What is a picture worth?

Words are things and a small drop, if ink falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think. Lord Byron said that some 200 years ago. Today we have Oprah's book club and publishers who seek out non-writers (like Howie Mandel) so that they may convert television fame into book sales. What's a writer to make of these developments? More importantly, how is a writer to soldier on against such odds? Tonight, let's chalk it up to insanity and move on.

The sun disappeared into the barren, frozen cornfield some seven hours ago and yet here I sit tapping the keys of my computer -- writing, engaging myself in what I believe to be a noble vocation. Except it doesn't feel noble at the moment. It just feels like I'm driving at night without headlights and no one should do that, not even professional drivers on a closed course. I am attempting to communicate a thought that hasn't taken form. Or, maybe, I'm attempting to communicate a thought that rubs me the wrong way. Regardless, the [digital] ink isn't going to fall like dew to give anyone pause. And this too is the writing life, the insanity. Frustration equals writing. No. Writing equals frustration. At least it does tonight.

I know what my problem is and it isn't fatigue...isn't solely fatigue. It's these things that I bet my future on -- these words that wield so much power and potential to move people or change minds or spur reflection -- tonight they pale so completely when compared to the power of the printed image. What's a picture worth? A thousand words? How about 65,000 words? That's roughly a book-length work.

If you believe, like me, that writing is a noble craft, you engage it until your hands and your heart are soiled with words, which are beautiful, powerful, provacative things. Beware. Don't believe, like me, that nothing can eclipse words in their ability to inspire, to transport us to a far off place or time long passed. Like me, a picture may fall into your hands to humble you, to make you question all you ever believed about words and their promises. This picture came to me two days ago and I hadn't known of its existence before receiving it. This picture is keeping me from a warm bed and silly dreams that I probably won't remember upon waking.

This woman is Ann, though her name is written as Anna on the back. Also on the back is a note that her hair is black, her eyes are brown, her beads are red and her dress is red and tan. Missing from the back is the date the photo was taken.

I have a picture of Ann taken ten years before this one, I have one of her taken roughly fifteen years after this one, and I have one taken of her when she looked like a grandmother -- my grandmother. Moreover, I have stories to go with those pictures, stories of young Ann, stories of single mom Ann, stories of senior citizen Ann. I have these stories because I wrote them; they are the core of a book I spent three years writing in an effort to honor Ann. But there's nothing in the book about a beauty with brown eyes and wavy bob. I cherish this newly emerged picture, but the thousand or so words that hide in the shadows behind her are a gaping hole in her story that now haunts me.

And so I'm left to ponder what is more powerful, the words or the image? Right now, I'll say it's the image because it's all I have. The words are hidden, perhaps forever.

The calm after the storm...

It has been nearly 24 hours since the blizzard moved east leaving people in these parts to cope with the aftermath. For some, that meant taking their snow machines out for a spin; for me, that meant my first plowing run through the drifted snow around the property. Except for ten very cold fingers, the plowing was accomplished without incident.

The mercury in our outside thermometer barely broke zero today, which means I spent my non-plowing hours as close to the wood stove as I could get without stepping on the cat, who has claimed the edge of the rug closest to the flame. Smart cat. Smart me. We were meant to be together this winter.

These days of short sunlight don't do much to warm the atmosphere, but the milky light can be a tonic for the soul. Sunrise fills each dawn with fuschia and dusk bathes the sky in the dreamiest yellow one finds outside of sleep. It's a photographers wonderland outdoors this time of year. Or it would be if the camera didn't transfer the bitter cold right back to my ten frozen fingers. They just can't take this cold.

Even tradition needs periodic change...

It is Thanksgiving eve as I write this and for the first time in 18 years, I am not putting the finishing touches on a dining table set for guests. I’m not rolling silverware in napkins. I’m not chopping veggies for stuffing or deciding which secret ingredient will give the dish this year’s twist. I’m not washing stemware or counting out place settings. I’m not searching for candles or printing out place cards. For the first time in 18 years, I’ve abdicated the Thanksgiving Day hostess throne. Tonight, I am ready to become a guest. It is time for Thanksgiving Day to become someone else’s signature holiday.

I remember adopting the holiday as my own when my sons were toddlers. Transporting twins anyplace, let alone a holiday place, meant packing the car full with diapers, bottles, toys, a playpen, portable booster seats, and at least three sets of extra outfits each. Whew! What a chore that was. Cooking a turkey, stuffing, vegetables and pies for a dozen or more had to be easier than that, I thought at the time. And for the most part, it has been.

I recall with fondness the trepidation I felt the first year. I had gone to antique stores to buy extra dishes in preparation and I carefully planned out seating strategies for up to twenty people in a house without a dining room. Those first few years, I even mailed invitations. This was before email. Yikes, it was probably even before the internet!

I love to entertain and Thanksgiving allowed me the opportunity to welcome many new faces into our home. Through the years, we offered hospitality to neighbors whose own families were far away. We welcomed widows who might otherwise be alone. We welcomed boyfriends who have since moved on, boyfriends who are still boyfriends and boyfriends who are now husbands. I recall with fondness welcoming a foreign exchange student (a friend of my nephew), a young woman from Russia who celebrated her first, and likely her last, American Thanksgiving with us. Her day was not one I expect her to forget and I chuckle even now by how delighted she was when she saw our six-inch paper dessert plates that had been printed in fall colors with a turkey in the center. She had never seen a paper plate like it and she asked if she could take one with her. I gladly obliged.

