AfricanKelli

Have you hugged a tree today? Well, don’t hug this one. I’m not sure that it is actually classified as a tree, but it is tall and lanky and has a green, sprouty top. So let’s just throw it in the tree category for today, shall we?

I have no idea what type of plant this is. There goes my horticulture degree that I was trying so desperately to garner by researching my desert plant posts online. Bummer. It looks like it may be in the yucca family, or even cactus, with those pointy spikes. Any guesses? I like how its trunk is kind of wavy, like a coconut palm tree on a windswept beach.

Today is Arbor Day — or as us liberal hippies like to call it — The Day We Don’t Look as Weird When Hugging Trees. I’ve never actually hugged a tree, although I did learn at Girl Scout Camp that if you get really close and bury your little nose in the crevices of pine trees, they smell distinctly sweet. Like butterscotch, chocolate and strawberry. I spent many a childhood afternoon running through the mountains of northern
Arizona in my green scout vest smelling trees and screaming in glee, like little girls do. (Well, at least when we weren’t being forced to go door to door selling cookies, that is.)

My friend Rebs can tell you a story or two about hugging trees. Funny enough, she is one of my more conservative friends, but I have a special photo of her clinging to a tree for dear life. We were camping on Mount Lemon near Tucson our freshman year of college. If my memory serves me well, it was her first time being inebriated and when the booze hit her, she said she had to “hold on to the tree because it wouldn’t move. Why wouldn’t we all stop moving?” In fact, we were sitting quite still on the forest floor, laughing our asses off. Then it started to snow and things got even more interesting. A dozen people sleeping in a four person tent. At one point, I woke up with Mini sitting on my chest screaming, “Kelli? Are you breathing? Oh my God, I don’t think she is breathing!” To which Kacey coolly responded, “Min, she is just sleeping.” Ah, college.

Wait, didn’t this post start out about trees? I got off into la-la land. Check out this great article in today’s paper about the best trees in Phoenix. I love it. If I were to list some of my favorite tress in Arizona, they would be (in no preferential order):

1. The shrub pine that someone decorates as a Christmas tree each winter on I17 before you get to Flagstaff.

2. The tall saguaro on I10 between Phoenix and Tucson that has decorative orange rings on its long, reaching arms.

3. The metal oak tree at the far west side of Tempe Town Lake. People who donated to the park have their names carved into the leaves and it is a subtle, artistic touch that can easily go overlooked (unless you’ve run past it ten thousand times).

4. The bottle tree on Laguna Azul that we planted the day my brother was born.

C’est tout. A happy tree day to all!

~AfricanKelli 

Aloe barbadensis

Are you sick of my desert plant posts yet? Tough luck. I’ve got rolls of film I just developed that are ready to go. I promise there will be recipes, house projects and knitting patterns later posted. (I’ve been taking lots and lots of photos.)

This is a flowering aloe vera plant, which is the in the lily family. I learned that on the University of Arizona’s master gardening program page. If I were a wealthy novelist living in Tucson with gobs of free time on my hands, such a program would be perfect. Perhaps this will be my life sooner than I realize. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. (I love Cake, don’t you?)

Anyway, the sun was setting when I took this photo and I love the way the shadows fall on the aloe vera leaves. I remember when I was young, my mother would cut one of these long green leaves from a neighbor’s yard and crack it open. She’d use the gooey inside pulp to heal wounds when we fell down. It smelled disgusting, but worked really well.

~AfricanKelli

I was once a Peace Corps volunteer in
Cameroon, where I was trained in agroforestry. My responsibilities included working with local subsistence farmers on how to incorporate native tree species into their plots. Wind breaks, live fencing, erosion control and water table protection were hot topics. This seems like so long ago, and yet, I can still tell you all about acacia and cassia trees, if you are interested.

