and then …
... between seven and eight o’clock tonight, as I descended the stair, I was struck. Out the window, just beyond the granary roof, a waxing crescent moon the color of soybeans in late September was slipping unceremoniously out of view. Whatever my first floor destination had been before I caught sight of this aberration in the blackened sky instantly lost importance. Like I said, I was struck, held in place there on the landing by a sliver of golden light in an otherwise sea of frozen black ink. A sliver of golden light hung right there above the lake, with a single bright twinkle above it. The twinkle was Venus.
I’ve heard the crescent moon called God’s fingernail. And the crescent moon appearing with a single star, such as I saw this night, is the famed symbol of Islam. Astronomers get excited when the moon and certain stars converge close enough to earth to be viewed with the naked eye. Of course, none of this occurred to me as I stood on the landing peering west. I didn’t know which planet twinkled above my waxing crescent and, to be honest, learning it was Venus mattered little. That’s because I was struck by the crescent alone. Struck by its color, its unexpectedness, its mirth…
Tonight’s crescent, you see, appeared like a wry smile or, perhaps, a wink. Yes, a wink! I imagined it was God, not an authoritarian God who presses a nail into the sky to make a point but a jovial God sending me a light-hearted reminder that even in darkness lies hope. My crescent was trailing some light, after all. Heavenly light; sunlight. And my crescent sent just a sliver of it my way before disappearing with a wink.
Our new year, which begins soon, has been designated the International Year of Astronomy by the International Astronomical Union and UNESCO. The hope is for ten million people to take their first telescopic view of the heavens during 2009. I laud the effort, especially since I am blessed with darker night skies than most of my friends; I see far more celestial bodies with the naked eye here than I ever did when living in the city. A telescope here wouldn’t be a bad investment.
Of course, a glimpse at heaven doesn’t require magnification. What it does require is imagination. And a willingness to pause on the landing when something magnificent slides across a cold sky unexpectedly. And honestly, who doesn’t enjoy being winked at?
30 December 2008
29 December 2008
How far will some people go...
If you knew of someone who wanted to travel from Minnesota to, say, Rome, Italy...
For the sole purpose of finding this...
Would you consider that person to be ... CRAZY?
(Keep in mind, we're talking a distance of 4,904 miles.) Of course, it would have to be real Italian spaghetti!
For the sole purpose of finding this...
Would you consider that person to be ... CRAZY? (Keep in mind, we're talking a distance of 4,904 miles.) Of course, it would have to be real Italian spaghetti!
24 December 2008
23 December 2008
Officially Winter: Day Two...
Between the time we placed our outgoing mail in the box, flag up, and when we returned to retrieve our incoming mail, our mailbox had changed.
The dented and battered box? Gone. In it's place, a sturdy, (also) green replacement.
Don't you just love it when a County administrator takes your problem to heart and makes it his own? Wow.
The dented and battered box? Gone. In it's place, a sturdy, (also) green replacement.
Don't you just love it when a County administrator takes your problem to heart and makes it his own? Wow.
22 December 2008
21 December 2008
Looking west toward...
We are told to live in the moment. We are told we shouldn't cling to what's past or project ourselves into what has yet to materialize. We are encouraged to focus on our current reality, like it or not.
But some realities are too hard to bear, such as when it's cold inside and so much colder outside that we can't even step outside the ancient walls of the farmhouse. And with evidence mounting of the world's moral and ethical decline, it's simply too steep a climb to reach anything resembling hope. And so the great chill deepens.
But then memory serves us and we abandon the here and now to dip into the azure pool of nostalgia. Splash. If you are patient enough to pause for daylight's passing into night, you understand the ephemeral qualities of light at dusk. It is, I imagine, a glimpse into what awaits us in Heaven.
This is the Mediterranean Sea at sunset taken five years ago from a quiet patch of beach found north of Beirut, Lebanon. You see Heaven, don't you?
But some realities are too hard to bear, such as when it's cold inside and so much colder outside that we can't even step outside the ancient walls of the farmhouse. And with evidence mounting of the world's moral and ethical decline, it's simply too steep a climb to reach anything resembling hope. And so the great chill deepens.
But then memory serves us and we abandon the here and now to dip into the azure pool of nostalgia. Splash. If you are patient enough to pause for daylight's passing into night, you understand the ephemeral qualities of light at dusk. It is, I imagine, a glimpse into what awaits us in Heaven.
This is the Mediterranean Sea at sunset taken five years ago from a quiet patch of beach found north of Beirut, Lebanon. You see Heaven, don't you?
20 December 2008
A smashed mailbox and other thoughts on autumn...
Winter begins officially sometime tomorrow. I'm not sure who the "official" is who tied our seasons' beginnings and endings to the calendar, but clearly, he or she is a moron. Or, to put it more graciously, he or she clearly isn't from around here.
Winter began in these parts before the end of November. That's more than three full weeks before the soltice. It has gained momentum from the start. In what way, you ask? Well for starters, my mailbox has been hit by the county snowplow two times in the last week. It is so badly bent the door won't close.
That's a pity because, today, wind-driven snow will make the walk to the mailbox an expedition. I will have to pile layer upon layer of outerwear over my pale flesh, and still I'll have to tuck my face into my chest and bend low into the wind to keep my face from freezing and falling onto the driveway. If there is mail in my half-open mailbox, it is getting wet waiting for retrieval. Of course, it's possible that the box is empty. There's no real way to know without making the trek.
This afternoon the department of transportation has added our county to the dozen or so in which travel conditions are unadvised. There are blizzard conditions outside, MNDOT tells us. Anyone with a window (that hasn't completely frosted over) could have made that call. But the official statement is helpful because that's our cue that Mass in town is cancelled, our obligation lifted as conditions make it too dangerous to venture out, according to Father Schneider. He's an "official" who's from these parts; he understands how the road disappears under wind-wipped snow and how white can be even more blinding that black.
Mail notwithstanding, there's now no real reason to open the door. That leaves those of us hunkered down at Four Cedars Farms to bid farewell to autumn officially either by sleeping through the transition, eating heartily in anticipation of a warm front, or distracting ourselves with the Wonderful World of the WWW. Some of us here have opted for the long winter's nap. You already know how I chose to spend my time.
Winter began in these parts before the end of November. That's more than three full weeks before the soltice. It has gained momentum from the start. In what way, you ask? Well for starters, my mailbox has been hit by the county snowplow two times in the last week. It is so badly bent the door won't close.
That's a pity because, today, wind-driven snow will make the walk to the mailbox an expedition. I will have to pile layer upon layer of outerwear over my pale flesh, and still I'll have to tuck my face into my chest and bend low into the wind to keep my face from freezing and falling onto the driveway. If there is mail in my half-open mailbox, it is getting wet waiting for retrieval. Of course, it's possible that the box is empty. There's no real way to know without making the trek.
This afternoon the department of transportation has added our county to the dozen or so in which travel conditions are unadvised. There are blizzard conditions outside, MNDOT tells us. Anyone with a window (that hasn't completely frosted over) could have made that call. But the official statement is helpful because that's our cue that Mass in town is cancelled, our obligation lifted as conditions make it too dangerous to venture out, according to Father Schneider. He's an "official" who's from these parts; he understands how the road disappears under wind-wipped snow and how white can be even more blinding that black.
Mail notwithstanding, there's now no real reason to open the door. That leaves those of us hunkered down at Four Cedars Farms to bid farewell to autumn officially either by sleeping through the transition, eating heartily in anticipation of a warm front, or distracting ourselves with the Wonderful World of the WWW. Some of us here have opted for the long winter's nap. You already know how I chose to spend my time.
18 December 2008
Even when it's too cold...it's beautiful
I've been away. And so I've been missing sunrises like this: cold, pristine sunrises over an empty prairie — a place where, even in winter, you can stretch out your thoughts for miles before they bump into the thoughts of another.
It's good to be home.
It's good to be home.
08 December 2008
Just a quiet drive through the neighborhood...
There's a great bumper sticker on Facebook that shows an outline of Michigan's Upper Peninsula with a tag line that reads: "If you haven't been there, you'll never understand."
I spent a bit of time recently in the U.P., a rustic region of the Midwest where trees outnumber people roughly 100,000 to one, wolves now outnumber deer much to the dismay of area hunters, and one can operate a truly exotic home-based business without the neighbors raising so much as an eyebrow. I love the U.P.
A five-minute drive from the home of my weekend host in Wallace, Michigan brought us last weekend to the DeYoung Family Zoo. The approach was very much like driving to one of our neighboring Southern Minnesota farms, except that the animals meandering the backyard pens weren't exactly natives, such as the white Siberian tiger shown below.
Mr. DeYoung specializes in raising and displaying all types of "big cats," and we discerned that raising litters of exotic cats and selling the young ones to other zoos must be how Mr. DeYoung supports his zoo. Certainly, he can't survive on admission fees; we were the only visitors this day, which offered advantages. Below, the zookeeper brought a baby mountain lion out of his temporary cage (in DeYoung's house) to meet us.
DeYoung has created a world reminiscent of a fairy tale in Wallace Michigan. Children (and big children) can walk right up to exotic and domestic beasts or fowl, who co-exist in a rustic, almost biblical setting (snow being the exception). This donkey and the partially hidden goat were especially vocal when seeing us approach. Note the lama and the cow in the background.
Not to be left out of the excitement, the lama and the cow greet hubby. The cow licked hubby's sleeve. (We couldn't help but wonder if one or both of these beasts might end up across the yard some day as food for the animals who live above them on the food chain. In fact, there was plenty of evidence (i.e. cow and deer carcasses) that the hyenas, cougars, cheetahs, lions, tigers and bears on the premises were well-fed carnivores. 
I spent a bit of time recently in the U.P., a rustic region of the Midwest where trees outnumber people roughly 100,000 to one, wolves now outnumber deer much to the dismay of area hunters, and one can operate a truly exotic home-based business without the neighbors raising so much as an eyebrow. I love the U.P.
A five-minute drive from the home of my weekend host in Wallace, Michigan brought us last weekend to the DeYoung Family Zoo. The approach was very much like driving to one of our neighboring Southern Minnesota farms, except that the animals meandering the backyard pens weren't exactly natives, such as the white Siberian tiger shown below.