Of course, some of our Thanksgiving meals were larger than others and some, more stressful to pull off. There were a few years when, two hours before guests were scheduled to arrive, like clockwork, I suffered a ten-minute-long mental breakdown. Hubby was right there to talk me off the building’s edge and the rest of the day played out like a well-rehearsed symphony.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention those Turkey Bowl football games that some years eclipsed my meal in both anticipation and enjoyment. Injuries notwithstanding, the memories on the field out back are just as precious as the ones that unfolded during gravy making, during dinner, or over cocktails and dessert. A lot of politics were discussed at my table but few, if any, arguments ever broke out. I’m grateful for polite company.

It’s Thanksgiving eve and though I did some baking and cooking today to prepare for my contribution to tomorrow’s meal, I feel much different than I have on this same night for the past 18 years or so, when I’d been preparing to welcome people into my home for the previous two weeks. My heart is lighter tonight. I have energy to spare. I feel free to do something that has nothing to do with tradition or food or flatware. I no longer have to be the one who has to pull it all together in sync. It may be nighttime, but really, it’s a new day and I’m going to make the most of it. I’m going dancing!

P.S. May God bless my beloved Matthew; for tomorrow (at least), he’s the new host.

Prepping for the inevitable...

We've been blessed with one of the warmest Novembers on record. Not to sound ungrateful, but we were due; our October was one of the coldest, wettest in history.

But now the first wave of what is being billed as "a change" in our weather has arrived in the form of rain. Hubby spent much of today and yesterday winterizing the summer equipment and getting the landscape set up for winter, which really means getting set up for me to manage winter.

Just before sunset, we finished running snow fence along the driveway in an attempt to minimize drifting and then he gave me a 45-second tutorial on how to operate the bobcat. If I want to leave the house this winter, I will need to master this powerful and confusing piece of heavy machinery. I go through the steps deliberately, thinking that there's no reason I can't master this, that my gender has no relevancy to my understanding of a mechanical process and my clear lack of upper body strength, which puts me at a disadvantage in so many other situations around this farm is more than compensated for here by virtue of hydraulics. I am woman, hear me (in my bobcat) roar.

I spend a few minutes directing the bobcat around on the gravel, simulating what I believe to be the process of pushing, lifting then dumping snow (an easy simulation when it's 43 degrees outside) and then I back the machine into the shed and turn it off. I'm ready now, ready for whatever winter throws at me. I'm ready. So long as the bobcat starts.

Frost on the grapevines...

This is the view that meets my tired eyes as I pull up the blinds in the kitchen. Mr. Blue Sky is back. The rows of vines, at one time nearly too bushy to safely drive a lawnmower through, stand bare. It is easy to see the complexity of vigorous summer growth now that the canopy has withered away. The landscape still offers me a color palette that denies the reality of the season. But I take note first of the crystals covering the ground; yes, it is November. I am still heading toward winter and it is a long journey to the other side. Sigh.

Most of the work of the vineyard now is inside work. Organizing files. Shopping for the best price on bird netting. Scouting winerys for a February marketing push. Making a list of 2010 harvest supplies that need to be acquired. Boning up on all the things that can go wrong, all the ways I can fail, so hopefully I wont. All of these things I can do while I load the kitchen stove with wood (the other stove I load with food) so I may pretend it is still July...winter pruning starts next month.

Crops are in; nowhere to hide!

I spotted this guy in the vineyard, but by the time I was able to grab the camera, he'd crossed the driveway. He was moving fast! Running for cover I presume.

A killing frost brings changes to mealtime

I knew last night's freeze was coming and so I pulled in the red and green tomatoes, most of the banana peppers and the full-size green peppers. I gave up my second planting of green beans and sugar snap peas to the cold because, frankly, we'd had our fill of those by Labor Day. And the herbs, well, I had already put forth respectable effort drying them; what's more, I had clipped a bouquet of basil a few weeks ago and the green stems have been holding their own in a vase of water (covered by vented plastic) on my windowsill. And the raspberries, well their first season ended as sweet filling for gluten-free tarts that were gobbled quickly.

At dinner, Hubby and I enjoyed our last red tomatoes with fresh basil. It felt like just another light summertime meal if not for the roar of a hot fire warming our toes inside while outside the October sun cast long shadows over our now decimated garden. Ahh, autumn.

For those of us who appreciate farm-fresh local produce, we must now satiate ourselves with root vegetables such as squash, potatoes, carrots, onions, etc. Oh, and there's that sweet corn in the freezer! And the thirty-some quarts of fresh tomatoes that just went into canning jars. Of course, the local grocery has fresh asparagus, flown in from Peru. But how fresh can that really be because if I had just flown in from Peru, I don't think I'd be feeling very fresh. Autumn; it's a tough time of year for a locavore.

Last Sunday's New York Times magazine offers some interesting reading for foodies; it's their food issue. Included is this article by Michael Pollan titled "Rules to Eat By" with an interactive feature that includes twenty, reader-submitted dietary dos and donts. The list is varied and offers some gems worth pondering, such as "You don't get fat eating food you pray over."

Tomorrow, the forecast calls for snow. That alone is enough to send me in search of chocolate. But heck, we're only a few weeks into autumn. Ahh, autumn. I think I'll go sniff my vase full of basil while I still can.

Coming to expect the unexpected...

