Corn and Heirloom Tomatoes. Oil on canvas. 36 x 24 inches (91 x 61 cm ) . $750.

As anyone who has ever grown corn will tell you, it’s always a race to see whether you or the wildlife will eat it first. Back in Ohio, Rich spent years trying ever-more elaborate ways to keep animals out of our vegetable garden. Eventually he discovered a solar-powered electric fence: it had cups hanging on it that smelled deliciously like peanut butter, and when the deer or other critters nuzzled the cups, they’d get zapped, and would re-route their feeding patterns elsewhere. The first night we turned it on, I was sure we’d wake up in the morning to find deer carcasses scattered around the perimeter of the garden, or possibly the scorched bodies of neighborhood children or dogs. But we soon learned, by constantly forgetting when it was on, that having fifteen volts of electricity shooting through your body doesn’t do any actual damage, it just makes every cell in your body suddenly shriek, “WHAT THE HELL? DO NOT DO THAT AGAIN!” 

It kept out the animals but attracted every kid in the neighborhood, all wanting to “accidentally” touch the electric fence and get zapped with their friends looking on. Posting a dramatic yellow sign covered with lightning bolts and dire warnings only served to encourage them. One day, a neighbor’s houseguest noticed our dog, Pie, had been accidentally shut inside the garden. The young man kindly reached through the fence to pet the dog, and just as his hand came in contact with her head, his chin touched the electric wire. Dog and man flew apart with identical howls of shocked surprise. I rushed over to apologize, explaining this was an electric fence to keep out pests. “Well, it works,” he said shortly. “You won’t see me around your garden again.” Nor did we.

Originally published Thursday, November 17, 2011

I was just reading a blog called “A Fantasy About Retiring Abroad,” in which a financial planner weighed the pros and cons of living in a foreign country. Her conclusion was it would be utterly impossible for her (and by implication, anyone with any sense) because the Europeans – specifically the French – do not have a “can-do” attitude. Oh honey, I wanted to tell her, that’s the best reason I can think of for living in Europe. It’s such a relief to live among people who aren’t constantly striving to exceed their own impossible goals. How sad that the financial planner couldn’t even have a fantasy that failed to meet her efficiency standards. 

I think Jan the Islander has the right idea. Originally from Germany, he has spent 20 years living on a remote island off the southern coast of Portugal in a whimsical house he’s covered with gifts from the sea: shells, old oars, bits of driftwood he’s carved into mermaids. He gets a great deal done on this work of art yet manages to have plenty of time for sitting in the sun and chatting with passersby. I’ve never seen him wear anything but a bathing suit and, rather incongruously, a wristwatch. I’m hoping it’s broken, and that he wears it to remind himself: “My watch doesn’t work anymore and neither do I.” 

Originally published Sunday, June 12, 2011

Good news for artichoke lovers! Medical science has decreed that this tasty vegetable has tons of antioxidants, aids digestion, strengthens your liver and gallbladder, and reduces cholesterol. This last is especially good news to me, because I have been on a strict cholesterol-lowering regimen from my Spanish physician. When we learned mine was a trifle elevated, he told me I had to start drinking more red wine and eating more dark chocolate. I mentioned that I’d heard Spanish ham was also good for lowering cholesterol. “Yes, it is,” he said. “Not all ham, of course.” We shared a little chuckle; how silly was that notion? “No,” he went on, “the only ham that lowers cholesterol is the best ham, jamon Iberico, from pigs that are raised on an acorn diet. You see, because their diet is strictly vegetarian, they do not generate cholesterol. So it is very good for you.” 

That almost seemed to make sense, until I reflected that other animals – cows, for instance – also have a strictly vegetarian diet, and they’re positively bursting with cholesterol. But who was I to argue with my physician? I promised to increase my consumption of jamon Iberico, vino tinto and chocolate negro. I also started eating oatmeal every morning. Eventually my cholesterol levels dropped to the point where there was no more talk about going on medication. Was it the oatmeal, the wine, the chocolate or the ham that did the trick? Who knows? Who cares? I’m doing my best to include all of them in my diet. And now I’m adding artichokes to this rigorous regimen. Let’s face it, they’re a lot more fun to eat than Lipitor.

Originally published June 12, 2011

I once took a life drawing class where week after week I sketched a slender young woman with a conventionally pretty face, and I have never been so bored in my life. Give me a face that shows its years and its owner’s zest for living, and I can do something on the canvas that’s worth looking at. I have read that the purpose of life isn’t to arrive at death in perfect condition but to slide into it sideways with your hair mussed, your clothes disheveled, a martini in one hand and chocolate in the other, shouting “Whooeee, what a ride!” Those are the faces I want to paint

I don’t know if the the old Indian woman in the green turban has ever actually had a martini, but I feel certain her life has been vivid. I know the man in red somewhat better; he’s a British gentleman who serves as headmaster of the Portuguese art school Art in the Algarve. I have always felt that at heart, he’s a bit of a buccaneer, and I’ve tried to capture that hint of a piratical gleam in his eye. I suspect both these good souls will arrive at the pearly gates someday saying, “Whooeee, what a ride!”