Mr. DeYoung specializes in raising and displaying all types of "big cats," and we discerned that raising litters of exotic cats and selling the young ones to other zoos must be how Mr. DeYoung supports his zoo. Certainly, he can't survive on admission fees; we were the only visitors this day, which offered advantages. Below, the zookeeper brought a baby mountain lion out of his temporary cage (in DeYoung's house) to meet us.DeYoung has created a world reminiscent of a fairy tale in Wallace Michigan. Children (and big children) can walk right up to exotic and domestic beasts or fowl, who co-exist in a rustic, almost biblical setting (snow being the exception). This donkey and the partially hidden goat were especially vocal when seeing us approach. Note the lama and the cow in the background.Not to be left out of the excitement, the lama and the cow greet hubby. The cow licked hubby's sleeve. (We couldn't help but wonder if one or both of these beasts might end up across the yard some day as food for the animals who live above them on the food chain. In fact, there was plenty of evidence (i.e. cow and deer carcasses) that the hyenas, cougars, cheetahs, lions, tigers and bears on the premises were well-fed carnivores. We were betting that there weren't many zoos that let you hold the babies the way you can at the DeYoung Family Zoo in Wallace. 
A note about Mr. DeYoung: He always carries a pistol on his belt when he enters animals' pens, and for good reason. Recently, DeYoung's black panther jumped him from behind and latched onto his neck. DeYoung had to shoot it to get free. The attack meant 110 stitches for DeYoung; of course, he drove himself to the hospital. That's the way it's done up there. But if you haven't ever been to the U.P., you wouldn't understand.
A note about Mr. DeYoung: He always carries a pistol on his belt when he enters animals' pens, and for good reason. Recently, DeYoung's black panther jumped him from behind and latched onto his neck. DeYoung had to shoot it to get free. The attack meant 110 stitches for DeYoung; of course, he drove himself to the hospital. That's the way it's done up there. But if you haven't ever been to the U.P., you wouldn't understand. 03 December 2008
Buying locally makes significant impact...
Twenty five percent. That's the increased impact on your local economy you, and every befuddled Christmas shopper like you, can make this season if (and here's the rub), if you choose to spend your money at locally-owned businesses. That's because 68 cents of every dollar spent locally is reinvested in your community; meanwhile only 43 cents of every dollar spent at a national chain is recirculated in your community.
Think about that. A 25 percent boost to your local economy can be obtained simply because of where you choose to spend your money. No doubt, these are challenging economic times and people are cutting their spending across the board, which is probably wise. But none of us will cut spending entirely. We still will eat. We still will eat in restaurants. We still will exchange some gifts this Christmas.
Today, more than ever, the nation relies on its consumers to keep its economic engine churning. The wisdom of a national economy built on consumerism may be the debate for the ages; certainly this debate will wage elsewhere. But my point is this: No matter how much, or how little, money you have to spend — how you spend it says something about you. Will your values emanate through your discretionary spending?
Think about that. A 25 percent boost to your local economy can be obtained simply because of where you choose to spend your money. No doubt, these are challenging economic times and people are cutting their spending across the board, which is probably wise. But none of us will cut spending entirely. We still will eat. We still will eat in restaurants. We still will exchange some gifts this Christmas.
Today, more than ever, the nation relies on its consumers to keep its economic engine churning. The wisdom of a national economy built on consumerism may be the debate for the ages; certainly this debate will wage elsewhere. But my point is this: No matter how much, or how little, money you have to spend — how you spend it says something about you. Will your values emanate through your discretionary spending?
27 November 2008
A great meal; no football...
I guess it was out of habit that I ordered a 23-pound turkey. With just ten guests, however, chef and I made an executive decision made easy due to his choice of cooking technique. We decided we should cook only half the turkey. I always order a fresh bird so it was no problem to quarter it and put the other half into the freezer for another feast day.
The hacksaw, borrowed from the workshop out back, made quick work of breaking the bird's back. The spine, the giblets and the neck immediately went into the stock pot to simmer for the entire day. 
The basis for the roux was onions, garlic, celery, carrots, cabernet, clarified butter, sherry, and chardonnay. Herbs include fresh rosemary, thyme and sage grown in Paynesville, Minnesota.
Both the dark meat quarter and the white meat quarter were seared to seal in the natural juice. 
Each quarter had its own nest in the fragrant and savory roux. Then into a 300 degree oven until the meat temperature reached 165 degrees. At 300 degrees, for these large quarters, cooking time was roughly three hours.
While the turkey rested, chef whipped up mashed potatoes using heavy cream, grated parmesan and cheddar cheese, goat cheese and garlic. Rounding out the meal was an apple salad with blueberry vinagrette, risotto with peppers and squash, homemade cranberry sauce, and a gravy made from the rich brown roux pictured above. As he'd promised, the turkey meat was unbelievably moist. I've never carved such a juicy turkey breast.
Chef stayed on his feet long enough to serve up his three tasty (and gluten-free) desserts. Consensus around the table was that this thanksgiving meal was tastier than any of the past. Also, we all felt less over-filled as one often can after a large holiday meal, attributing this to a reduced need to overeat since the food was quite flavorful. (We also wondered if the lack of wheat flour contributed to this less-stuffed feeling.)
The hacksaw, borrowed from the workshop out back, made quick work of breaking the bird's back. The spine, the giblets and the neck immediately went into the stock pot to simmer for the entire day. The basis for the roux was onions, garlic, celery, carrots, cabernet, clarified butter, sherry, and chardonnay. Herbs include fresh rosemary, thyme and sage grown in Paynesville, Minnesota.Both the dark meat quarter and the white meat quarter were seared to seal in the natural juice. 
Each quarter had its own nest in the fragrant and savory roux. Then into a 300 degree oven until the meat temperature reached 165 degrees. At 300 degrees, for these large quarters, cooking time was roughly three hours. While the turkey rested, chef whipped up mashed potatoes using heavy cream, grated parmesan and cheddar cheese, goat cheese and garlic. Rounding out the meal was an apple salad with blueberry vinagrette, risotto with peppers and squash, homemade cranberry sauce, and a gravy made from the rich brown roux pictured above. As he'd promised, the turkey meat was unbelievably moist. I've never carved such a juicy turkey breast.Chef stayed on his feet long enough to serve up his three tasty (and gluten-free) desserts. Consensus around the table was that this thanksgiving meal was tastier than any of the past. Also, we all felt less over-filled as one often can after a large holiday meal, attributing this to a reduced need to overeat since the food was quite flavorful. (We also wondered if the lack of wheat flour contributed to this less-stuffed feeling.)And though we all left the table satisfied, I think chef left the kitchen more so. It was an impressive effort led by a natural cook. I think his expression says it all.
P.S. Chef Paul was right. Swearing is part of a professional kitchen. Don't worry, we're all adults here.
26 November 2008
Thanksgiving eve activities...
The french chef arrived at the farm kitchen three hours before I'd anticipated. Good thing as it took him a while to unpack his gear and make my kitchen his own. To warm up for the evening's activities, he clarified a pound of butter, then whipped up a tasty potato soup with lamb. That's the way it's done, he tells us. The chef and his staff eat first, then they cook for their clientele. I was grateful, because tonight, I was staff.
This Thanksgiving eve was all about preparing desserts. Below, chocolate melts in a makeshift double boiler while egg yolks temper in a bowl and egg whites stiffen in the Kitchen Aid mixer. The end result? Flourless Chocolate Cake.
Below, pastry made from fine rice flour holds prepared apples for a lattice-topped pie. I'm proud to say the apples grew out back.
With the chocolate cake cooling in the background of this next picture, the apple pie in the oven, and a pumpkin pie waiting to go in next, chef gathers the many ingredients necessary for his specialty: gluten free bread. The cabernet, and keeping on top of the numerous dirtied dishes, was my contribution to the effort.
Tomorrow we're all about braising turkey, whipping hot potatoes, mixing risotto with chef's special stock, and perfecting gravy without the benefit of wheat flour. The cranberry sauce has been prepared and chilled. The vegetable salad is coming along with guests. With only a handful of folks coming for dinner, the only challenge we face tomorrow is how to fill the hours typically reserved for football. One idea being floated: a skeet shooting contest.
This Thanksgiving eve was all about preparing desserts. Below, chocolate melts in a makeshift double boiler while egg yolks temper in a bowl and egg whites stiffen in the Kitchen Aid mixer. The end result? Flourless Chocolate Cake.Below, pastry made from fine rice flour holds prepared apples for a lattice-topped pie. I'm proud to say the apples grew out back.
With the chocolate cake cooling in the background of this next picture, the apple pie in the oven, and a pumpkin pie waiting to go in next, chef gathers the many ingredients necessary for his specialty: gluten free bread. The cabernet, and keeping on top of the numerous dirtied dishes, was my contribution to the effort.Tomorrow we're all about braising turkey, whipping hot potatoes, mixing risotto with chef's special stock, and perfecting gravy without the benefit of wheat flour. The cranberry sauce has been prepared and chilled. The vegetable salad is coming along with guests. With only a handful of folks coming for dinner, the only challenge we face tomorrow is how to fill the hours typically reserved for football. One idea being floated: a skeet shooting contest. 25 November 2008
Let us not forget to whom we owe our gratitude ...
Before the hors d'oeuvres, before the turkey and cranberry sauce and smashed potatoes ... before sitting to enjoy any of it, remember where it all came from. And, as our nation's first president instructed, give thanks to the one who provides. (Click image to read the original proclamation declaring a national day of thanksgiving in the United States.)Remember also, as tough as our times seem, with news of bankruptcies and bailouts and economic woes numbing our senses, Americans are a free people who experience a higher standard of living than most of the world's population. So we can be grateful for tough times too, for they can make us more accutely appreciative of what we do have. And if you count among your blessings good friends and loving family, as I do, thank God, as I do. I thank God for you.
24 November 2008
At least I get my way at staff meetings...
Oftentimes, the best part about work is the interaction you engage in with coworkers. (Excepting Dunder Mifflin employees.) You all know what I mean: catching up on last evening's activities over coffee; laughing about some of the ludicrous news reports that cross your desk throughout the day; helping one another work through a challenge; or brainstorming new ways to market or design or package the fruits of your collective labors. We're social creatures, after all, and for most of us, the hours we spend on the job feed, quite well, our desire to interact.