The old farmhouse has a checkered history. The land had once been home to Winnebago Indians, but the Torrens title makes no mention of that; the official record says only that the land was decreed by President Grant into the homestead of a man named Phillips, whose descendents still farm the thousand or so acres that stretch as far my gaze allows. The neighbor to the north, one of those descendents, told me recently that my house had once belonged to his grandfather. A neighbor who lives three farms to the south, meanwhile, told me she used to baby-sit for the family who lived here after Grandpa Phillips moved on. The house had changed a lot, she said. Indeed. I’ve been trying to piece together its history for three years now and all I’ve been able to muster is similar to what you get when you take a picture at noon on a sunny day – contrasting outlines devoid of fine detail.

Before I left home last week to attend to family commitments in the city, I closed the storm windows trying to hold on to late summer’s heat knowing autumn’s chill loomed close. On my return this morning, I was met with an inside temperature of 62 degrees F., hardly tolerable for the warm-blooded soul that I am. Fortunately, the chill was temporary, for today we made another entry into our family’s chapter of “farmhouse history.” Today, we added a wood stove to give us supplemental heat.

It made sense for us to supplement our furnace heat with wood heat because wood is so plentiful here; we chose to place the stove in the kitchen because it is the coldest room in the house, running about five degrees colder than the two story section of the main house.

In preparation for the installer’s arrival, hubby and I cleared out the upstairs hall closet where, at the back, there is hidden a small door that opens into the attic above the kitchen. Before this past week, we’d never really taken a serious look at the attic above the kitchen, so we were a bit concerned to open the door to find that the wall and roof boards near where the stove chimney would rise from the kitchen ceiling toward the outdoors was charred black. And I mean charred BLACK. There had once been a fire! Our farmhouse had had a fire!

With flashlight in hand, we tried to piece together the events that left part of our attic blackened. We wondered where the fire had started, how it hadn’t spread to consume the whole house, and why, for heaven’s sake, the charred boards had never been replaced! There were no answers for us up there. Like much of this farmhouse’s past, we have only conjecture and scant memories from distant neighbors. Oh well.

The wood stove went in on schedule and in it, a fire — a glorious warm fire for the last day of a warm September that departs with an undeniable chill. The temp in the kitchen, as I write this, is 75 degrees F. For now, we’ve forgotten about the fire that once crept up the wall into the attic. We’ll get back in there soon to replace the charred boards that should have been ditched long ago. Why they weren’t we’ll never know. That’s just how it goes with an old house with a mysterious past. Sometimes, you just never know what you’ve got — until you’ve got it.

Taking the chill out...

Seventy-five and sunny.

There's romance in growing grapes

As our second growing season nears its natural end, I've developed a bit of pride over what's become of the scraggly old horse pasture. (I admit this knowing that pride can be a dangerous thing.) The stately vines were swaying in a gentle breeze as I walked the tidy rows today. Most of the trunks are woody by now, and the ones that aren't are browning nicely in preparation for what we all know is coming, like it or not: winter.

I wish I could capture on film the entire vineyard, end to end, but I'd need a wide-angle lens or a daring pilot with a steady hand and neither are within reach today. Viewed from the road, the layout of row upon row of vines set against those quaint out-buildings makes me smile. It's an image of home that conjures those old Rockwell images of a near-forgotten America. The low building is the newest on the property, built in 1940. Before it housed vineyard tools, it sheltered horses and before that, hogs. Behind that building to the left is the chicken house and the tall building to the right is a granary. They are well-cared-for structures; hubby's source of pride I'm sure.
Neither building would have such character, though, if not for the 650 vines stretching to the road and then south, draped in fading sun. It is the vineyard that defines our home more than the lake or the garden or the lawn or even the grand Cedars. This is how this place, this home, has evolved for our family so new to country living.

A neighbor who lives two properties down and raises pigs, planted three-quarters of an acre of grapes last spring and today, on my walk down the road, I noticed another neighbor, living just to the south, has made good on his promise to till up his alfalfa in anticipation of an acre of grapes to go in next spring. Though, it appears he's tilled up more than one acre! Maybe he's thinking long range, working in plans to expand like we had before our hands were soiled by the reality of grape growing. We wish him well.

I was giving a friend directions to our place the other day and I almost told her, once she reached our road, that we were the first vineyard on the right. The first vineyard...

I believe there's a Rockwellian movement afoot on our stretch of country road.

An ancient grain with bright future...

Chef son and I mastered Gluten Free Kibbi Nayyi using both Quinoa (his choice) and Amaranth (my choice). Each substitute grain garnered us taste and texture virtually indistinguishable from the Bulghur or cracked wheat that is traditionally used in the dish. I now have gained confidence to try a Tahbouli Salad with Amaranth, which closely resembles Quinoa in taste, texture and nutrition. I like Amaranth better, though, because this weekend I learned it may be something I can cultivate myself here next summer. And who knows where that might lead?

Beyond the borders of the United States, Amaranth is used in interesting ways. In Mexico it is popped and mixed with a sugar solution to make a confection called alegria or happiness. Milled and roasted amaranth seed is used to create a traditional Mexican drink called atole. Peruvians use fermented amaranth seed to make chicha or beer. Amaranth can be cooked as a cereal, ground into flour, popped like popcorn, sprouted, or toasted. The seeds can be cooked with other whole grains, added to stir-fry or to soups and stews as a nutrient-dense thickening agent. Amaranth flour is used in making pastas and baked goods.

Amaranth seed is 15 percent to 18 percent protein and contains respectable amounts of lysine and methionine, two essential amino acids not frequently found in grains. It is high in fiber and contains calcium, iron, potassium, phosphorus, and vitamins A and C. The fiber content of Amaranth is three times that of wheat and its iron content is five times more than wheat. It contains two times more calcium than milk. Using Amaranth in combination with corn or brown rice (or wheat) results in a complete protein as high in food value as fish, red meat or poultry; great news for vegetarians.

