Jonas: you disappoint

Jonas tiptoed through Farm Dover yesterday, kicking up lots of snowflakes, but laying down few new ones. My walk this morning revealed only about an inch-and-a-half of new snow.

Meanwhile in Brooklyn, Mary sent me a photo of Jonas' work in the Northeast: he deposited snow INSIDE Mary's (shut) window, piling up around her jade plant. Last I heard, she was building a snowman on her window sill.

Just for the record, I took some photos while out wandering this morning. I find them a bit prosaic, but decided to post them anyway, so we can look back on Snowzilla 2016 and remember that it didn't amount to a hill of beans.

Up on my soapbox

“The earth will not continue to offer its harvest, except with faithful stewardship. 
We cannot say we love the land and then take steps to destroy it for use by future generations.” 

― John Paul II

Yesterday I was down in the dumps but today I'm up on my soapbox. Remember I told you how concerned I was about the amount of plastic that comes and goes out of our house? Well, I'm taking steps to reduce it, starting with our laundry detergent. Hear me out.

When we moved out to Farm Dover, we bought a high-efficiency, front-loading washing machine. I started buying liquid Tide detergent in those ubiquitous orange plastic containers. Whenever I saw it on sale, I'd load up my cart with three or four bottles. Once they were empty, we would recycle them, even though I knew that most plastics are not recyclable in the same way that glass and metal are. (They are typically turned into only one other product, which must be landfilled at the end of its life.)

After only one day of clean up in our farm dump, I was disgusted by all the plastic bottles that would take a least half millennium to decompose. Think about it: if a crewman on the Nina, Pinta or Santa Maria had pitched a Tide detergent bottle overboard, it would just now be reaching decomposition.

I did some research and figured out I could make my own laundry detergent by combining borax (that comes in a cardboard box) and washing soda (also in a cardboard box) and one bar of Dr. Bonner's pure-castille soap.

I recycled Maggie's 5-gallon beer-making pail for the job. I filled it with 4.5 gallons of warm water and dissolved 1 cup each of the borax and washing soda. Then I grated the bar of soap and "cooked" it in 1/2 gallon of simmering water until all the soap gratings had dissolved. I added that to the pail, gave it a good stir and now I'm all set with enough detergent to run 80 loads of wash. An added bonus: the total cost is just a fraction of what I would have spent on Tide.

I tested it out on a load of dirty kitchen towels and my big fuzzy robe. I am pleased with the result. The suds were low (a good thing), the laundry came out clean (a good thing) and, because the bar of soap was lavender scented, it smelled mild and pleasant (another good thing).

I'm so inspired, I'm thinking of tackling cleaning products and shampoo/conditioner next. But, for the time being, I'll climb off my soapbox. I'll got some laundry to do.

Down in the dump(s)

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been down in the dump(s). No, I've not been discouraged, depressed or even sad. Rather, I've been literally down in the dumps: the dumps of Farm Dover. And Ed's been with me.

You see, we are cleaning up an old farm dump that we've known about, but chosen to ignore – until now. Farm Dover was once part of a much larger farm that supported a number of families. And, as was custom at the time, the inhabitants hauled their trash to a remote part of the farm and dumped it. Year after year, layer after layer, they deposited their empty glass bottles and plastic jugs, their worn-out clothes, their broken implements, appliances, toys and tires. In the summer, you would have to know exactly where the dump is to find it. Vines cover the evidence. But in the winter, it lies bare, exposing the ugly reality.

Now, layer by layer, we are attempting to clean it up, hauling the remnants in our pickup truck to the Shelby County Solid Waste and Recycling Center. We are separating the glass, the plastic, the aluminum, the metal, for recycling. The rest we will heave into the large garbage disposal bins, paying $.03 per pound for the privilege, where it will make its way to yet another landfill.

We've barely made a dent. So this may take us some time. But it seems the right thing to do.