When you work from home, you lose all of that. Maybe productivity jumps without the above mentioned distractions, but the trade-off is that some days are pretty darned quiet. Especially when your office/house mate is as enthusiastic about how you spend your work day as this fellow. (Note: he does give me more attention during lunch.)
Things could be worse, I suppose. I could share my office with him. This one seems a bit too interested in what's going on at Traditions Communications East!
When you work from home, you lose all of that. Maybe productivity jumps without the above mentioned distractions, but the trade-off is that some days are pretty darned quiet. Especially when your office/house mate is as enthusiastic about how you spend your work day as this fellow. (Note: he does give me more attention during lunch.)
Things could be worse, I suppose. I could share my office with him. This one seems a bit too interested in what's going on at Traditions Communications East!
23 November 2008
Camp-ing without a tent...
Tuned into my car radio for the drive into town, I listened to pundits discussing the possibility of Hillary Clinton being named Secretary of State for the Obama administration. The commentator mentioned three groups that were weighing in on the topic: the Hillary Clinton camp, the Bill Clinton camp, and the Obama camp.
It suddenly occurred to me at that moment that I didn’t have a camp. And that bothered me because, frankly, I want a camp! I realize I’ve made due up until now with just good friends and supportive family but now I’m wondering if perhaps a “camp” would help me reach my potential.
I heard this term “camp” used earlier in this election, when the Palin camp was reputed to be feuding with the McCain camp. I thought that whole scene was odd because seemingly conflicting camps were supposed to be on the same team. Clearly, teams are not synonymous with camps.
So what does it take to have a camp? Do family and friends qualify? If so, all are welcome to become part of my camp. I promise to stay loyal if you’ll do the same. We’ll eat well too; and there’s always liquor. What do you say, campers? Are you in?
Evening update: Mary Courtney wants in. (It was the promise of food that hooked her.)
It suddenly occurred to me at that moment that I didn’t have a camp. And that bothered me because, frankly, I want a camp! I realize I’ve made due up until now with just good friends and supportive family but now I’m wondering if perhaps a “camp” would help me reach my potential.
I heard this term “camp” used earlier in this election, when the Palin camp was reputed to be feuding with the McCain camp. I thought that whole scene was odd because seemingly conflicting camps were supposed to be on the same team. Clearly, teams are not synonymous with camps.
So what does it take to have a camp? Do family and friends qualify? If so, all are welcome to become part of my camp. I promise to stay loyal if you’ll do the same. We’ll eat well too; and there’s always liquor. What do you say, campers? Are you in?
Evening update: Mary Courtney wants in. (It was the promise of food that hooked her.)
19 November 2008
Adapting tradition for a new age...
I’m not sure how it happened, or when, but Thanksgiving has definitely become my holiday. I faintly recall motivation on my part, probably around 1991, to host both sides of our family at my place. My thinking went like this: cooking a large feast for twenty or more people had to be less hassle than traveling across several counties with rambunctious twin sons.
I was right. Since then, I perfected the turkey, streamlined the menu, timed appetizers and dessert around backyard football and, hopefully, gave all my guests a holiday gathering they would want to participate in again and again. Through the years, the dishes have changed, new faces have emerged, some we have lost, but always we gather around turkey and stuffing and wine and pie – together – and we are nourished simply because we are together. This is why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.
This year, our tradition is being rewritten. First, our twenty-plus crowd has dwindled to ten this year as the cousins are grown and off to places east, like Madison and Michigan and Virginia and China. (Any further east and they’d be west!). We also have changed kitchens this year, requiring our guests to put in a bit of travel time to reach our table. We’re grateful they accepted.
Finally, and most drastically, I’m turning over control of the meal to our budding chef. I have every confidence that he’ll cook magnificently for us; he’s already shared with me his plans to braise the turkey rather than roast it. He explained it all to me in great detail and his description simply made me hungry. I’ll be on hand in the kitchen to observe, of course. It’s not often this old dog gets a front row seat to new cooking techniques. Parents are supposed to stay involved in their children’s education!
But I admit this change of kitchen control, this passing of the baton — or, more appropriately — the baster, will be hard for me. It’s not that I want to be top chef forever, mind you. It’s just that we have house rules that dictate the cook never has to wash the dishes. It always seemed like a good rule, as long as I was the one who was cooking.
I was right. Since then, I perfected the turkey, streamlined the menu, timed appetizers and dessert around backyard football and, hopefully, gave all my guests a holiday gathering they would want to participate in again and again. Through the years, the dishes have changed, new faces have emerged, some we have lost, but always we gather around turkey and stuffing and wine and pie – together – and we are nourished simply because we are together. This is why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.
This year, our tradition is being rewritten. First, our twenty-plus crowd has dwindled to ten this year as the cousins are grown and off to places east, like Madison and Michigan and Virginia and China. (Any further east and they’d be west!). We also have changed kitchens this year, requiring our guests to put in a bit of travel time to reach our table. We’re grateful they accepted.
Finally, and most drastically, I’m turning over control of the meal to our budding chef. I have every confidence that he’ll cook magnificently for us; he’s already shared with me his plans to braise the turkey rather than roast it. He explained it all to me in great detail and his description simply made me hungry. I’ll be on hand in the kitchen to observe, of course. It’s not often this old dog gets a front row seat to new cooking techniques. Parents are supposed to stay involved in their children’s education!
But I admit this change of kitchen control, this passing of the baton — or, more appropriately — the baster, will be hard for me. It’s not that I want to be top chef forever, mind you. It’s just that we have house rules that dictate the cook never has to wash the dishes. It always seemed like a good rule, as long as I was the one who was cooking.
18 November 2008
So inspiring, so fleeting...
During November, here in the north country, the sun simply gives up on us and leaves, often in exasperation. She doesn't call; she doesn't write. She leaves nothing and so we settle for our memories of her, which we bask in to fend off the depression we feel over what lies in her wake: gray skies and startlingly cold wind.
The obvious consequence to sun's departure is barrenness. The fields are clear, the trees are skeletal, the landscape devoid of mammalian activity. And so we hunker down, hiding from the darkness that barely gives way during the coming days. We keep our heads down to ride it out, as if we're buffering against a bitter wind. Which we are.
And then, late one afternoon, if we're lucky enough to lift our noses from the work that isn't inspiring us anyway, we might catch out the window a color, the likes of which we haven't seen since a June morning when we awoke before the world. It's the color purple and it fills one half of our horizon. It's purple!
And if we're smart, we run from the work that isn't inspiring us anyway and we grab a coat and a hat and gloves and the dog, and we grab the camera running outside to bask in the purple light because we know how quickly purple fades. Like the summer had. And like our lives are. We run and we put our heads down to block out the wind and we find the edge of the purple where we can, for a second or two, see that our sun, our lover, hasn't abandoned us totally. She is there, our heart tells us. She is there our eyes tell us. And for the briefest of moments, purple inspires us.
The obvious consequence to sun's departure is barrenness. The fields are clear, the trees are skeletal, the landscape devoid of mammalian activity. And so we hunker down, hiding from the darkness that barely gives way during the coming days. We keep our heads down to ride it out, as if we're buffering against a bitter wind. Which we are.
And then, late one afternoon, if we're lucky enough to lift our noses from the work that isn't inspiring us anyway, we might catch out the window a color, the likes of which we haven't seen since a June morning when we awoke before the world. It's the color purple and it fills one half of our horizon. It's purple!
And if we're smart, we run from the work that isn't inspiring us anyway and we grab a coat and a hat and gloves and the dog, and we grab the camera running outside to bask in the purple light because we know how quickly purple fades. Like the summer had. And like our lives are. We run and we put our heads down to block out the wind and we find the edge of the purple where we can, for a second or two, see that our sun, our lover, hasn't abandoned us totally. She is there, our heart tells us. She is there our eyes tell us. And for the briefest of moments, purple inspires us.
15 November 2008
Quotes of the Day
"Swearing is part of a professional kitchen."
- Chef Paul, on the proper response to cooking missteps.
"They can make rules; that doesn't mean you have to follow them."
-Papa Blair, on new DNR rules prohibiting baiting of deer downstate.
10 November 2008
The bond between "Jack D." and "the Captain"...
I just finished a rewrite of a story I wrote and published in 2005. Back then, a newspaper reporter read and reviewed the book, commending me for honestly revealing a "dark side" of characters who were "not entirely admirable."
Well, that reporter has since died, and the "client" has requested a second edition in which those blemishes in history are dabbed with peroxide. Now that I've finished the editorial work, I turned to layout only to find three-year-old archival layout files are unusable – corrupt was the technical description in the error message.
My son, for whom no irony is ever lost, thought the file corruption to be a fitting conclusion for this project. Me? I'm less interested in the global metaphor because an already tedious job just got more complicated.
Good thing we stocked up on hard liquor this weekend.
Well, that reporter has since died, and the "client" has requested a second edition in which those blemishes in history are dabbed with peroxide. Now that I've finished the editorial work, I turned to layout only to find three-year-old archival layout files are unusable – corrupt was the technical description in the error message.
My son, for whom no irony is ever lost, thought the file corruption to be a fitting conclusion for this project. Me? I'm less interested in the global metaphor because an already tedious job just got more complicated.
Good thing we stocked up on hard liquor this weekend.
07 November 2008
First snow...
We worry about its return from late September on even though we'd be better served to keep our minds on the moment. We fear it. We dread it. No, I'm not talking about the election. It's our first snow of the season. And somehow, when it finally arrives whether forecasted or not, it is nothing short of beautiful and it makes the heart leap the way it does when a friend who you haven't seen in weeks suddenly shows up at your door. You can't help but greet this with a smile.
06 November 2008
Suddenly, the kitchen is abuzz...
He was raised to love the taste of lamb. Then college boy thought he might want to raise lambs. Alas, the classroom learning coupled with the internship at the sheep ranch in Montana helped him fine-tune his vocational plans. He'd rather cook — lamb among other things — he decided. Next week, college boy begins a 15-month intensive education at Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts. We expect to be eating very well going forward. 
05 November 2008
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home...
Salt Lake City, with its wide streets and full days of learning, is behind me now. I returned to Four Cedars tonight to find the corn across the street has disappeared but the stiff wind that I said goodbye to eleven days ago remains. Ahh, such is life on the plains.