I got this job after telling my recruiter that I loved to garden. My previous experience included picking citrus off of our backyard trees and once helping my mother with some tomato plants that didn’t last a season. And yet, this qualified me to teach farmers – people who don’t eat if they aren’t successful – how to do their jobs. It was so wrong in so many ways. I just prayed my black thumb wouldn’t wear off and I wouldn’t be found out for the fraud I was.

When I returned, a girlfriend and I took a road trip to northern Arizona. It was a drive I’d made no fewer than 100 times in the previous three years when attending NAU. Nonetheless, I stuck my head out the window in awe of the changing landscape.

“Rebs,” I oohed, “look how pretty it is!” We drove through the rolling sage desert near Black Canyon City.

“Rebs,” I continued, “look at those!” The mountains near Sunset Point are a patriotic purple at the right time of day.

“The saguaro!” and later “The pine!” I couldn’t believe how much I’d missed the Arizona landscape in the few months I was gone.

“The ocotillo!” She smiled patiently.

“The agave!” She turned up the radio.

“The cholla!” She tried desperately to change the topic.

“The red rocks!” Sedona zoomed by.

“The snow!” The San Francisco peaks came into view.

Sometimes we’ll get in the car today and she’ll mock and point, “Oooh, a weed! A real weed! Are you excited?” We laugh about how I just couldn’t get enough of home. I was just so happy to be home.

Since then, I’ve taken a few classes at the Desert Botanical Garden. Most of the lessons were far too complicated, but I left with an even greater appreciation for plants that manage to survive in some of the harshest territory in the world.  I was startled to see how many cacti and succulents I recognized and how little attention I’d given to their differences. Sometimes, a cactus just looks like a cactus. Then you look a little closer and you see the spines are wider or the flower is a different shade. Its segmentation is varied. It spreads horizontally instead of vertically.

These are a few more photos from my neighbor’s garden. I was initially attracted to the beautiful flowers. They are bright, verdant orange. I had to be careful taking these shots because there were lots of bees busily at work.

Opuntia engelmannii, var. texana

As far as I can tell, these are Texas Prickly Pear, from the genus opuntia.

Again, I don’t know much about plants, but I suspect this is a male prickly pear because it is flowering and does not have any fruit. If it did have fruit, I could make this.

 I should tuck one of these in my hair the next time I go out. So pretty!

In the same genus but different specie, these are one of my favorites. They seem like a Darwinian step between plants. I’ve yet to find them in nearby yards, but I’m on the hunt.

~Africankelli

P.S. And if you’ve ever wondered about “cacti” vs. “cactuses,” the AP Style Guide uses “cactuses.” A touch awkward, if you ask me.

The Brits, who have by far better media coverage of Africa, are offering up a little contest. I enjoyed reading the lyrical responses provided by Africans.

My entry:

I love
Africa for its beautiful simplicity. For the brightly colored fruits and vegetables at the open air markets, for the children swaddled on the backs of their older siblings.

I love Africa for its sunsets of a thousand shades, falling across never-ending savannahs. For the wispy gray dew that hangs over the red earth in the early morning and the sharp, aching wind in the hot afternoon.

I love Africa for its people. Tall, thin herders in the north; short, dark gatherers in the forest. Strong fishermen on the coast, brave trackers in the plains. A dozen different shades of ebony, and a colonial shade of white.

I love Africa for its resilience. Through the wars, the poverty, the pestilence and now AIDS. I love this continent for its ability to look forward to the next day with hope.

~AfricanKelli

P.S. My cynical response would have been, “I love Africa, because, like, it is the place where Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie think they won’t be caught together.” [Gum snap, hair twirl, eye roll]

P.P.S. When papparazzi have reached Ethiopia’s shores, we are in trouble.

Echinocactus grusonii

The Golden Barrel Cactus, Echinocactus grusonii, is a common site in Arizona, southern California and nothern Mexico. These yellow, pineapple-shaped flowers bloom in April and May. Some Mexican recipes call for cactus fruit, which are mashed into a jelly-like paste.

This is an endangered plant, according to the people at the United States Botanical Gardens. Apparently they haven’t been out West lately. These grow like weeds.

