Make Lilac Soup While You Still Can

On second thought, maybe don’t.

When life gives you lilacs

Here in New Hampshire we are coming to the close of Lilac “Season.”

For a whole two weeks, we are assaulted — no, graced — with the sudden presence of ubiquitous purple flowers; along the side of the road, next to the golf course, in front of that office building, at the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru. In your yard! You almost forgot you had lilacs in your yard. Are they a weed? Who cares! You’ll never get rid of them. Because they are… intoxicating. (And it’s the state flower, so that would be treason.)

As it happens, the lilac has been my favorite flower since I was a kid. I grew up in New Hampshire, so I’m aware this is almost certainly tied to nostalgia, but they really do smell amazing.

Did I used to sashay down to the mall to buy lilac-scented Yankee Candles with my pocket money? Yes. Did I cry and plead every time my dad trimmed back the lilac bushes in our backyard? You bet.

We have a few lilac bushes in our current yard, and a few years ago I endeavored to make lilac syrup. Because it was not enough to just smell the flowers. The scent was too tasty. I had to find a way to eat it.

(Spoiler: This story turns out okay, but really, sometimes, it’s best to just let a scent be a scent.)

After the harvest

I washed and boiled and stirred and stirred. The result was not what what the kids would call ‘grammable.

It was not a beautiful mauve, violet, or amethyst. The syrup was like, some murky shade of purple I’ve never seen, that was also somehow… green? I pawned the excess off on friends. “Here’s some swamp water. Add it to your cocktails.”

By the way, I just did a Google search for ‘lilac soup’ and unsurprisingly, zero hits. You just know someone out there tried to make it though.

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In non-lilac news / a weird self-pep talk

For the past year and a half, I have spent literally all of my free time positively submerged in illustration and children’s literature.

Rereading old favorites and finding new ones (which occasionally involves being that suspicious childless adult skulking around the children’s section of the library).

Listening to what has to amount to thousands of hours of podcast interviews.

Keeping up with the deals, the releases, the whosits, and whatnots.

Oh, I am deep in it.

So sometimes, it’s easy to forget that I’m actually… not. For all intents and purposes, I am on the “outside” of the children’s publishing industry. A voyeur peeping through its window, if you will. (But not in a gross way.)

If we keep with this analogy, my next step is to just peel my schnoz off the glass and go knock on the door already. I have been doing lots of “marinating” as an artist and picture book maker, which was valuable and extremely necessary. Plus, spending time observing a situation from afar before you walk into it is probably a wise thing to do. Especially if the outcome is really, really important to you.

But you can’t stand outside forever. No one is ever going to just invite in a peeping Tom - they’re going to call the police. And where does that leave your children’s book career?

This analogy has gone a little off the rails, but all this is to say, I’m now at a stage where I have: completed manuscripts and book dummies, a portfolio, a self-awarded M.A. in Everything Children’s Books, and no legitimate excuses. So I’m going to get out of my own way already and start knocking. Wish me luck (and not too many door slams).

Fortunately by Remy Charlip (1964)

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