For those of you who follow this blog, I promised to post the video my workshop peers and I made in one afternoon last week. I had hoped to embed it here, but ran into technical difficulties. But, if you have 3-1/2 spare minutes, you can find the video on YouTube by following this link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79nZsGTIFyQ
For those of you who follow this blog, I promised to post the video my workshop peers and I made in one afternoon last week. I had hoped to embed it here, but ran into technical difficulties. But, if you have 3-1/2 spare minutes, you can find the video on YouTube by following this link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79nZsGTIFyQ
31 October 2008
Random observations from Salt Lake City
- The streets in Salt Lake City, to this average pedestrian, seem unusually wide, so much so that I decided to count how many steps it takes to cross one. The result of my count: thirty-nine. I know my son will dismiss this unscientific test; after all, his pet name for me is "Shorty." Regardless. These streets are really, REALLY wide. It turns out, city planners (here in Zion) wanted to insure there was adequate space to U-turn a full yoke of oxen.
- Here in the city of saints -- of the latter day variety -- Halloween is a really big deal: the LDS library and museum closed early, there were costumed adults to be found all over the city, in bookstores, in restaurants, on the train/trolley/tram (a debate waged in my forthcoming video), and even here at the hotel where a party for local youngsters rocks on. The seeming obsession with a pagan-rooted tradition seems counter-intuitive in a settlement built on faithfully following the principles of Christ.
- Becky and I walked to a nearby cemetery to visit the grave of a woman I knew when the kids were young. Since Becky, walks faster than I, she reached to grave before I did. I heard her gasp ahead of me and then call out: Jacko, you're not going to believe this. When I reached the grave, I paused. There, engraved in the granite, was my friend's potato salad recipe. Becky asked: What the h...? I can't believe it, I said. Sally always said the only way people would get this recipe was over her dead body. She wasn't kidding.
30 October 2008
Only in America (only on miniDV)...
The APH Conference, which Becky and I are attending, can always be counted on for long days filled with education, skill sharpening, and learning new ways to repackage old products for new niches, new clients, and new revenue. In other words, there’s no down time here and that’s the way we like it, it makes us feel like we’re getting our money’s worth out of our registration fee.
And then there’s the benefit of meeting new people who become “fast friends” (a shout out to Mary Lou Terwilliger for that phrase) simply because of where we happened to sit during a day-long video workshop. Yesterday, Becky and I, Trish from Seattle, Diane from Loveland, Colorado, Melvin (who calls himself Dee) from Las Cruces, New Mexico, and Don, who lives in Salt Lake City now but who spent the Vietnam era working for the CIA (recruiting spies), started the day as strangers. Tonight, we dined as friends. In between yesterday morning and tonight’s dinner, the six of us conceived, filmed, lit, scripted, and edited a short video.
At tonight’s video share, where APH’s top videographers share snippets of their best work, the six of us watched the stories created by seasoned professionals. Some of the work was amazing; some of the work was beneath ordinary. All of us felt our impromptu film would have stood up well under audience critique.
My hope is to post our workshop project, our four-minute short film titled Video Trax: Inside the Free Zone, on this blog by Friday or Saturday.
And then there’s the benefit of meeting new people who become “fast friends” (a shout out to Mary Lou Terwilliger for that phrase) simply because of where we happened to sit during a day-long video workshop. Yesterday, Becky and I, Trish from Seattle, Diane from Loveland, Colorado, Melvin (who calls himself Dee) from Las Cruces, New Mexico, and Don, who lives in Salt Lake City now but who spent the Vietnam era working for the CIA (recruiting spies), started the day as strangers. Tonight, we dined as friends. In between yesterday morning and tonight’s dinner, the six of us conceived, filmed, lit, scripted, and edited a short video.
At tonight’s video share, where APH’s top videographers share snippets of their best work, the six of us watched the stories created by seasoned professionals. Some of the work was amazing; some of the work was beneath ordinary. All of us felt our impromptu film would have stood up well under audience critique.
My hope is to post our workshop project, our four-minute short film titled Video Trax: Inside the Free Zone, on this blog by Friday or Saturday.
28 October 2008
Things are really different here...
The differences between life in the city and life in the country can be stark at times. But then, urbane existences can also differ, depending on what city you call home and what city happens to be your temporary host. Those variations can range from simple climatological adaptations to complex cultural ones.
Tuesday morning I awoke to temps in the 20s and eight hours later stepped into 70-degree sunshine. This is not a tough adjustment to make. Then things veered off into “we’re not in Kansas anymore” territory.
Such as when our hotel desk clerk, a pleasant-enough fellow who innocently inquired about the reason for our visit, decided to share a few anecdotes from what he was certain was a life of comedy. At the end of our conversation, he asked for a business card. His life, he said, was filled with stories worth preserving. The guy couldn’t have been older than thirty.
Later, Becky and I set out on foot to explore Salt Lake City. A half a mile from our hotel, Becky and I stumbled into Temple Square, Mecca for practicing Mormons. It’s a 36-acre spotless urban campus surrounded by a twelve-foot stone wall. Immediately we were welcomed by Elder Johnson, a church member who gave us an overview of all the glory of the Mormon faith waiting to be discovered inside its walls. Two of our young mission sisters will be more than happy to walk you around and explain things to you, he said. We thanked Elder Johnson for his kindness and said we’d prefer to explore on our own. The imposing tabernacle just ahead of us was locked tightly as its famed choir was inside recording. The temple, behind the tabernacle, was an imposing structure and equally as secure from outside intrusion. We did visit one of two visitor’s centers on campus where another church elder explained the model of Jerusalem at 33 A.D. At that point, two mission sisters made our acquaintance and their questions, along with their vacant stare and waxy smiles, left Becky and I feeling a bit uneasy. We thanked them for their offer for a tour, then left Temple Square quickly in search of dinner, and perhaps, libation.
We knew alcohol was a possibility in Salt Lake City because we’d passed a half dozen “social clubs” on our way toward Temple Square. What we hadn’t realized, of course, was that if there was any way to peg yourself as an tourist in Salt Lake City, it was your interest in the wine menu.
Before settling on a nice restaurant that served southwestern cuisine, and wine and beer, we peeked inside another restaurant where the majority of diners had carafes of milk on their tables. Becky chose a Corona and I, a Pino Grigio. A drink with dinner seems innocent enough, except in Utah where alcohol consumption is clearly the exception. And lest you think I exaggerate, I give you this: Upon ordering a second drink, our server informed us that Utah law prohibited her from setting that second libation on our table until the glass holding the first serving was completely gone. If you still have some left, she said, I have to stand and hold the drink until you finish. Believe me, I was tempted to see how long I could keep her at my table.
This is a model of Jerusalem as it appeared in 33 A.D.
This is the Mormon Tabernacle, home to the famed Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The building is 135 years old and houses a massive, 11,623-pipe organ. Choir practice is typically open to the public, but not this week, as the choir is recording.
This is Salt Lake Temple, spiritual home to this capital city's Mormon community. No tours here, ever.
Tuesday morning I awoke to temps in the 20s and eight hours later stepped into 70-degree sunshine. This is not a tough adjustment to make. Then things veered off into “we’re not in Kansas anymore” territory.
Such as when our hotel desk clerk, a pleasant-enough fellow who innocently inquired about the reason for our visit, decided to share a few anecdotes from what he was certain was a life of comedy. At the end of our conversation, he asked for a business card. His life, he said, was filled with stories worth preserving. The guy couldn’t have been older than thirty.
Later, Becky and I set out on foot to explore Salt Lake City. A half a mile from our hotel, Becky and I stumbled into Temple Square, Mecca for practicing Mormons. It’s a 36-acre spotless urban campus surrounded by a twelve-foot stone wall. Immediately we were welcomed by Elder Johnson, a church member who gave us an overview of all the glory of the Mormon faith waiting to be discovered inside its walls. Two of our young mission sisters will be more than happy to walk you around and explain things to you, he said. We thanked Elder Johnson for his kindness and said we’d prefer to explore on our own. The imposing tabernacle just ahead of us was locked tightly as its famed choir was inside recording. The temple, behind the tabernacle, was an imposing structure and equally as secure from outside intrusion. We did visit one of two visitor’s centers on campus where another church elder explained the model of Jerusalem at 33 A.D. At that point, two mission sisters made our acquaintance and their questions, along with their vacant stare and waxy smiles, left Becky and I feeling a bit uneasy. We thanked them for their offer for a tour, then left Temple Square quickly in search of dinner, and perhaps, libation.
We knew alcohol was a possibility in Salt Lake City because we’d passed a half dozen “social clubs” on our way toward Temple Square. What we hadn’t realized, of course, was that if there was any way to peg yourself as an tourist in Salt Lake City, it was your interest in the wine menu.
Before settling on a nice restaurant that served southwestern cuisine, and wine and beer, we peeked inside another restaurant where the majority of diners had carafes of milk on their tables. Becky chose a Corona and I, a Pino Grigio. A drink with dinner seems innocent enough, except in Utah where alcohol consumption is clearly the exception. And lest you think I exaggerate, I give you this: Upon ordering a second drink, our server informed us that Utah law prohibited her from setting that second libation on our table until the glass holding the first serving was completely gone. If you still have some left, she said, I have to stand and hold the drink until you finish. Believe me, I was tempted to see how long I could keep her at my table.
This is a model of Jerusalem as it appeared in 33 A.D.
This is the Mormon Tabernacle, home to the famed Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The building is 135 years old and houses a massive, 11,623-pipe organ. Choir practice is typically open to the public, but not this week, as the choir is recording.
This is Salt Lake Temple, spiritual home to this capital city's Mormon community. No tours here, ever. 27 October 2008
No, this isn't now a cooking blog, but...
I came into some eggplant right about the time I was clearing out my refrigerator in anticpation of a week-long journey west. Not knowing if my purple globes would keep until early November, I decided to divvy them up between two people I know will make proper use of them.
Then I came upon a recipe that made me even sadder that my eggplants had to leave my kitchen. But giving is always better than receiving, I say. And so the eggplants go, and I offer this recipe here if any of you feel "eggplanty" this fall.
Trim the ends off the eggplant, but leave skin on. Rinse, pat dry, and cut into 1/4 rounds. Salt & Pepper. Place on paper toweling for 30 minutes to remove excess water.