The name Amaranth is Greek for "never-fading flower" and its flower is what caught my attention yesterday. My friend Diane has three stands of Amaranth growing in her field, though she grows it purely for ornamental value. Amaranth is a bushy plant that grows five to seven feet tall with broad leaves and a showy flower head of profuse burgundy plumes. Hers are quite striking in her voluptuous bouquets.

But what intrigues me the most about Amaranth is that it seems easy to grow and though the seeds it produces are tiny, each plant is capable of producing 40,000 to 60,000 of them. I just paid about five dollars for a 16-ounce package of whole grain Amaranth, and a 22-ounce package of Amaranth flour goes for about eight dollars. I’m not saying I’m ready to plow under all my grass to sow Amaranth, but I can do simple math. I think it’s time to do a bit more experimentation in the kitchen to see exactly how valuable Amaranth can become!

Fearlessness in the modern kitchen...

A few weeks ago, hubby and I snuck away from the farm to see the film Julie & Julia. The movie tells two stories: Julia Child’s journey to learn and ultimately teach French cooking to ordinary Americans, and Julie Powell’s journey to make a name for herself as a writer as she attempts to master Child’s tome, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. While it may seem obvious that the film is aimed toward those who, like me, enjoy cooking — and the cooking scenes carry the film — the film also offers witty dialogue and an exploration of themes that emerge in life beyond the walls of the modern kitchen.

My favorite line of the film comes early, when Julia Child is pleading for her cooking certificate after finishing coursework but failing her final exam at Paris’ Le Cordon Bleu School of Cooking. Child confides to the woman who heads the school the she is determined to teach American women French cooking. The headmistress is unconvinced of Child’s ability in the kitchen, but eventually gives into her pleas and grants her a certificate. “Go ahead and teach the Americans what you know,” the woman snips, “they won’t be able to tell the difference anyway.”

Child spent years experimenting and perfecting recipes for Mastering the Art of French Cooking, yet when she taught, she stressed the joy of working with food and urged her students and fans not to stress out in the kitchen. Cooking should be fun; so should eating! And is there a better way to enjoy life than to cook a meal and then share it with those you love? Why would anyone choose take-out meals or pizza delivered in a cardboard box over the joys that emerge from a busy kitchen? In this regard, I believe the French have one-upped us.

I spent the better part of a rainy day in the kitchen, processing and freezing garden produce and planning meals for the upcoming weekend and beyond. It’s just me and the cat here in the kitchen, which helps me stay on task though I wistfully wish I had friends or children or the children of friends with me here to share the joys and benefits of working with real food, defined as food without packaging or an ingredient list a quarter of a mile long. I can endure the quiet, though, because it is short-lived.

Two autumns ago, my cousins and I learned how to make Kibbi Nayyi from an elderly but spry Lebanese woman affectionately called “Auntie Mary.” Soon after perfecting the technique, I learned neither of my sons can tolerate the cracked wheat integral to the dish. This weekend, my son and I will experiment making Kibbi Nayyi with toasted Quinoa or perhaps Millet, if I can get my hands on some. Experimentation is what makes cooking so wonderfully rewarding; it’s also what scares most people out of the kitchen. In 48 hours, the food processor with be spinning and raw meat will be ground and spices will be mixed, either with mortar and pestle (my choice) or food processor (son’s choice). I’m unsure if our trials will lead to a breakthrough – a gluten-free Kibbi Nayyi – or not. But we will certainly enjoy the process; we will be “mastering the art of cooking,” which isn’t an accomplishment reserved only for the French.

Julia, we will not be afraid!

The many shades of grape...

This is Véraison; it represents the transition from berry growth to berry ripening. Changes are afoot in the berries during véraison; most notably, acid levels are decreasing and sugar levels are rising. In real terms, this means the grapes are becoming more attractive to wildlife. That includes me.

A special weekend away...

We are a Facebook family. My friend Shannon says, if you ever want to know what's going on with our family, log on to Facebook. It's all there. It occurs to me, however, that not all my blog followers are on Facebook, which is a good thing really, because the blog fulfills an entirely different purpose in my life, one that stretches beyond those comical snippets that describe my "status." But then, if you only follow the blog, you miss out on the photographic documentation of events that take place beyond the fence line at Four Cedars. And some of these events are signinicant...

On August 15, in a tiny century-old church in rural Wisconsin last Saturday...there was a princess. Escorted by her father, my niece Steph, looking like the angel that she is, made her way to the altar, where her beloved stood.

From the balcony, an ethereal glimpse of the father of the bride embracing the groom. Family and friends looked on. I noticed many near me with tears in their eyes. Tears of joy, no doubt. Though I had a spot near the front and could have taken pictures throughout the ceremony, I chose instead to set the camera down and remain in the moment.

There will, I expect, be more of these types of photos floating about on Facebook in the coming days as people unload their digital files. If I see some as striking as the the ones that follow, I will snag them as time permits and post them here as well. And, like the rest of the eager family, I will await the work of the professional who was hired to capture all the wonderful moments of what took place near the highest point in Trempeleau County Wisconsin, and along the Mississippi River later that same night.

Real food, enjoyed by real people...

Did you know a pork butt comes from the front leg of the pig, which is nowhere close to, well, a pig's actual butt? What gives?

