the bedside lamps mentioned yesterday, pieces of jewelry that I rarely wear anymore, wicker baskets, aloe plants born of the single, giant cutting she gave me when she was still feeling pretty good. The salt 'n' pepper shakers that belonged to her grandmother, Rose, that say on them, "Rose's Kitchen." I don't use them, but I love them, for multiple reasons. And, of course, there's her books, and other assorted physical reminders. Not to mention her carbonless spirit.

Those salt 'n' pepper shakers conjure the countless, often intense conversations that we had about her grandmother, Rose, and my mother, Rita. They were, we concluded, some sort of spiritual sisters, especially in their less desirable behaviors. In their kinder behaviors, too. But it was in their less benevolent habits that we'd harvest the most meaningful, if not harsh, and sometimes cruel wisdom. And laughter. Lot's of laughter. I'm convinced that wisdom - true wisdom - is always accompanied by humor. If you think you've gleaned some wisdom, but it doesn't inspire a chuckle or more, think again. It ain't wisdom. Of this, I am confident. And I might not possess this confidence, dare I say wisdom, without those exchanges with Sweet Annie.

Ah, Sweet Annie. That's what I called her. I remember that spring before she died. I had purchased some Artemisia annua seeds, Sweet Annie, and started them in the late winter months. I was able to plant them in the earth before her passing. After years of unsuccessful attempts to get this plant to grow somewhere on "our" little acre, I was hoping this would be it, despite the plant's non-native invasive reputation. It was a well-established self-seeding annual in her earthly realm, and she had even given be rootlings over the years that just never took up residence for me. But those seedlings that I started... I planted them in a garden section, rather than a wild section, in the hopes to tend them into flourishing. It was May, the lusty month, that those precious roots took to the earth. I told Annie that they would be a living reminder of her after she left. She died later that month, and those seedlings prospered that year, and returned the next. I was hopeful, and delighted. And then... they followed their namesake into the Big Mystery. I still grow Sweet Annie on occasion just so I can nurture relationship with the plant, as well as replenish her spot on my apothecary shelves, and to continue a rooted relationship with Annie's spirit. I mean, hey, whenever I catch the fragrance of Sweet Annie, there she is. Again. Like the plant, Annie was big Medicine, often too much for some. Possibly many. And just right for me.

It's morning as I write these words, and I'm still sipping coffee. I smile with the memory of Annie saying she drank coffee as an excuse to drink cream. Her coffee mug typically held a 50/50 ratio. As one who drinks her coffee black (as it should be), I'd lovingly scold her by saying, "That's so wrong." And, yep, you guessed it, we'd laugh, clinking our yin yang mugs.

In my world, Annie's still alive. Methinks I'll dab a touch of Sweet Annie extract onto my pulse points today, conjure a batch of corn chowder to share with her at suppertime. And I look forward to raising a glass to her, with her, as well.