Cut top off garlice head and sprinkle with olive oil, salt and pepper. Wrap in foil, leaving top open slightly. Place eggplant and garlic on lightly oiled baking sheet and roast 15 minutes. Remove eggplant and continue roasting garlic for 35 minutes more. Chop eggplant into 1 inch pieces.
In large soup pot, heat 1 Tbs oil. Add onions, basil, thyme, and pepper flakes, sauteeing 5 minutes. Squeeze baked garlic out of head into pot. Add eggplant, tomatoes and stock, bring to a boil. Reduce, heat, cover and cook 10-12 minutes.
Use an immersion blender or food processor to puree. Top with basil or chopped red pepper when serving. Yummm! Recipe from The Wine Lover's Cookbook.
Then I came upon a recipe that made me even sadder that my eggplants had to leave my kitchen. But giving is always better than receiving, I say. And so the eggplants go, and I offer this recipe here if any of you feel "eggplanty" this fall.
Roasted Eggplant-Garlic Soup
1 Large Globe Eggplant (about 1 pound)
Kosher Salt and Black Pepper
1 Whole Head of Garlic
Olive Oil
1 3/4 Cups chopped Red Onions
1/2 Cup chopped fresh Basil (1/4 Cup dried)
1 Tbsp chopped fresh Thyme (1/2 Tbsp dried)
1/2 Tsp Red Pepper Flakes
3 Cups seeded Tomatoes, chopped
4 Cups Chicken Stock
Trim the ends off the eggplant, but leave skin on. Rinse, pat dry, and cut into 1/4 rounds. Salt & Pepper. Place on paper toweling for 30 minutes to remove excess water.
Cut top off garlice head and sprinkle with olive oil, salt and pepper. Wrap in foil, leaving top open slightly. Place eggplant and garlic on lightly oiled baking sheet and roast 15 minutes. Remove eggplant and continue roasting garlic for 35 minutes more. Chop eggplant into 1 inch pieces.
In large soup pot, heat 1 Tbs oil. Add onions, basil, thyme, and pepper flakes, sauteeing 5 minutes. Squeeze baked garlic out of head into pot. Add eggplant, tomatoes and stock, bring to a boil. Reduce, heat, cover and cook 10-12 minutes.
Use an immersion blender or food processor to puree. Top with basil or chopped red pepper when serving. Yummm! Recipe from The Wine Lover's Cookbook.
26 October 2008
Follow up on Cinderalla...
Hubby was amazed by how much fun I could derive from a three dollar pumpkin. I'm a lot like a little girl with an easy-bake oven, I told him. And for others like me, who love to experiment with food, the kitchen is clearly our playground.
Janice was right about Cinderalla here. She did give me lots and lots of mashed pumpkin. And now that our Chef-in-training has mastered GF pie crust, we're all anxious for our first pumpkin pie using this gorgeous gal.
And there was still plenty of pumpkin for the pumpkin bisque, which is simmering on the stove as I write this. The recipe called for onion, garlic, leeks, celery, pumpkin, chicken stock, and sherry. I wrapped my herbs (rosemary, tyme and sage) into a sachet using cheescloth, so it can be lifted out of the bisque at the end. It's the first course of a dinner that will bring two cousins together for their first visit since Christmas.
Today, it seems, our lives unfold far apart from those we long to remain connected to; in this situation, great food can play an important role in bringing us together, in luring us home. For great food, as for family, we must be thankful.
Janice was right about Cinderalla here. She did give me lots and lots of mashed pumpkin. And now that our Chef-in-training has mastered GF pie crust, we're all anxious for our first pumpkin pie using this gorgeous gal.
And there was still plenty of pumpkin for the pumpkin bisque, which is simmering on the stove as I write this. The recipe called for onion, garlic, leeks, celery, pumpkin, chicken stock, and sherry. I wrapped my herbs (rosemary, tyme and sage) into a sachet using cheescloth, so it can be lifted out of the bisque at the end. It's the first course of a dinner that will bring two cousins together for their first visit since Christmas.
Today, it seems, our lives unfold far apart from those we long to remain connected to; in this situation, great food can play an important role in bringing us together, in luring us home. For great food, as for family, we must be thankful.
24 October 2008
Cinderalla to be done in with a sharp knife...
This, dear friends, is a Cinderella pumpkin, an heirloom variety that my friend and grower Janice Guldan, directed me to when I shared with her my desire to whip up a pumpkin bisque this weekend. This beauty, Janice said patting its firm flesh, will yield more than a dozen cups of bright orange, moist pulp. And at a mere $3, was a better bargain than the orange pie pumpkins I had been eyeing. Janice has my back when it comes to vegetables, my friends.
The heirloom gets its moniker because it grows fat and squat with deep ridges, so it resembles Cinderella's carriage. You know the one; it was majically cast from a lowly pumpkin by a fairy Godmother who dropped in a couple of hipster mice to drive the pimped-out pumpkin over to Prince's Gala at First Avenue. Of course, Cinderella's carriage reverted back to a pumpkin at midnight; my beauty won't be transformed into soup until at least mid-day Saturday.
Sadly, our mundane lives aren't often transformed by fairies who pimp out veggies and transform us in a way that makes us more palatable to the upper crust. Wait. I think I just read something about that.
The heirloom gets its moniker because it grows fat and squat with deep ridges, so it resembles Cinderella's carriage. You know the one; it was majically cast from a lowly pumpkin by a fairy Godmother who dropped in a couple of hipster mice to drive the pimped-out pumpkin over to Prince's Gala at First Avenue. Of course, Cinderella's carriage reverted back to a pumpkin at midnight; my beauty won't be transformed into soup until at least mid-day Saturday.
Sadly, our mundane lives aren't often transformed by fairies who pimp out veggies and transform us in a way that makes us more palatable to the upper crust. Wait. I think I just read something about that.22 October 2008
Chain stores chain you to mediocrity...
Wal-Mart's second quarter 2008 earnings were reported by the company to be $101 billion. SuperValu Corporation reported 2007 revenues of roughly $37 billion. Target Corp., meanwhile, reported 2007 earnings of more than $63 billion, of which 34 percent was attributed to consumables and commodities.
In many of our local communities, the three corporations listed above account for a good chunk of your "choice" when it comes time to fill the cupboard and the fridge. Now, I'm a free market person and I'm not implying that large corporations are evil. I'm just saying that if you are freaking out about the cost of food these days, think about what kind of margin, built into the price of Hamburger Helper, goes into supporting those kinds of earnings.
There are better ways to eat. And it's not elitist to want to eat better or feed your children healthier foods. After all, food allergies in children are up 34 percent in the last decade. Highly processed foods, widely available at big-box stores and touted as a "convenience," are noted as a cause.
We can do better for ourselves and it's not that hard to find local sources of "slow" foods. It might take a bit of time up front to locate your sources, but once they're in place, eating good food will become far more convenient than running to Super Target for a processed frozen dinner labeled Archer Farms (which isn't really a farm but a "brand" created by Target).
In many of our local communities, the three corporations listed above account for a good chunk of your "choice" when it comes time to fill the cupboard and the fridge. Now, I'm a free market person and I'm not implying that large corporations are evil. I'm just saying that if you are freaking out about the cost of food these days, think about what kind of margin, built into the price of Hamburger Helper, goes into supporting those kinds of earnings.
There are better ways to eat. And it's not elitist to want to eat better or feed your children healthier foods. After all, food allergies in children are up 34 percent in the last decade. Highly processed foods, widely available at big-box stores and touted as a "convenience," are noted as a cause.
We can do better for ourselves and it's not that hard to find local sources of "slow" foods. It might take a bit of time up front to locate your sources, but once they're in place, eating good food will become far more convenient than running to Super Target for a processed frozen dinner labeled Archer Farms (which isn't really a farm but a "brand" created by Target).
21 October 2008
The road to Heaven is paved with sinners...
Across the road, for as far as the eye can see, stands corn. It’s dry and shriveled and scantly reminiscent of the image that comes to mind when one thinks of a field of corn. Yet, corn it is; corn destined to be used for animal feed or human food or fuel. Its purpose has been decided upon by the man who planted it.
That’s how things work in agriculture. The one who sets the seed is the one who brings his crop to the market of his choice. It’s neat and tidy and mildly enviable. Another agriculture-rooted cliché comes to mind: cut and dried.
We humans, meanwhile, are set onto the same rich soil and given an opportunity to take root. The trouble is that it isn’t always easy to discern where best to apply the energy inherent in our genetics. No one is sitting up on a tractor deciding for us; our purpose on earth isn’t cut and dried. Are we meant for food? Are we better used as fuel?
Corn that’s converted to ethanol is corn that doesn’t end up in the food system. Corn that ends up in processed foods strengthens our commodity-based food system, but doesn’t do much to advance human nutrition or aid the nation in its quest to become “independent” of foreign oil. Therefore, even when purpose is predetermined, as it is with corn, some are satisfied and others are left wanting.
Humans are endowed with far greater potential than plants, of course, and so solving the “why am I here” dilemma seems far more pressing than clearing cornfields. The withering stalks remind me daily that winter, a vivid metaphor for aging – for death, is nipping at my heels. I must be getting on with this business of deciding how to live with purpose.
A man I knew once was fond of saying the easiest way to get to Heaven is to not sin. This is not useful advice. Between here and there you can plant a whole lot of corn.
My friend from grammar school reminds me that our purpose in life is to “know and love and serve God.” She’s right, of course, but she omitted the part of the answer that lies at the root of my search. I understand that my existence must serve a greater good and Truth (capital T); what I’ve been unable to put my finger on is what route I should take to get there, because I can’t take her route, or my neighbor’s route, or my colleague’s route, or the “no sin” route favored by the man mentioned above.
It seems there must be a million roads that can carry a person toward knowing and loving and serving God. I’m not looking for the easy road. I’m not looking for the fast road. I’m not looking for the less-traveled road. I’m not looking for the high road and I’m not even looking for a new road. I’m looking for my road, the route that lets me travel at my pace and allows for the fact that I hate maps and so I tend to get myself lost an awful lot.
That’s how things work in agriculture. The one who sets the seed is the one who brings his crop to the market of his choice. It’s neat and tidy and mildly enviable. Another agriculture-rooted cliché comes to mind: cut and dried.
