Tromp l'oeil

I am absorbed by this sudden spring, a steaming, sodden time with trees full of taunting birds and a sky full of light I forgot the stunning quality of as I languished through the dreary months between. We drove up the river yesterday to look for murkiness and color, the greenish-yellow tint that means we’ll have to start adding a secondary coagulant or the U.V. reactor will become our worst nightmare, demanding care like a spoiled child. We got out on the bridge by Ernest’s Grove and while Travis walked around looking for a rock to drop- to see if the frozen layer was still ice or just slush- I put my pale hands out flat on the concrete rail and turned my face to the sun. I could have stood there like that all afternoon, until the fragile skin on the bridge of my nose turned raw, burned by the same dangerous light harnessed in our troublesome reactor to inactivate pathogens in water.

I read plenty of viciously critical reviews of turnips before I brought a few home, but this evening I skinned and sliced them, boiled them with salt and crushed cloves of fragrant garlic, and mashed them with margarine and low-fat sour cream. They’re pleasant and mildly sweet, rather woody but not stringy, and a perfectly welcome addition to my potato-less existence. I was recently accused of having the diet of a homeless person, addicted as I am to canned tuna, microwaved yams, and avocados with pepper jack cheese, so I’m endeavoring to broaden my culinary horizons. I got tilapia filets and edimame and more red pepper hummus last trip to the grocery store, so I expect the insults to end.

Bud brought the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated to the plant but tried to minimize my exposure to it, lest I be offended. (I just wanted to read Rick Reilly’s column and peruse the suits, none of which I will be secure enough to wear until I get a breast reduction, but still.) It came with a variety of GMC truck ads featuring red and blue color-bled images that required 3-D glasses to view, which were included. One page had no truck whatsoever, no sign of bumper, tailgate, or fender, but instead featured a model with some kind of gauzy white fabric draped around her, and viewed through the glasses it appeared to be flowing right off the page. The bi-colored lenses made me nauseated for some reason, so I had to take them off. But I still enjoy the number of tricks that can be played on our eyes.

And that’s what this mid-March spring is, a trick, a jest. I know Wyoming well enough to realize that not even global warming is going to bring me spring this early.