Of course, a pork butt is also known as a pork shoulder. Now that makes sense to me. Then of course, there's the Boston Butt, which is close to the same thing, though my son will probably clarify this for me. I'm not sure when the pig was in Boston, or if he's even a Red Sox fan.

Company came so I slow-cooked a pork shoulder in apple cider to make pulled-pork sandwiches. The cooking tip came from Heidi. So did the pork. We (me, Heidi and the pig) got rave reviews on the meal from those who came for a visit and got a tour and lunch. We closed the meal with Janice's strawberry pie. (I like to give credit where it's due.) No leftovers on either the pork or the pie, by the way.

The meal put one of my guests in nap mode, which in my mind is the highest compliment one can pay a chef, even an amateur chef like me. Lucky for him, I didn't listen to my dad and sell my swing. It doesn't get used much, it's true, but still it's nice to have when a friend needs some shut-eye.

All in all, it was a good day filled with good food and company, another rarity around here. Yes, it was a good day. A good hot summer day. At last!!

Do what you love and you'll never work...

A friend and I recently shared our experiences as new entrepreneurs. Like me, she felt pulled to transform a lifelong passion into a venture she hoped would grow into a profitable enterprise. And like me, she's learning that in order to work "on her business," she needs to work fewer hours "in her business." This means that in order to be successful, chances are she'll be spending much less time on the passion that drew her into business in the first place. That's a tough irony that catches up to all entrepreneurs eventually. Even writers.

This afternoon, I toured a local vineyard that boasts 13 acres of grapevines, a nursery, and opening in 2010, an impressive winery/event center/restaurant. The vineyard, which was established in 2000, was perfect. Every row had vines teeming with ripening clusters, the grass strips between the rows had sharp edges and there wasn't a weed to be seen anywhere. Trust me; I looked hard. I can't imagine there being a better maintained operation in the state.

As I moved through the tour, I listened to the owner talk about his processes and his plans. I also pondered the varied skill sets that will be required to be successful in the venture. It's one thing to be a good grower; being a good host is another thing altogether. I wondered if he'll find planning menus or hiring waitstaff or scheduling events to be as rewarding as growing grapes. Undoubtedly, something will have to give in order to manage it all. And then I learned what his first "something" was going to be: harvest. This fall, at this vineyard, harvest will be done via machine.

We haven't yet experienced harvest here at Four Cedars. But that doesn't mean I haven't planned it all out in my head. It will be a glorious September day. All my friends will drive in. I'll nourish them with food and wine and music and up and down the aisles, my friends will laugh and sing while tossing plump clusters into plastic bins. The day will be less about efficiency than it will be about sociability, yet the work will get done because we're doing what we love so it isn't really work, right?

I could never give this dream up to gain the efficiency of a machine. (Not even if it rains every day in September.) And I'd never want to grow so big that I'd even consider machine harvesting an option. Yet, if I were in the grape growing business in a serious way, the way I witnessed a local grape grower today, I'd have to consider all options in the name of efficiency.

Thankfully, I survive on other skill sets. My grape growing can remain a passion that I can "work in" instead of "work on" for as long as I continue to love the leaves and shoots and tendrils and even (hiss), yes even the weeds.

This past weekend we finished hedging and skirting (pruning those flopped over and dragging shoots). It looks much better after pruning is done. Now it's time for bonfire.

War, declared today...

Allow me to catch you up on events here at Four Cedars; it's been awhile since my last post.

The weather is confusing my vines. The days are sunny and dry, barely breaking 80 degrees. The nights are cool and dry and dewpoints, for the most part, hover in the 50s. My vines think they are growing in the Williamette Valley, not in the American Midwest. They'll get their wake-up call in about two months.

The Marquettes are amazing me with their vigor. I've had to hedge them at the top because they are flopping into the center of the rows. The Edelweiss, meanwhile, have recovered from their springtime frost burn and are looking very much like you might expect a second-year vine to look. Their growth is adequate, which to say manageable. And the weeds, well, they are doing what weeds do best. Annoying me.

Today, I found evidence of an enemy. Yes, there is an enemy afoot...or, perhaps, afeather.

The picture above was taken two weeks ago. One week ago, those clusters went from green to glorious gold. Hubby and I each took a nibble of the not-quite-ripe fruit. It was tart with a hint of green apple flavor. Yummy.

As the gold color got richer, I knew ripeness was on the horizon. I pulled another one. Yummy. This time it was not quite as tart but still there was a hint of green apple. The clusters were wearing gold like an Egyptian queen.

These three clusters were destined to be my bellweather grapes. I was counting on them to tell me much about how sugar levels change daily as grapes ripen. I started browsing for a refractometer. And then...

...tonight on my stroll through the rows, I checked my golden lovelies. They were gone. Every single ball of citrine, gone. This is heartbreak.

There is an enemy out there. It must be stopped.

The colors of summer

I am in awe of the reds, and the corals and magentas make me smile, but it is the green that is my favorite. The juicy, tart, not-quite-ripe yet magnificent flavor of green. This is how I color my summer.

A gritty twist on personal history

It rained today. It was a lovely rain. A million dollar rain if you're engaged in the business of farming.

I try to spend rainy days tidying up the farmhouse, and today was no different. I sorted through stacks of laundry, mail and old magazines trying to reduce, reuse or recycle as much as possible. In the midst of my cleaning, I picked up the 2009 Farmers Almanac, and while trying to determine its fate, I found something I had to share:

"Historians tell us that among the useful items the first European colonists brought with them to the New World was one that we might not have suspected: the earthworm. Earthworms didn't occur originally in much of the north, it seems; rather European species were carried here in the colonists' ships, hidden in the soil those vessels loaded as ballast and in the root balls of plants they carried.