We humans, meanwhile, are set onto the same rich soil and given an opportunity to take root. The trouble is that it isn’t always easy to discern where best to apply the energy inherent in our genetics. No one is sitting up on a tractor deciding for us; our purpose on earth isn’t cut and dried. Are we meant for food? Are we better used as fuel?
Corn that’s converted to ethanol is corn that doesn’t end up in the food system. Corn that ends up in processed foods strengthens our commodity-based food system, but doesn’t do much to advance human nutrition or aid the nation in its quest to become “independent” of foreign oil. Therefore, even when purpose is predetermined, as it is with corn, some are satisfied and others are left wanting.
Humans are endowed with far greater potential than plants, of course, and so solving the “why am I here” dilemma seems far more pressing than clearing cornfields. The withering stalks remind me daily that winter, a vivid metaphor for aging – for death, is nipping at my heels. I must be getting on with this business of deciding how to live with purpose.
A man I knew once was fond of saying the easiest way to get to Heaven is to not sin. This is not useful advice. Between here and there you can plant a whole lot of corn.
My friend from grammar school reminds me that our purpose in life is to “know and love and serve God.” She’s right, of course, but she omitted the part of the answer that lies at the root of my search. I understand that my existence must serve a greater good and Truth (capital T); what I’ve been unable to put my finger on is what route I should take to get there, because I can’t take her route, or my neighbor’s route, or my colleague’s route, or the “no sin” route favored by the man mentioned above.
It seems there must be a million roads that can carry a person toward knowing and loving and serving God. I’m not looking for the easy road. I’m not looking for the fast road. I’m not looking for the less-traveled road. I’m not looking for the high road and I’m not even looking for a new road. I’m looking for my road, the route that lets me travel at my pace and allows for the fact that I hate maps and so I tend to get myself lost an awful lot.
19 October 2008
Looking to escape the inevitable...
Weekends in mid-autumn are filled with the routine tasks of preparing for what lies ahead: winter.
Hubby mows to chop up the fallen leaves, because raking would be ridiculous. While he does that, I walk the vineyard rows and attempt to repair any limbs torn from the trellis by recent winds. The leaves are curled and bronzed. a result (I hope) of the changing seasons and not a consequence of some unidentified or left-untreated disease. (The grape experts said year one should be disease free.) But that's really all that's to be done in the vineyard now. The bulk of our pruning and preparing for season two will occur in February.
Later, hubby and I load up the bench, the chairs and tables, the swing and the hammock, and stack the furnishings of summer in the granary; we drape the pieces in plastic to protect them from the birds that nest in the building. It seems not all that long ago when I pulled all those things out of storage and set them in place in the yard. It was early, before planting. Oh, how the days of our life pass us by!
A sense of sadness pervades this activity. Although we've had a temperate autumn so far, experience tells us winter can invade without much notice, and the old man has been known to linger like a bad cough. None of us can predict the future, though. Autumn may stretch itself all the way into December. On the other hand, the landscape could turn starkly white by week's end.
It's the latter scenario that leaves me longing for an escape, a right turn onto the road that heads south to points unknown. I sense that I may finally embark on that trip,which I've longed to take most of my life, the adventure that doesn't come with an itinerary, the journey of discovery that can't possibly be mapped out in advance. Perhaps this is a quest to answer the question most of us need to pose to ourselves at least once in a lifetime: why am I here?
Hubby mows to chop up the fallen leaves, because raking would be ridiculous. While he does that, I walk the vineyard rows and attempt to repair any limbs torn from the trellis by recent winds. The leaves are curled and bronzed. a result (I hope) of the changing seasons and not a consequence of some unidentified or left-untreated disease. (The grape experts said year one should be disease free.) But that's really all that's to be done in the vineyard now. The bulk of our pruning and preparing for season two will occur in February.
Later, hubby and I load up the bench, the chairs and tables, the swing and the hammock, and stack the furnishings of summer in the granary; we drape the pieces in plastic to protect them from the birds that nest in the building. It seems not all that long ago when I pulled all those things out of storage and set them in place in the yard. It was early, before planting. Oh, how the days of our life pass us by!
A sense of sadness pervades this activity. Although we've had a temperate autumn so far, experience tells us winter can invade without much notice, and the old man has been known to linger like a bad cough. None of us can predict the future, though. Autumn may stretch itself all the way into December. On the other hand, the landscape could turn starkly white by week's end.
It's the latter scenario that leaves me longing for an escape, a right turn onto the road that heads south to points unknown. I sense that I may finally embark on that trip,which I've longed to take most of my life, the adventure that doesn't come with an itinerary, the journey of discovery that can't possibly be mapped out in advance. Perhaps this is a quest to answer the question most of us need to pose to ourselves at least once in a lifetime: why am I here?
15 October 2008
06 October 2008
First Monday in October, with temps in the 70s!
When you believe every day is a gift, but then the day arrives with filtered sunshine, a breeze from the south, and temps in the mid-70s instead of the clouds, rain and misery that was predicted, you can't help but think your gift that is today came from Tiffany's.
Needless to say, it's hard to stay inside when the days to enjoy outdoor activities are numbered. So outside I drifted, camera in hand, to capture some scenes from the surrounding landscape.
The rose bush giving October blooms.
The vineyard remaining weed free.
One woman's weed is another's ornamental grass, bowing to wind.
Sumac signaling the season.
And new windows in the granary. Some of us around here (hubby)are more productive than others (me).
05 October 2008
Getting creative in the kitchen...
If you spend enough time in the kitchen, you come to understand that baking is a science while cooking is an art. This maxim was driven home to me when I tried to adapt some favorite family recipes that included flour to our family’s new, gluten-free reality.
Gluten, a protein found in wheat, barley and rye, is what gives elasticity (airiness) to baked goods such as cakes and bread. A quick turn to a variety of gluten-free flours, meanwhile, taught me one tough (and expensive) lesson: not all flours are created equal.
I also learned that to effectively bake without gluten, one must acquire a product called Xanthum Gum (pictured). I was met with a blank stare at the grocery when I asked a stockboy to direct me to Xanthum Gum. “What is it?” he asked me.
“I’m not sure,” I responded. “But I need some.”
I eventually found it, yet to this day I can’t honestly explain to you what Xanthum Gum is, or from which plant (or animal) it might be derived. I just know you’ve got to have it if you stand a chance of emerging from the kitchen with an edible baked good. I tried baking with Xanthum Gum and Rice and Bean flour once, but gave up, turning instead to the GF delicacy’s found at the Madwoman Bakery on Nicollet Avenue in Minneapolis. Mine was a weak effort to conquer gluten-free cooking, I admit. And surrender proved costly. The teacakes and cupcakes at Madwoman, while tasting as authentic as their wheat-flour counterparts, are tres spendy. And the budget ain’t what it used to be.
But like I said at the top of this post, baking is a science. And falling within the sciences is that all important discipline we call economics. In order to maintain one’s will to live in a gluten-free world, one must include the occasional baked good in one’s diet, no matter if the flour originates in rice, sorghum, teff, or (remarkably) beans. GF baking can be mastered in the home kitchen. All that’s required is persistence, and the creativity of one who understands the art inherent in good cooking.
And so I congratulate my soon-to-be student chef who took on the challenge of adapting a 70-year-old family recipe for Polish Potato Dumplings, a dish so heavily laden in wheat flour you could use the dough to mortar a brick wall. He mixed, he grated, he used rice and sorghum flour, he adapted, he added water(!), and of course, he included Xanthum Gum.
The result? GF dumplings that taste just like the original. Crazy? (Grandma liked them too.)
Cooking is an art; baking is a science. GF baking, meanwhile, requires both approaches.
Gluten, a protein found in wheat, barley and rye, is what gives elasticity (airiness) to baked goods such as cakes and bread. A quick turn to a variety of gluten-free flours, meanwhile, taught me one tough (and expensive) lesson: not all flours are created equal.
I also learned that to effectively bake without gluten, one must acquire a product called Xanthum Gum (pictured). I was met with a blank stare at the grocery when I asked a stockboy to direct me to Xanthum Gum. “What is it?” he asked me.
“I’m not sure,” I responded. “But I need some.”
I eventually found it, yet to this day I can’t honestly explain to you what Xanthum Gum is, or from which plant (or animal) it might be derived. I just know you’ve got to have it if you stand a chance of emerging from the kitchen with an edible baked good. I tried baking with Xanthum Gum and Rice and Bean flour once, but gave up, turning instead to the GF delicacy’s found at the Madwoman Bakery on Nicollet Avenue in Minneapolis. Mine was a weak effort to conquer gluten-free cooking, I admit. And surrender proved costly. The teacakes and cupcakes at Madwoman, while tasting as authentic as their wheat-flour counterparts, are tres spendy. And the budget ain’t what it used to be.
But like I said at the top of this post, baking is a science. And falling within the sciences is that all important discipline we call economics. In order to maintain one’s will to live in a gluten-free world, one must include the occasional baked good in one’s diet, no matter if the flour originates in rice, sorghum, teff, or (remarkably) beans. GF baking can be mastered in the home kitchen. All that’s required is persistence, and the creativity of one who understands the art inherent in good cooking.
And so I congratulate my soon-to-be student chef who took on the challenge of adapting a 70-year-old family recipe for Polish Potato Dumplings, a dish so heavily laden in wheat flour you could use the dough to mortar a brick wall. He mixed, he grated, he used rice and sorghum flour, he adapted, he added water(!), and of course, he included Xanthum Gum.
The result? GF dumplings that taste just like the original. Crazy? (Grandma liked them too.)
Cooking is an art; baking is a science. GF baking, meanwhile, requires both approaches.
01 October 2008
October brings thoughts of home...
Over the constant squacking of the black ducks, I detect the hum of a combine across the lake. It's time. Harvest.
Of course, it wasn't machinery to tip me off to what's obvious. We are weeks into a transformation of the countryside which brings a full palette of color within view. My favorite part of autumn is how the corn and soybean fields subtely fade from green to the auburn hue of late, which looks richest just after sunset. I linger with the colors of autumn because I know the monochrome season is long and arduous and not inspiring of deep thoughts.
Autumn is my favorite season; October, my favorite month. October is a month of painted landscapes and warm kitchens, of damp sunrises followed by dry sunsets and bright moons, of cuddly sweaters and slow walks through leaf-covered paths. October is our bridge from the carefree days of summer to the festive days ahead, the ones that call us back to our families for sharing, for giving thanks, for giving praise. And counting our blessings.
