daisies

I have always held to the idea that I hate daisies. They smell like asparagus piss. I’ve even put this in a play. I am not sure when I concluded I despised them. Probably as a child I bent over a bunch and took a big whiff.  Maybe as an adult I was given a cheap Safeway bundle wrapped with a side of resentment from a suitor who begrudgingly gave them to me for opening night, jealous that I was working and he wasn’t. Yeah, that’s probably it. I remember now. They were died blue and they turned the water blue and they stained the table.

So, I was surprised to read a declaration from my friend and agent, Kim Barsanti: daisies are her favourite flower. Really? Really? Of mums and roses and lilies and freesia, of bird of paradise and lilac and pansy, of stocks and sweet William and flox and snap dragons. Of gladiolas and chrysanthemums, hydrangeas and orchids? Of all these glorious ladies, she likes the stubby hearty perennial fresh faced stinky roadside variety. Hm. Well. Now that I put it that way, it starts to make sense. Daisies start to become honest and loyal, low maintenance and brave.

I am not well today. I had a feverish night, covered in hives. I fell off my allergy diet, hard, and have made myself sick. Stupid. I am very angry with Idiot with an I. I am calling myself all sorts of names I would never even call my worst enemy. I disgust myself with the lack of self discipline. I just had to have the marscapone.I am beyond frustrated that I can’t just DO THIS like I do everything else. I am full of despair because I was doing so well. Mostly I am livid that I can’t just live the way I used to and eat whatever the hell I want. I guess this is why so many people die of diabetes. Simple to say, “controlled by diet”, so hard to do, three times a day.

Yeah, I have been thinking of Dad, not sure why. My dreams of bears and conversations in the mirror with him and making eggs with oil and peppers and a tiny bit of jalapeño. He would love it that we’ve planted orchard trees. He would love it that my husband can fix things. He would love to see my daughter dancing on the patio, her long sun kissed ringlets swinging.

I go about my day, each hour feeling better as I drink water and tea and eat oatmeal. The most boring foods on the planet left for me, safe and free, wheeeeee.

Sigh.

My daughter gets a ham and cheese croissant from the farmer’s market and Marie nibbles at a lemon loaf. I roam the stalls and I can have – well – nothing. No wait, I can eat these peas. And their pods. Me and the lucky swine.

I smile at a little island girl beside me. She has obviously ridden her bike here after a day of hard rain. She has a line of mud splashed up her bum and back. She is eating a thin skinned cucumber, nibbling the tender sides in small child bites, holding it like an ice-cream cone. It’s so brilliant, I wish I had a camera. My daughter does an elaborate paddy-cake routine with Franny as I buy mustard greens off her dad. The peas I am munching are actually so delicious, I start to think they may just rival the baked goods. I am starting to think the little girl has the right idea: vegetables are a treat.

I pass the young earnest granola couple who have made organic vegan sauces. I buy a five spice ketchup, mostly because they are adorable. I will save it up for my vegan guests who are coming the end of August.

At home I decide to finish all my mending. Once I am done, I pull on a skirt I haven’t worn in four years. Well, that’s something. Then I set about to make some dinner. I have been too sick to write today, but at least I got some Wifey things accomplished.

Fellow rolls in, having missed the earlier ferry, it’s going to be a late supper. I expect him to be Hangry. He isn’t. He’s tired, but gently smiley. He has in his arms a large bouquet of flowers from a nice shop. I gasp, “why?! Why?!”

He says, “Because this is the anniversary of your Dad’s death.”

This takes me aback. Being summer, I hadn’t paid attention to the days. But of course, yes, it’s July 8th. Eleven years ago.

“How on earth did you remember that?” I ask, completely astonished.

“I wrote it down from last year.”

He never ceases to gob smack me.

I pull back the cellophane, and – daisies. I snicker to myself. A stupid person – a really sucky wife – a bag – would mention right now the long standing hatred of daisies. But how can I hate them now? No way. This gives me a second opportunity to rethink them. They are unexpected kindness. They are middle of the week grace. They are remembrance, even when I don’t remember. They love me when I feel too itchy to love them back. They are – perhaps – my new favourite flower.