Ask any adult who grew up in Arizona if they ever tussled with a cactus as a child. Most have. I fell into a jumping cholla once and have never forgotten it. A friend of my father’s once fell on a barrel cactus aftering losing his footing while trying to go to the bathroom on a camping trip. His son-in-law spent much of that evening and the next day plucking spines out of the old man’s ass with tweezers. It was a prickly situation for all.

Pretty to look at, no fun to touch.

~AfricanKelli

I had a meeting late Friday that I arrived at way too early. I sat in a reception area of sorts and glanced through the only magazine available – the April issue of Martha Stewart’s Living. I’ve read this magazine before and never been impressed. Typically the recipes are too difficult and have the aire of being for those with the time and energy to hunt down haughty ingredients be served at high hat events. Thank you, but no. There is nothing about my kitchen or my life that I consider pretentious.

Judgmental, perhaps, but pretentious never.

I’d long labeled Martha snotty until Friday, when my binary reading options were either her magazine or a pamphlet on HIV/AIDS prevention in gay men. (The appointment was at the state health department.) Long story short, I loved the issue. I loved it so much, I wove my way through the neighboring gray cubicles to discuss the magazine’s witty writing, beautiful photographs and theoretically plausible recipes with anyone I could find.  I loved it enough to photocopy said recipes and several craft ideas. And I bought the May issues yesterday.

My transformation into June Cleaver is one strand of pearls short of being complete. Gulp.

The May issue is as great, if not even better, than April’s. May’s includes a letter from Martha after she’d been sprung from the big house. She’s slightly apologetic and more audacious than ever. If anything, five months in a federal penitentiary never did anyone’s pocketbook so good. She’s far richer now, especially with the press coverage. It was released this week that she’s got a new satellite radio show (I’m now considering the service) and she’s going into the reality TV business with Trump. My lord, this woman knows her way around the kitchen and the board room. She might (might) just be my hero. If I could just overlook her reputation of being a cold-hearted fish, a liar and a shrew…

Regardless, if you are interested in cooking, crafts and gardening and haven’t looked at her magazine lately, it is worth the $4. I’m making the rope basket on page 50, considering the recipe on page 144 and loving the peanut butter, bacon and apple club sandwich idea on page 132.

Martha, you may just have a fan in me yet.

~Africankelli

These wildflowers are in my neighbor’s yard. I tried photographing them early one morning, but they didn’t open up entirely until mid-day. I patiently waited.

For whatever reason, I’ve become entranced with Spring this year. We’ve had such a lovely March and April. I’m afraid any day now Summer — Spring’s older, cynical sister — is going to arrive and slap sense back into my silly plant-photographing ass.

Until then, I’m spending gobs of time outside and thumbing my nose at the sun.

~AK

P.S. Do something earth friendly today. Pick up litter, carpool, plant an indigenous specie, recycle your happy hour beer bottle…

I would be seeing this;

finishing this;

starting this;

wearing this, listening to this, and drinking one of these poolside.

~AK

I was talking with a friend the other day about my new obsession with homemaking.

He looked at me startled.

“I know,” I said. “I can’t believe it either. But the tasks I thought were repressive and ridiculous when I was younger – women’s work — are now quite enjoyable.”

He laughed.

“Like knitting,” I continued, trying to make my point. “Can you believe I spend my time doing this?” I held up a pair of slippers I was in the process of knitting for a friend’s grandfather.

He squirmed.

“Yes, it is a little odd you are knitting for your grandparents. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he finally replied.

Yes, yes it should. Nonetheless, I found myself up to my eyeballs last night in cake and cookie batter, spending hours in the kitchen making goodies for various events today. We’ve got a luncheon at work and I signed up for dessert — 18 petite lemon cakes. I thought I’d make blueberry muffins for this morning’s staff meeting while I was at it. And there is softball tonight. I’d bring nothing to the team if I didn’t offer some sort of baked good between innings.