I count October as a blessing. All thirty-one days of it.
Of course, it wasn't machinery to tip me off to what's obvious. We are weeks into a transformation of the countryside which brings a full palette of color within view. My favorite part of autumn is how the corn and soybean fields subtely fade from green to the auburn hue of late, which looks richest just after sunset. I linger with the colors of autumn because I know the monochrome season is long and arduous and not inspiring of deep thoughts.
Autumn is my favorite season; October, my favorite month. October is a month of painted landscapes and warm kitchens, of damp sunrises followed by dry sunsets and bright moons, of cuddly sweaters and slow walks through leaf-covered paths. October is our bridge from the carefree days of summer to the festive days ahead, the ones that call us back to our families for sharing, for giving thanks, for giving praise. And counting our blessings.
I count October as a blessing. All thirty-one days of it.
29 September 2008
Is Armageddon at hand?
Fall. Dive. Plunge. Plummet. All are verbs used in headlines today to describe the stock market after the bailout failed to win Congressional approval.
Fall doesn’t quite work for me because it implies some sort of accident was involved.
Dive doesn’t quite fit either because the action calls to mind grace and control. Recall the recent Olympic Games and the finesse of those pool-bound athlete divers. See my point?
Plunge is better because the action conjures something forceful prompting downward movement. (Greed for instance.)
Plummet. Now there’s an action verb. This is a verb I’d prefer to use to describe an aviation disaster, the kind when one has a mere minute or two to settle up with the Almighty, and then… . If one were to think of "plummet" in this context, it becomes logical also to plug the word into a headline to describe today's events. After all, when it comes time to "take stock," it seems we ought to be thinking Heaven, not investment portfolio.
Of all the tools one can use to stir emotion, language is my favorite. Now excuse me, please, while I gather all my gold in a safe place and inventory my pantry.
Fall doesn’t quite work for me because it implies some sort of accident was involved.
Dive doesn’t quite fit either because the action calls to mind grace and control. Recall the recent Olympic Games and the finesse of those pool-bound athlete divers. See my point?
Plunge is better because the action conjures something forceful prompting downward movement. (Greed for instance.)
Plummet. Now there’s an action verb. This is a verb I’d prefer to use to describe an aviation disaster, the kind when one has a mere minute or two to settle up with the Almighty, and then… . If one were to think of "plummet" in this context, it becomes logical also to plug the word into a headline to describe today's events. After all, when it comes time to "take stock," it seems we ought to be thinking Heaven, not investment portfolio.
Of all the tools one can use to stir emotion, language is my favorite. Now excuse me, please, while I gather all my gold in a safe place and inventory my pantry.
28 September 2008
A reunion tour 30 years in the making...
It’s been said you cannot go home again. Yet it seems human nature to try regardless, if only to catch a glimpse of the person we once were or to find that piece of ourselves we lost somewhere along the way, oftentimes through no fault of our own.
For a large part of my adolescence, high school was “home” and so thoughts of going back, of going “home” weigh on me as I pass a combine parked along Waseca CR-3 on my way toward the city and a reunion of classmates. Accommodating farm implements is part and parcel of life now that home is the farm; the city of my birth, meanwhile, is just a place I visit less and less. Yet inside a suburban school building significant chapters of my personal history were written. I was interested to see if the pages read the same as I’d remembered.
At first opportunity, I broke away from the crowd to explore on my own the halls that I’d walked for four years; they appeared neither wider nor narrower than when I’d walked them in saddle shoes. The walls were brightly painted and the lockers, too, the latter in green. The lockers looked newer, which isn’t to say they were new. It had been thirty years, after all. I imagine the life of a locker doesn’t exceed fifteen. And the walls were adorned with sketches by student artists named Emily and Britney and Sydney and Raul. I passed a room full of computers and saw that the library was now a media center. And there was a boardroom where the teachers used to take their lunches. And all along the way, lights clicked on as if welcoming my silent exploration. At one point, I startled the custodian (Kellogg High, class of ’77) who told me my alma mater was a good employer. I was heartened to hear it as much as I was to learn that service to others and worship is as much a focus for students as getting good grades.
Yet my visit did not fill me with a sense of warmth the way one expects when one comes home. I was in a school, but not my school. My school was gone or, perhaps, it had simply changed. Or, perhaps, it was I who had changed. Or, likely, both the school, and I, (all of us really) had changed in ways great and small. Certainly, the priest who presided over our Mass, a classmate, had changed. He shared some of the details with us; the others we were left to interpret at the place where his history intersected ours. Had any of us come “home” this night?
It’s been said you cannot go home again. You could debate the truth in that statement until the cows come home. Here’s what I think. The answer depends upon how you define home.
For a large part of my adolescence, high school was “home” and so thoughts of going back, of going “home” weigh on me as I pass a combine parked along Waseca CR-3 on my way toward the city and a reunion of classmates. Accommodating farm implements is part and parcel of life now that home is the farm; the city of my birth, meanwhile, is just a place I visit less and less. Yet inside a suburban school building significant chapters of my personal history were written. I was interested to see if the pages read the same as I’d remembered.
At first opportunity, I broke away from the crowd to explore on my own the halls that I’d walked for four years; they appeared neither wider nor narrower than when I’d walked them in saddle shoes. The walls were brightly painted and the lockers, too, the latter in green. The lockers looked newer, which isn’t to say they were new. It had been thirty years, after all. I imagine the life of a locker doesn’t exceed fifteen. And the walls were adorned with sketches by student artists named Emily and Britney and Sydney and Raul. I passed a room full of computers and saw that the library was now a media center. And there was a boardroom where the teachers used to take their lunches. And all along the way, lights clicked on as if welcoming my silent exploration. At one point, I startled the custodian (Kellogg High, class of ’77) who told me my alma mater was a good employer. I was heartened to hear it as much as I was to learn that service to others and worship is as much a focus for students as getting good grades.
Yet my visit did not fill me with a sense of warmth the way one expects when one comes home. I was in a school, but not my school. My school was gone or, perhaps, it had simply changed. Or, perhaps, it was I who had changed. Or, likely, both the school, and I, (all of us really) had changed in ways great and small. Certainly, the priest who presided over our Mass, a classmate, had changed. He shared some of the details with us; the others we were left to interpret at the place where his history intersected ours. Had any of us come “home” this night?
It’s been said you cannot go home again. You could debate the truth in that statement until the cows come home. Here’s what I think. The answer depends upon how you define home.
24 September 2008
Communicating angst without profanity...
I want to write about my frustration, my anger, my disgust, my angst, my utter disbelief at the current state of economic entanglement that is sending Treasury into bed with Wall Street and sticking us with the hotel bill, but I can't. I'm too depressed. And when I'm depressed, I snack.
And frankly, I can't type and eat at the same time. I don't want to muck up my keyboard.
So, I've invited a guest blogger to speak for me. Truth be told, I didn't invite him (I don't actually know him) but I've heard him speak in person twice and I respect his passion, his patriotism, and his candor.
And so, for an opinion on the state of "Washington," I present a recent tome by Mr. Ben Stein.
And frankly, I can't type and eat at the same time. I don't want to muck up my keyboard.
So, I've invited a guest blogger to speak for me. Truth be told, I didn't invite him (I don't actually know him) but I've heard him speak in person twice and I respect his passion, his patriotism, and his candor.
And so, for an opinion on the state of "Washington," I present a recent tome by Mr. Ben Stein.
22 September 2008
21 September 2008
19 September 2008
A walk in the moonlight...
This weekend, guests are coming to Four Cedars and I’m thrilled. The old place simply comes alive when dear ones, weary of city life, come for a brief respite among the vines. I love hosting visitors, friends and family alike, for it allows me the chance to fill the kitchen with tasty foods and music and activity. And isn’t the kitchen really the heart of the home, even a farm home? Especially a farm home? When guests come, the heart beats as if it has found love for the first time.
I am grateful to know others love this place as much as I, yet I wish, just once, they could experience it the way I do – in joyful solitude. The farm is a different embrace when one experiences it from a place of isolation. It’s not a better place, nor a worse place. It’s just a different place in a way that is profoundly internal.
All this week, I’ve been blessed with warm, windy, sun-splashed days and cool, star-filled nights. And a bright moon. I first noticed this moon Tuesday morning when I emerged from my slumber earlier than normal and headed outside to feed the chickens. The sun was up already but the moon hung over the western tree line and shone so brightly that you could discern its topography. It was striking the way the translucent body caught my gaze and made me pause, right there in the driveway, to consider my life, my calling, and all the paths I’d traveled to find myself there at that moment, gazing at a morning moon in my pajamas.
This same moon has circled the planet while I’ve gone about my business and last night it lit my route home as I had stayed in town late listening to heavenly music. Once home, I meandered the property by moonlight while farm dog got some exercise. At one point, I found myself standing at the edge of the driveway. Our road, which stretches north to south, was lifeless; the cornfield across the road stretched to a murky infinity. The vineyard was draped in shadow. Beyond the tree line, the faint sound of water and waterfowl intersecting reminded me there was a lake over yonder. Crickets and frogs were the chorus. Above, there were too many stars to comprehend and I felt at once both large and inconsequential. And, in the southeast sky, a swath of cloud – or spirit – had been painted in earnest on inky sky.
I stood in the darkness seeing all that surrounded me quite clearly, thanks to the moon. I stood alone, in modified prairie, feeling not lonely but peaceful. Serene. Immersed in nature’s quiet, which isn’t the same as man-made silence.
As I walked slowly toward the house, the four cedar trees swayed darker than the surrounding sky. I followed my shadow down the gravel drive. I glanced once more toward the vineyard. I could barely make out leggy vines swaying too. The silence enveloped me. This is my Four Cedars experience. It is solitude. I wish my visitors could partake in its beauty. Unfortunately, solitude isn’t a shared experience. Fortunately, moonlight is.
I am grateful to know others love this place as much as I, yet I wish, just once, they could experience it the way I do – in joyful solitude. The farm is a different embrace when one experiences it from a place of isolation. It’s not a better place, nor a worse place. It’s just a different place in a way that is profoundly internal.