Truth be told, it does get me a bit down in the dumps just thinking about it. It takes time, lots of time, for garbage to decompose. For example:

• Glass Bottle: 1 million years
• Plastic Beverage Bottle: 450 years
• Disposable Diapers: 450 years
• Aluminum Can: 80-200 years
• Leather: 50 years
• Plastic Bag: 10-20 years
• Foamed Plastic Cup: 50 years
• Cigarette Butt: 1-5 years
• Wool Sock: 1-5 years
• Newspaper: 6 weeks
• Paper Towel: 2-4 weeks

The average American produces more than four pounds of trash and recyclables per day, about 1,500 pounds per year. The very process of cleaning up this dump has me all in a dither about the number of Tide detergent bottles our tiny household goes through, the number of plastic arugula, kale and berry boxes we purchase every time we go to Kroger, even the plastic pots that the trees we plant arrive in. Yes, we recycle all that we can, but it's got me to thinking. And to acting. More later.... 

Yikes! I'm turning into a tomboy

My next birthday is barreling down on me. I actually hoped by this stage of my life, I would have somehow morphed into a beautiful, sophisticated woman (think Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco or maybe Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham). I'd wear my hair in a sleek bun, fasten bejeweled pins to my designer suits, wear sensible – but still stylish heels, and a pretty shade of lipstick. Perhaps a dab of expensive perfume behind my ears. I would be, you know, mature. And lovely.

Instead, I fear that I'm turning into a tomboy.

A fun day for me includes getting really sweaty and dirty, exploring the woods, capturing bugs, standing in the middle of my garden eating just-picked okra, cherry tomatoes, or peas. It might include wading in the creek, cutting trails through the woods, tossing grasshoppers into the pond to see if fish will rise, or foraging for wild greens and berries. Maybe it includes lying on the ground to cloud watch, tracking rabbit prints in the snow, or climbing trees to check on baby birds. It might include concocting strange drinks from flower blossoms, producing candles from beeswax and lard, or making a green salad entirely from four-leaf clovers. It almost always involves getting into some kind of mischief.

My hair is short and tucked behind my ears. My nails are ragged, without polish, and usually confirm that I forgot to wear gloves while working in the garden.

On a good day, I might take an outdoor shower and apply sunscreen to my face, perhaps some chap stick to my lips, maybe a dab of Deet® behind my ears. My outfit of choice is striped overalls and a long-sleeve tee shirt. I prefer cotton camisoles to Wonderbras. My shoes are old lace-up work boots -- or, if I'm being fancy, my Dansko clogs.

I often feel like my childhood literary heroes: Pippi Longstockings, Jo March, Scout Finch, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Peppermint Patti – all rolled into one. I'm almost 59, going on 10.

I'm sure that I'm not the kind of woman Ed bargained for when we married 30 years ago. But he's pretty much stuck with me now – and most days, he's right at my side, getting into mischief with me.

Bringing light to Farm Dover

My sisters and cousins were coming for lunch today. But based on an alarming weather forecast, we decided to postpone it until next week. Snow was on its way.

I had the whole day stretching out in front of me. Too cold and snowy to work outside. Time for a project...

I had beeswax from Maggie's hives in my pantry. I had recently rendered lard in my freezer. And I had some left-over spice tins. So, like a pioneer of olden days, I made candles.

It was simple: I melted twice as much beeswax as lard and poured it into a tin with a wick. Let it harden for 30 minutes. Done.

I now have five clean-burning, sweet-smelling, all-natural candles that will bring light to Farm Dover on these early dark nights.

The exception

Almost without exception I am happy to be out walking on our farm. Even when it is damp or cold out, once I leave our front doorstep, my world opens up and I joyfully walk along noticing the always-changing details of the landscape. My walks ground me in a way that nothing else does.