Originally published May 13, 2011

Pears have the most boring history of any fruit on the planet. They do not loom large in the Bible or Shakespeare or modern urban legends. Botanically speaking, they’re members of the apple sub-family of the rose family, but unlike their illustrious relatives, they don’t get computers or wars or sporting events named after them. 

Pears don’t ordinarily draw much attention to themselves, yet I can’t stop admiring their gorgeous, extravagantly rounded shapes. They remind me of the marvelously exaggerated curves of the most famous artist’s model in modern history, Sue Tilley.  She has been the subject of many paintings by British artist Lucian Freud (grandson of Sigmund Freud), and in 2008 his large nude painting of her on a sofa fetched $33,641,000 – the highest price ever paid for a work by a living artist. 

So far I haven’t found the perfect human model, but I did fall in love with these pears while I was painting them. I almost felt like a cannibal when I ate them afterwards in a salad.

Originally published March 28, 2011

There is something mesmerizing about staring out across a body of water.  

My husband and I recently spent a week with my family in the mountains of northern California, laying under Costco umbrellas on an artificial beach, looking out across a man-made lake and telling each other how great it was to get back to nature. 

My husband used to work near Lake Merritt in Oakland, California, and often recalls the time a popular local preacher claimed that he could walk across the water. He told his followers to gather on the shores of the lake one afternoon, and they arrived in droves to see the miracle. At last the preacher drove up in his enormous red Bentley convertible. He got out and stood on the shore looking out over the crowd.

“Do you believe I can walk across this water?” he called out. 

“Yes!” they shouted back. 

“Do you believe I can walk across this water?” he yelled out in a louder voice. 

“YES, YES, WE BELIVE YOU CAN!” the crowd shrieked back. 

“Then if you believe it, I don’t have to do it,” he said, and got back in his Bentley and drove away.

His congregation continued to flock to his services and hold him in high esteem. Now that’s what I call a miracle.

Originally published August 2, 2010

While I was working on the painting of Rich described in “Dead in a White Sauce” (below), my then six-year-old friend Ana was so inspired by the subject that she decided to do her own interpretation. Working for five minutes with just a crayon, she somehow captured the true essence of her subject. In fact, it has a Picasso-esque vitality that I can only envy. Is it better than my version? That’s for future art historians to decide. All I can say is, “Well done, Ana!”

Originally published June 5, 2010

Seville still has those sleepy, old-fashioned clubs where ancient members nod over their newspapers in dim, high-ceilinged rooms. Although far from ancient, Rich and I occasionally stop to rest our feet in one that’s open to the public in the downtown shopping area. The hushed atmosphere and air of slightly seedy grandeur reminds me of a club we once belonged to in Ohio. It was an old Scottish manor house, brought over stone by stone in the 1920s. The plans for reassembly were lost en route, so the results were somewhat quirky. As was the staff.

There was a butler from Trinidad named Charles, who sported a threadbare tuxedo, white cotton gloves and a glass eye. He couldn’t read and tended to garble the evening’s specials. Once, hosting a business dinner, we asked Charles about the special, and he told us, “Halibut.” How it was prepared? He said, “It’s dead in a white sauce.” 

A moment’s stunned reflection suggested this was good news; who wants to eat live halibut? Eventually, we worked it out: he was using some convoluted past pluperfect of the word “done,” that is, “It’s did in a white sauce.” The phrase took immediate and permanent root in our vocabulary. Now, when something is clearly doomed (a bill in Congress, the kid who runs back to save the cat when everyone knows the killer’s in the house, a fading techno trend) we turn to one another and say, “Dead in a white sauce.”

Originally published May 30, 2010

My husband is blessed with the ability to sleep anywhere, up to and including the dentist’s chair. Once, when we were seated separately on a flight from California to Norway, his seatmate later told me, “I’ve never seen anything like it. He fell asleep on the runway and slept the entire time. At one point he was kneeling backwards on the seat, with his forehead resting on top of his seat back. After dinner, when the flight attendant removed his untouched meal, he put his head down on the tray table and slept on. The guy in front of him reclined his seat all the way, totally trapping your husband’s head between the seat back and the tray table. He scrabbled around and fought his way free . . . still without waking up! When the wheels touched down on the runway, he sat up and said, ‘What a pleasant flight.’” It’s no wonder a man like that appreciates living in Spain, where we get to take siestas every day.

One particularly frenetic day during the Christmas holidays, a gift package arrived in the mail just as I was heading out the door. With no time to open it, I tossed it under the tree. Hours later I arrived home to find our dog lying on her back under the tree, paws in the air, a blissful expression on her face. It turned out the package had contained an entire rum cake, which she had ripped out of the box and devoured. She was fat, drunk and happy for three days. I’m sure it was one of her most cherished holiday memories.