Properly reflected on, the idea that a creature as familiar and ubiquitous as the garden worm should be an exotic can do us good. It can enlarge our perceptions of history, including personal history. For consider: If earthworms came to our continent with the colonists, then they necessarily have their places on the same historical timeline as their human importers. Just as the millions of today's descendants of the first European colonists can trace their ancestry to specific people and places, so the descendents of the earthworms who accompanied those pioneers must arrange themselves in a like heirarchy of arrival. Therefore, should you repine that your colonial pedigree isn't all that you might wish, five minutes' work with a garden spade can turn up an aristocrat, a Mayflower worm whose very presence in your vegetable patch must gentle your condition."

This seemed the perfect sentiment for a day when all the birds are smiling; their rainy-day quest for earthworm meals seems assured.

My one-way conversations ...

A few months ago, I entertained the thought of pulling the plug on this blog. But I didn't and today, especially today, I'm glad I didn't.

There are days when, beyond a few brief cellphone calls, my only connection to other people is found right here. I don't say that to elicit pity. This is the life I chose for myself after months of deliberation; those of you who've followed this blog since 2007 probably remember those cryptic essays I posted while I was talking myself into leaving the familiar and resettling here. And at my age! Then, as now, the blog is my way of keeping in touch with you as much as it is (I assume) your way of checking in on me. The latter is a leap on my part, but the regularity in which some of you post comments tells me it's not a huge leap.

I like this blog because it allows me to share with you the unexpected treasures of living in this wonderful place on the prairie, this place that requires so much work yet delivers so much reward.

Last week, on the long road to Michigan, I was rereading my grape-growing text to bone up on the goals of second-year vine pruning. I'll spare you the jargon and condense things to two words: air flow. In most of this breezy vineyard, air flow is not a problem. And then there is Row 16. This is the row closest to the road, the row that tells passers-by that I am a grape-growing goddess, the row that was planted first. Row 16: It will be the death of me, I'm sure.

I was in Row 16 with my pruners this evening trying to create air flow. If you look at the picture below, you'll see this is no easy task. There's a post in there if you look closely. The actual vines are planted four feet on either side of the post. Keep in mind, these are second year plants. This is Row 16. If these grapes had been planted by the government, I'm sure there'd be some sort of investigation into why these plants are growing like this. Surely, there's be a Senate sub-committee... I cut and pull and cut and pull and toss the clippings into the trailer that hubby has rigged up behind the golf cart. The cuttings in the photo below come from six plants. I know!


And then this... as I examine the growing pattern of Row 16, Plant 2, in order to see where I should cut...this...

A smile washes over me. The little nest is about the size of a teacup saucer and inside, three tiny blue eggs. It's this discovery that reminds me why I love it here, even when there's no one to talk to. Then I remember that I can share this surprise with you here, on this silly little blog that I almost deleted but didn't. Another smiles washes over me. Thanks for listening.

A week away, and...

I returned to the ranch this evening to find the lawn has sprouted a pretty healthy crop of clover. No biggie, though. The Cub Cadet has new blades and a full tank of gas.

More importantly as I reviewed the property, is that the dawn application of Roundup I made early last week gave me the best coming home present a girl can ask for: rows clear of weeds. A quick walk up and down the rows revealed several plants in need of some light pruning, which isn't so much of a chore as it is a lifestyle nowadays. But the chore that is weeding, a true chore indeed, has been taken care of by the good folks at Monsanto. A respite!

Maybe my fingernails will stay clean through to the weekend.

A quick escape from the prairie...

We celebrated Independence Day by breaking away from the ties that bind...i.e., the green tape and T-bands that we use to tie our vigorous vines to their trellises. For three days, we set aside all thoughts of green to drink in the varied hues of blue. Jason and Becky have this power boat moored in Saugatuk, Michigan. It's a 30-minute steam up the channel from their slip to the open water.

There was room for all of us, plus fishing gear, scuba gear, and refreshments.

Jason rigged 6 lines for trolling. The guys pulled in three salmon, which amounted to about 25 pounds.

This is the only evidence of traffic.

Waiting for a line to trip. Then all hell breaks loose.

With only a few trips in the afternoon, there's plenty of time to take in the serenity of the lake.

Blue. It stretches to the horizon where it melts into precious silver and gold. Sometimes, it only takes a few days away to rejuvenate the spirit. I can now return to the rows of overgrown green with fortitude knowing there are three months remaining to manage the tangle of green we call a vineyard.

And when I tire of green, which I will, I can come back to the memory of a blue that stretches forever.

Four Cedars Folly: Three Years In

We celebrated our third anniversary here at the farm this past weekend. Not suprisingly, the weekend went a lot like that first weekend went back in 2006: We worked like oxen from sun-up to sun down then downed a few Aleve along with a few beers.

What were we thinking?
Three years ago, we asked ourselves this question often. Then, most of our energy went toward rectifying decades of neglect. It was easier to get past our aches and pains when we could just blame the previous owner(s) for not knowing -- or caring -- how to maintain a property so its value appreciates. We'll turn the place around, we told ourselves. Once the dirt and debris gets cleared, we'll be in the clear too. Ha!

Then we got an idea to plant grapes; whether it was a good idea remains to be seen.