What did I do between baking cycles? When one tray was in the oven, another was cooling and a third was resting on a platter waiting for icing?

I knit.

I’m not sure why I’m so interested in learning these domestic crafts, but I am. And it is startling. This trend initially can be blamed on my girlfriend Jess who lost her job in the dotcom bust of 2001-2002. As a hoity toity ad agent in
San Francisco, she was wining and dining the biggest of clients one day and eating an unemployed-feast of ramen the next. With an excess of time on her hands a few ad jobs available, she turned domestic. She learned to knit, bake, garden and sew within a matter of months. She made soap for Hanukah gifts one year. The next was a beautiful handmade scarf. I saw photos of homemade bread and listened to her discuss budgeting and handicrafts like they were Freud and Nietzsche. The transformation was incredible. In the process (and I’m sure she’d agree) she became a kinder, gentler person too. She was sweet before, but without the commute, the job, the hassle of being an ant marching, there was no longer an edge of stress to her voice. She wasn’t quick to end a long-distance phone conversation. She answered my questions on email and sent back thoughtful inquiries of her own. She was overwhelmingly happy.

Today, she’s back in the dotcom world, working for one of the giants. But this period of domestic bliss hasn’t worn off. She’s just finished courses in horticulture at the community college and is planting a full scale garden with her husband at their new home in northern California. Now we swap knitting patterns and encourages me to cook. She’s a great source of inspiration.

In my newfound spirit of feminist domestic engineering, I share photos of my petite jardin:

The tall green onions are blocking the view of the baby rose bushes. In the corner, pots of aloe vera, lavender and wandering Jew crowd their tiny terra cotta pots.

The first rose bud on the bushes. I was hopeful it would be bright and beautiful…

And I wasn’t disappointed. I waited too long to snap a photo of this flower before the 90-degree heat took its toll. Nevertheless, I love the scarlet red color.

And this bougainvillea grows without any effort on my part. Its dark green limbs are climbing over my tiny patio wall and sprinkling these fuschia flowers in my garden and others.

With simple gardening and knitting under my belt, I’m considering learning how to bake bread for the next challenge. I figure if I distribute it at a pro-choice rally, or more than likely give it to the hordes of homeless I see downtown on my way to work, I’ll make both the Betties proud.

~AfricanKelli

I am having one of those days when sitting behind a computer, managing international public health projects isn’t enough. I want to be there. Doing it. Not sitting here. Talking about it.

I read this column this morning and it makes me wonder if I could walk away from everything – even for a temporary contract position abroad, much less a life-long commitment – for the betterment of humanity. I read about the public health workers in
Sudan, Banda Aceh, and Angola with a jealous eye. They are there and they can put their memories of this comfortable life aside to do the work that needs to be done.

That is my problem. I get into the developing world and I miss my family. I miss my bed. I miss my bathtub. I can (eventually) do without many of the comforts that I so love about this life (books, music, running water, plentiful food supply) and earn an appreciation for a much simpler life. But I cannot (or at least have not) done this on a long-term scale. It doesn’t help the homesickness depression that, in these situations, I’m usually I’m surrounded by unbelievable poverty and sadness.

Who I want to be is a woman who can balance both the international work I desire and the relationships at home I do not want to lose. Or miss. And frankly, I’m not sure you can have both.

I cherish the time I spend with my family. I saw my brother this weekend and he looks different from just two months ago when we last visited. His hair is shorter. He’s lost weight. His eyes are stressed with the worries of post-graduation employment.

I don’t want to give up this precious time with those I love. We’re given such a short period of life to enjoy the company of our grandparents, our parents and our siblings. I’d feel lost if one day, in my jungle hut, the envelope arrived with the news of a long-since past family funeral. I’d be burdened with guilt, even if I new my work was preventing premature funerals in that very jungle.

It is selfish to value my own emotions and desires to be near my family more than that of those in need. This choice will haunt me until I find this elusive balance.

~AfricanKelli