This morning, I wanted to stay in our warm bed. I wanted to sip strong dark coffee until noon. I wanted to get lost in the novel that I started last night. But I convinced myself that I should get up and check out the first bit of snow that blew in on an east wind last night. I convinced myself that this morning would be the same as all the others: delightful once I got on my way.

Wrong. Even though the thermometer read 23 degrees, it felt like 10. Actually, it felt like -10, with a  bitter wind hitting my face. I ducked into the woods and walked faster. Still fiercely cold. My 99 cent knit gloves didn't begin to keep my hands warm. I pulled the hood of my puffy coat up over my hat, still the wind came whistling through.

I stopped a couple of times to snap a photo on my phone and convince myself that this was fun. Wrong. It was just damn cold.

After a quick tour through the woods, I headed home. Ed greeted me with a mug of hot coffee. Without exception, I was happy to be back in our warm farmhouse.

And it's lovely rice pudding for dinner again!

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

She's crying with all her might and main,

And she won't eat her dinner – rice pudding again –

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

– from Rice Pudding, When We Were Very Young, by A.A. Milne

Yes, we are having lovely rice pudding for dinner (actually for dessert), but it's not like we have it again and again. If fact, I can't remember ever making it before. But every time I think of rice pudding, I can't help but think of poor Mary Jane, who evidently doesn't like it very much and can't seem to clearly communicate her great dislike. So, she simply throws a fit. (Hmmm...sounds like someone I used to know.)

The book this poem first appeared in was one of my mother's favorites, then one of mine, and now one of Maggie's, Jack's and Mary's. 

To left-over cold white rice, my mother used to add multiple tablespoons of white sugar and 2% milk and serve it to my sisters and me for breakfast, all the while reciting the poem about poor Mary Jane. 

I thought again of rice pudding this week when I ventured to make homemade almond milk by simply soaking a cup of organic, raw almonds overnight in water, draining them, then adding the wet and soaked almonds to my blender along with 3-1/2 cups of water and hitting the puree button for one minute or two. 

I thought the almond milk would make a nice creamy base for rice pudding. And then I remembered Laurie Colwin's essay on rice pudding where she advises adding lemon peel as the pudding cooks. So I did. And it was lovely, and I wouldn't mind having it again and again. 

__________________

Rice Pudding

BY A. A. MILNE

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

She’s crying with all her might and main,

And she won’t eat her dinner—rice pudding again—

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

I’ve promised her dolls and a daisy-chain,

And a book about animals—all in vain—

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

She’s perfectly well, and she hasn’t a pain;

But, look at her, now she’s beginning again!

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

I’ve promised her sweets and a ride in the train,

And I’ve begged her to stop for a bit and explain—

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

She’s perfectly well, and she hasn’t a pain,

And it’s lovely rice pudding for dinner again!—

What is the matter with Mary Jane?

__________________

    Here's an adaptation of Laurie Colwin's rice pudding. She calls for baking the pudding; I just cooked it on the stovetop, much like risotto, adding 1/2 cups of (almond) milk as the rice absorbed the previous 1/2 cup, using a total of 4 cups for 1/2 cup of rice.  Mine was creamier. I also added 1 teaspoon of vanilla once the rice was fully cooked. 

Lemon Rice Pudding

Adapted from Laurie Colwin & Jane Grigson. Makes 4 servings of 1/2-cup.

1 medium lemon, preferably Meyer lemon
1/4 cup jasmine rice
2 tablespoons sugar 
Pinch of salt
1 cup 2% milk
1 cup heavy whipping cream

Preheat the oven to 250°F. Peel the lemon with a vegetable peeler, being careful not to take any of the white pith away with the rind. Cut the peel into fine strips. Mix the peel with the rice, sugar, and salt in a 9-inch pie dish. Stir in the milk and cream.

Bake uncovered for about 2 hours, stirring every 30 to 45 minutes. As the milk reduces, it will form a thin layer on top of the pudding; simply break this up and stir it in.