About a month into farm ownership, we met a nice fellow from town who struck us as the kind of guy who can get things done. We shared our idea with him and asked him if he knew a guy who might have a plow for hire. He did. The pasture needs to be turned, we told him. (We were thinking ahead). He nodded and promised to take care of it, which he did.
We ran into this fellow this weekend. He complimented us on our vineyard. "I always wondered if you knew what you were getting into," he admitted to us. Clearly, we didn't I told him, laughing on the outside but aching on the inside.

The experienced grape growers have told us that we will grow and learn as our grapes grow. This June, I learned that year two requires as much effort as year one. It is a painful lesson.

Last week brought us almost 3.5 inches of rain and temps in the 90s. Good growing weather for anything green. Three days before the above picture was taken, weeds outnumbered vines by roughly 20 to 1. But this post isn't so much about weeds; I spray herbicide to kill weeds. First, though, I had to go up and down the rows getting the robust vines, which were twisted and sprawling in any number of ways, pruned and tied to the trellis.

You can see what I mean, eh? I have to stick my head into this tangled mess and select two straight, upward growing lateral shoots that look as if they have the potential to give me a healthy crop in 2010. Everything else gets cut. It takes about 10 minutes and requires much patience and critical thinking. In spite of the mess of potential in front of me, there is a right path; deciding takes faith. It sort of reminds me of parenting teenagers, except this also requires bug spray.

Hubby told me he'd rather pull weeds than prune. Tony and Shannon spent the day helping with this task and both told me they saw twisted mangled vines in their dreams. They stopped short of calling them nightmares. I'm grateful.

Once the vines are up off the dirt like this one, I just have to wait for the breeze to abate before heading into the rows with the herbicide sprayer. I've discovered the calmest hour of the day is at 5 o'clock in the morning.

Last Thursday as I pruned in the hottest part of the day, I again asked myself: What was I thinking? I know only a few women who, in blistering heat, would ignore biting flies and dirty fingernails in order to create something lasting -- something beautiful. Wouldn't I be happier, I asked myself, if I were in an air-conditioned coffee shop sharing thoughts on the latest best-seller, all manicured and comfy? I push the thought away and convince myself instead that I'm putting my energy toward something special.

What was I thinking? I was thinking grand. I was thinking beautiful. I was thinking legacy.

Fortunately, I have been blessed to know some women who, like me, are willing to work hard and get dirty in order to achieve big things. They inspire me to push ahead down the rows.

Where did this come from?

It had been London-like for most of a day and a half. Low clouds. Cool temps. Occassional drizzle. Then the sun came out for the hottest part of the day, 3:00 to 6:00 pm. Then, it got Kansas-like, in a big fat hurry.

By 7:30, I had tornado warnings 15 miles to my east, 10 miles to my north, and 20 miles to my south.

Memories as vibrant as surrounding vines

I was in the vineyard pruning earlier this evening, which is my favorite time to be in the vineyard because the angle of the light makes each leaf shimmer like gold.

I've learned there is an art to pruning, which is probably why it's become my favorite chore in the vineyard. I like helping these plants become all that their genetically meant to be, but not more; grapevines, you see, have a propensity to grow and grow and grow and if you've ever encountered grapes in the wild, you know what I'm talking about. They can become a tangled mess if not given the guidance of careful hand, a taut wire and a sharp snipper.

Pruning is also one of those activities that, if you resist the urge to plug in the iPod, allows your mind to drift. Tonight, I was recalling my sixty-something grandmother taking me off a beaten path in search of grape leaves. The beaten path was Mississippi River Boulevard in St. Paul, where we parked my mom's car, then the three of us carefully stepped down the incline that ended in a churning rhapsody of blue-grey water. The hillside was teeming with wild grapevines during the 1960s, and Grandma, not letting the fact that she was neither homeowner nor farmer deter her, figured the city wouldn't mind us helping ourselves to a couple hundred leaves that would end up as part of my all-time favorite Lebanese dish, Stuffed Grape Leaves (also known as Greek Dolmas).

Grandma was a frugal to be sure. She picked leaves from public land and turned them into wonderful treats, she filled ice-cream buckets full of strawberries at the pick-your-own farm in Cottage Grove, she haggled at garage sales and flea markets and always showed us, with pride, her latest treasure picked up for a song. And as I bent to snip shoots off the lower part of each trunk, I marveled at Grandma's ability to climb over brambles and tree trunks with the agility of woman half her age in search of free grape leaves.

I'm sure no one would have cared about her interest in wild grapevines anyway. And like I said earlier, grapes will grow and grow and grow if you let them, and I can't. And so I snipped and pulled, shoot after shoot, some six-feet long with large, lovely leaves evenly spaced. I snipped and pulled and thought about Grandma standing on an incline in pursuit of the same resource that I held in my hand with every intention of heaving into the fire pit.

And then on my way to the firepit, I made a detour -- through the kitchen. It is June after all, the month when grape leaves are young and tender yet some are large enough to stuff and roll with a combination of lamb and rice and tomato and onion and lemon juice. And so I cut short my pruning and headed indoors with an armful of shoots that had been sacrificed for the good of the vine. And then I pruned again, this time with a different art in mind...the art of cooking.

Once all my leaves were cut off the petioles, washed, dried and bagged, I made my way to the firepit with the debris. I'm not sure when I'll have time to actually finish what I started tonight; rolling stuffed grape leaves takes a bit of time. Of course, the effort is worth it...especially when you start the process with fresh leaves.

