Five generations of my Russian peasant ancestors are rolling over in their graves. Long did they toil, sweat, struggle, to escape the shtetl. To make it to the New World, to live the American dream of streets paved with gold and Hebrew National salami. A chicken in every pot and a dryer in every mudroom. And now their progeny reduced (voluntarily, no less) to hanging her clothes out on the line in the garden. Oy.
G., of course, thinks it’s perfectly normal to hang our undies out under the stars. It smells good. It saves electricity. Yes. But. I’m American. God help me, I love a good tumble dryer.
Not only does the sun not fluff your towels, it comes with folklore as well. The other night, G. hesitated on his way out with an armful of laundry. "I feel like there’s something about not hanging your white sheets out in the full moon." he said.
Huh?
This was how I felt the first time I burned my finger in our apartment in Paris. G. sliced open a raw potato and put it on my hand. The starch, he said, would soothe the skin. I swear, sometimes it’s like being married to a Trappist monk.
PS – The potato actually works. As for the sheets in the moonlight, I’ve since heard various theories, all having to do with UV rays and bleach. Anyone. Anyone?
PSS - My mother arrived this week. I left the sheets up on the line, just to see her reaction. (What's the point if you can't have a little fun at the expense of the city folk. Especially since, until about three weeks ago, I was city folk...)