All this week, I’ve been blessed with warm, windy, sun-splashed days and cool, star-filled nights. And a bright moon. I first noticed this moon Tuesday morning when I emerged from my slumber earlier than normal and headed outside to feed the chickens. The sun was up already but the moon hung over the western tree line and shone so brightly that you could discern its topography. It was striking the way the translucent body caught my gaze and made me pause, right there in the driveway, to consider my life, my calling, and all the paths I’d traveled to find myself there at that moment, gazing at a morning moon in my pajamas.
This same moon has circled the planet while I’ve gone about my business and last night it lit my route home as I had stayed in town late listening to heavenly music. Once home, I meandered the property by moonlight while farm dog got some exercise. At one point, I found myself standing at the edge of the driveway. Our road, which stretches north to south, was lifeless; the cornfield across the road stretched to a murky infinity. The vineyard was draped in shadow. Beyond the tree line, the faint sound of water and waterfowl intersecting reminded me there was a lake over yonder. Crickets and frogs were the chorus. Above, there were too many stars to comprehend and I felt at once both large and inconsequential. And, in the southeast sky, a swath of cloud – or spirit – had been painted in earnest on inky sky.
I stood in the darkness seeing all that surrounded me quite clearly, thanks to the moon. I stood alone, in modified prairie, feeling not lonely but peaceful. Serene. Immersed in nature’s quiet, which isn’t the same as man-made silence.
As I walked slowly toward the house, the four cedar trees swayed darker than the surrounding sky. I followed my shadow down the gravel drive. I glanced once more toward the vineyard. I could barely make out leggy vines swaying too. The silence enveloped me. This is my Four Cedars experience. It is solitude. I wish my visitors could partake in its beauty. Unfortunately, solitude isn’t a shared experience. Fortunately, moonlight is.
15 September 2008
Every day, the duck population grows...
I’ll bet you didn’t know Minnesota has a duck plan. It’s true. You can download it from the Department of Natural Resources web site. What’s more, DNR officials are seeking public input on its plan; they want to know if its plans to recover breeding and migrating duck populations are appropriate and if they address your concerns. You should feel honored that they care.
There are a half-dozen men in my part of Blue Earth County that have a duck plan too. Their plan involves canoes, muck boots, camouflage, long guns, and the body of water out back that’s speckled with black ducks. These men plan to implement their duck plan one half hour before sunrise on October 4.
I have a duck plan as well. It involves ear plugs.
There are a half-dozen men in my part of Blue Earth County that have a duck plan too. Their plan involves canoes, muck boots, camouflage, long guns, and the body of water out back that’s speckled with black ducks. These men plan to implement their duck plan one half hour before sunrise on October 4.
I have a duck plan as well. It involves ear plugs.
12 September 2008
Sauce, salsa, or soup?
I have four tomato plants, each started from a tiny seed in my kitchen last April. Four tomato plants...and very, very, very good soil.
The hens aren't the only over-achievers here at Four Cedars Farms. (The vote from my big eaters? Sauce.)
The hens aren't the only over-achievers here at Four Cedars Farms. (The vote from my big eaters? Sauce.)11 September 2008
A pleasant surprise...
What comes first, the chicken or the egg? Without getting theological, experience tells me it's the chicken. Here at Four Cedars Farms, the chickens preceded the eggs by twenty weeks. Exactly.
Wednesday morning, just before departing for twenty-four short hours in the Twin Cities, I left our two hens with a generous helping of feed and these encouraging words: "I'm still waiting for eggs, girls."
Well, they must have missed me, because I found, upon my return, not one, not two, but three eggs in the nest. (One of the girls is an over-achiever!)
Of course I was overjoyed that this one aspect of farming worked just as I'd read it should. I can only imagine my joy two years from now when the grape crop comes in.
09 September 2008
Isn't the last day of summer two weeks away?
It was an exceptionally cold winter. Remember? Then, winter left us with a cold, wet miserable spring. Winter was not very considerate.
By the time summer arrived, FINALLY ARRIVED, I had so tired of being cold that I vowed to greet each and every summer day like a long lost friend, without regard for humidity or dewpoint. There would be no air-conditioned air swirling around my toes this summer, I promised myself when summer came crawling in, late. I had spent too many days and nights wrapped in wool and flannel to now wilt and cave when summer brought her first 90-degree day.
Well, I am happy (and proud!) to report that I kept this promise to myself. Summer came and went at Four Cedars and I enjoyed every drop of sweat she squeezed out of me.
I acclimated. I perspired. I dressed down. And when things got a bit intense, I retreated to the naturally cooler rooms of the shaded Four Square. There are some advantages to living in an old, drafty box.
Not so come autumn, though. With overnight temps flirting with frost and daytime temps barely rebounding to 70 degrees, the old shack isn’t doing much in the way of solar heat retention. To be frank, it’s cold in here. Even at 4 p.m., the warmest hour of the day, the temp inside is a full 10 degrees cooler than any sunny spot I happen to find in the yard. I know, because I drift outside often to thaw out.
Of course, the switch that flips on the furnace is just steps from my keyboard. But turning on the furnace this early in September seems a wimpy move. And I’m stubborn. Yes, stubborn! It’s only September 9, for pity sake! I’ve endured some awfully warm September 9ths. This cold snap can’t last another 200 days, can it?
I soothe myself by doing dishes. My family doesn’t understand why I wash dishes by hand when I have a brand new dishwasher. I’m not all that interested in fondling my dishes; I just like to have my hands in warm water.
My pal Google offered me a couple of other tricks I might try in my quest to keep warm. It’s a long list, but it reveals some gems. How are you staying warm, dear ones?
Excerpted from “50 Ways to Stay Warm This Autumn” found on www.simplythrifty.com. The commentary is mine:
Take a long, hot bubble bath. (Not with your dishes.)
Whip up a batch of mulled wine.
Wrap yourself in an afghan.
Make some hot chocolate.
(Regular chocolate works too.)
Bake cookies. (Be sure their Gluten Free!)
Wear your flannel pajamas. (Only if you sleep alone.)
Have a hot toddy.
Wear nice warm socks. (I have more pairs of wool socks than a Finnish Hockey team.)
Wear slippers.
Use lots of blankets on your bed.
Indulge in a cappuccino.
Wear fleece sweaters around the house.
Put on a pot of chili.
Have some tomato soup. (I did this last week; made it from scratch!)
Have some Irish Coffee with friends. (I think it’s the friends which are key here.)
Turn the music loud and dance. (This upsets farm dog, though.)
Indulge in some comfort food.
Spend lots of time in the kitchen.
Visit a friend who isn’t as chintzy with the heat as you.
07 September 2008
The leaves aren't falling yet, but...
There are certain rites of autumn that bring us great pleasure. For some, it's the back-to-school ritual. For others, it's the return of football, the approach of the hunting season, or digging out your favorite sweater. This year, for me, the ritual that brings the greatest sense of relief was the "round-up ritual," otherwise known as time-to-go-back-to-your-own-farm LeSueur ten.
Thanks for the lessons, gals. Have a nice winter in St. Peter!
Of course, the round-up ritual opens the door
to other fall pleasures, like hosting weekend guests
Tony and Shannon, wine in the park, an impromptu
apple pie made from backyard fruit,
and preserving fresh sweet corn
to enjoy during the deep cold of winter.
It may not be Lake Wobegon, yet here,
all the women are smart...the men, good looking.
05 September 2008
At the edge of the vineyard...
Morning glories: September's chill allowsits trumpet-shaped blossoms to stay open all day long.
04 September 2008
Tough love works on the farm too...
This is not the look of the curious. This is the face of concern.
It is worry. No, it is fear.
This is the root of that fear.
This is the standoff that occurs a few times a day around here.
This is a good thing because the sheep had grown accustomed
to my face and my voice and thus they began to ignore
the boundaries that I had defined for them.
They needed to learn a little respect.
They needed to experience fear.
02 September 2008
The power of a simple word...
I have, for the last several months, immersed myself in this thing called farming.
I have met and befriended farmers.
I have dirtied myself with soil.
I have watched, in amazement, as our grapevines have grown from bare clusters of roots into magnificent tangles of fruity potential.
I have bent, and pulled, and stretched, and ached.
I have held fuzzy chicks in my hand and packaged their meat for the freezer months later.
I have learned how to negotiate with sheep.
I have gauged and recorded rainfall.
I have studied the price of diesel fuel.
I have noted the dates when certain fruits and vegetables come in, and go out of, season.
I have conversed about the benefits of properly fitted pruners.
I have composted.
I have preserved.
I have farmed.
And yet, if you were to ask me today what it is that I do, professionally, which is akin to asking me to define my place in the cosmos, the word farm would not fall from my tongue. And this, dear ones, has been my summer epiphany.
Today, I include among my friends, many farmers. And to the farmers nearby, I have earned respect as one who knows a bit about farming, albeit with a very different sort of crop.
Yet, as hard as I tried this summer to become a “farmer,” in this quest I have failed. I am not a farmer. I am a writer. A writer, you see, who happens to live on a farm. The distinction is important...to a writer.
I have met and befriended farmers.
I have dirtied myself with soil.
I have watched, in amazement, as our grapevines have grown from bare clusters of roots into magnificent tangles of fruity potential.
I have bent, and pulled, and stretched, and ached.
I have held fuzzy chicks in my hand and packaged their meat for the freezer months later.
I have learned how to negotiate with sheep.
I have gauged and recorded rainfall.
I have studied the price of diesel fuel.
I have noted the dates when certain fruits and vegetables come in, and go out of, season.
I have conversed about the benefits of properly fitted pruners.
I have composted.
I have preserved.
I have farmed.
And yet, if you were to ask me today what it is that I do, professionally, which is akin to asking me to define my place in the cosmos, the word farm would not fall from my tongue. And this, dear ones, has been my summer epiphany.
Today, I include among my friends, many farmers. And to the farmers nearby, I have earned respect as one who knows a bit about farming, albeit with a very different sort of crop.
Yet, as hard as I tried this summer to become a “farmer,” in this quest I have failed. I am not a farmer. I am a writer. A writer, you see, who happens to live on a farm. The distinction is important...to a writer.
01 September 2008
Why must the sun leave so early?
This is my Labor Day sunset. And thus summer, as it is defined by most, comes to a close. Another ending in a year that's brought too many. 
Oh, how I've grown weary of endings....of saying goodbye.
Oh, how I've grown weary of endings....of saying goodbye.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