You can buy grape leaves in a jar and make Dolmas any time of the year. But they won't taste the way they taste in June. That's something Grandma never articulated to me. She didn't have to. Watching her tiptoe her way down toward the river over downed tree limbs told me all I needed to know about the value of cooking with tender young leaves. And here, I've got rows and rows of them. If only I had Grandma here to help me.

Thoughts on adopting a cat...

The new cat likes attention, which is, I presume, a feature found in most pets.

For the briefest of moments yesterday, the meowing hit a level that drove me outdoors. Fortunately, that meant a walk to my neighbor's place down the road. The exercise was good; the weather, perfect. I enjoyed a nice visit with Jill, a mother of two children under age five, who also has two cats, four kittens, 26 chickens, and one large dog whose favorite toy is labeled "hyper-dog."

Twenty minutes at Jill's animal farm assured me that one small cat and two wandering hens are manageable for one who has 650 grapevines, and a business, to tend.

The new cat also likes window sills, which is great until his caregiver decides to close the window without telling new cat. He jumped, he smacked the glass, he returned to the floor. This is comedy at its basic level, folks.

New to the old farmstead...

Farm cat...
Formerly known as Elroy...
Enjoying the view... Farm dog, meanwhile, is likely spinning in his grave.

The bridge between Spring and Summer...

It's been a blustery spring in these parts, which helps keep me on task at the keyboard. The holiday weekend, however, brought two consecutive days of warm temps, calm winds, and sparkling skies. Under these conditions it becomes clear that I need get away from the computer and get outside to see what's transpired around the property.

We scouted the vineyard and found both good news and bad. First the good news: there's lots of vigor to be seen, especially among the Marquettes. And by vigor I mean that the Marquettes have put out grape clusters, and lots of them. (See the red arrows in the photo below.) While cluster thinning is an annual routine in a vineyard because a vine will always produce more clusters than it can effectively ripen, our year two plan is to remove all clusters so the plant can focus on root and trunk development. We made quick work of pinching them off.

Now the bad news: We suffered frost damage that hit all the plants, but the Edelweiss seemed to suffer the worst of it. If it were a fruiting year, a late May frost could devastate the crop. Fortunately, this is not a fruiting year. So the plants have been set back in their progress. Many of them lost all their shoots. I'll be watching them closely to see how quickly they recover.


Also this week, Heidi was back to finish up the grapevine mural. We are thrilled with her work.
Lastly, we finally got around to burying farm dog's ashes. The family bought me a marker to set above his plot, a nice reminder of the world's sweetest dog. Next week, we're welcoming a cat to the homestead. His official name is Elroy, but I expect he'll mostly be referred to around these parts as "farm cat." I've never owned a cat before; it could be an adventure.

I heard a line at Mass yesterday that seemed especially fitting for Memorial Day. "Live a life worthy of the price that was paid for it." God bless you and thanks for stopping by.

A gritty day all around...

I've seen pictures of the Dust Bowl and today wasn't quite so dire. Still...

the wind today, which was a simple amplifaction of the powerful wind of yesterday, was notable.

For instance, after opening the windows upstairs for the first time in nearly eight months, I was forced to promptly reclose them because surfaces were covered in dirt...

Then, I noticed that the small tomato plants that I'd hoped to put in the ground had disappeared; the plastic tray, blown apart, and the seedlings simply gone...

the bench, the Adirondack chair, the swing, the rocker, all tipped over...

the gate to the vineyard, swung wide and moving...

the buckets holding place for coming Iris plants, those I caught rolling across the front lawn...

I spied a half-dozen geese grounded, wandering the back lawn...

and finally, the air at the horizon and halfway up to heaven, well, it resembled the Los Angeles basin any day of any summer. It was thick air. Brown air. Dirt air.

Maybe it wasn't the Dust Bowl here today. But it was something. Maybe, it was the Dust Saucer.

Garden class inspired him...

The men in my life are fond of saying: "Go big, or go home." Usually, the phrase is tied to horsepower or firepower or the size of the bonfire out back. The thinking goes, I presume, that more is better. But more can also mean more work, as in more general care. Oftentimes general care, or upkeep, falls into my column of the chore list.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, hubby and I have been taking gardening classes from Diane Selly of Earthworks Gardens. I've enjoyed the lessons thinking they would help me take better care of the plants we already have. Hubby, meanwhile, had other ideas, such as waiting until I was away for a day to build a new perennial garden. He didn't have a plan. His only driving theme: Go big, or go home! This is the south side of the house, along the kitchen, where he told me it was very difficult to mow the grass, which were mostly weeds anyway. (Folks, I've mowed here often. It wasn't that tough!)

The love birds, meanwhile, loved the idea of playing in the dirt. All the better for finding worms. When the plot was cleared, and I got over my shock at the chore that is planning a flower garden, I did what any smart woman does. I cried for help. Fortunately, Diane came to our rescue and out to St. Peter, and Earthworks Gardens, we went. Diane sketched us a plan, then walked us around the field to show us some options. When we made our choices, we dug them out. (No potted perennials here!)

We chose Baptisia for the back, Penstemon for the center, and Iris, Daylilies and Tanacetum for the front, and one perennial Oregano plant. Diane also gave us Flowering Almond and we moved in some wild grass from elsewhere on the property. Then we chopped everything down, as Diane instructed. The upside down buckets are holding the place where the Iris will go. We filled the surrounding area with shredded tree mulch.

It doesn't look like much now, but I'm expecting by late July, the garden will look gorgeous. It better. It took the entire weekend. And for the record, the next time hubby says to me "Go big, or go home," I intend to tell him to go home.

After all, I still have 650 grapevines that need my attention.