Final baking time will depend on your oven, the pie dish, and how thick you prefer your rice pudding. When ready, the rice will be completely cooked and tender but the pudding will still be soupy and thin. As it cools, however, it will firm up considerably.

Eat hot, warm, or cold.

Making something out of nearly nothing

If you looked at my garden on this cold January day, all you would see is some blown-around cardboard and lots of straw. I've been steadily working to get plain cardboard down and straw piled on top in my on-going experiment to contain the weeds in my garden.

If you bothered to move back some straw in the far back corner, you would see the tops of green garlic poking through the earth. I planted 80 some-odd hard-neck bulbs back in November and with the mild weather of late, the young garlic has come up. Technically, it won't be ready for harvest until mid-spring, with the scapes coming along in June, and the final harvest of garlic bulbs in August.

But it is Sunday night and we have barely left the farm in over a week. Not much in the refrigerator. Earlier today, I unfroze a single halibut filet that I found in the downstairs freezer and I've been thinking about what I might do to it to turn it into dinner.

I was looking through my Sunday Suppers at Lucques cookbook this afternoon and happened upon a recipe for wild striped bass with farro, black rice, green garlic and tangerine. The photo was stunning, with its white fish, black rice, green garlic, creamy farro and bright citrus. In the book, Suzanne Goin, Los Angles chef and author, showcases meals from her restaurant's Sunday night, set-menu dinners. She organizes the book by season and this particular recipe is found under Spring. 

It is not spring. It is winter. But I remembered the garlic sprouts in my garden and so I set out to harvest some. While snooping around, I found the last little bits of thyme, a handful of parsley, some sprigs of mint and some baby spinach -- none of which had suffered from frost. Oh, and I found one small carrot still hiding out in one of the porch barrels. I was all set.

Once back inside, I looked in my pantry for some Chinese black rice. Came up empty, but did find part of a cup of wild rice, and it was black. I didn't find any farro, but did find some millet.

So, I'm planning to substitute halibut for wild striped bass, millet for farro, wild rice for black rice, spinach for pea shoots, orange zest for tangerine zest, and I'll throw in the carrot for some added color, but other than that, I'll follow Ms. Goin's recipe to the T.

And that's how I'm planning to make something out of nearly nothing. Bon appétit!

On the lookout for the unexpected

On my wanderings around Farm Dover, I am constantly on the lookout for the unexpected. On these short and gray days of December, it might be a white-tailed buck leaping with amazing grace across the barbed-wire boundary fence, or multiple pairs of stylish cardinals whistling with gusto from bare black branches. Maybe it's the green garlic poking through the straw mulch in the big garden, or a few honey bees squeezing in and out of the small winter entrance to their hive. 

Today, on the last day of 2015, I found some Lenten roses, blooming at least two months early. They come from plants growing under the hydrangeas that line the sides of the cottage. Even without leaves on the hydrangea bushes, these hellibore blooms can be hard to see as they tend to hang their heads downward, rather that seeking the light above. 

I picked a few blossoms to share with you. 

Here's to 2016. Be on the lookout. May you be charmed by the unexpected.

My Pantry

I read cookbooks the way others read novels. Nothing I like better than to curl up with a new cookbook and begin reading on page 1 and keep at it until the last page.

My friend Jane sent me Alice Water's new book, My Pantry, and yesterday as it poured down rain all day, I poured through the pages. The book was written with the help of Alice's daughter, Fanny Singer, and includes dozens of Fanny's lovely ink illustrations. The book is organized by category, beginning with spice mixtures and condiments and ending with sweet preserves. It includes essays and recipes for pantry staples that many people would not think to make – but ones that can turn a simple meal into something special.

Many of the items in Ms. Walters' pantry can also be found in mine. And, after reading this book, I plan to add a number of new ingredients, so I can cook like Alice! I'm so inspired I might even make Alice's apple peel cider vinegar, or almond milk, or homemade corn tortillas. She also makes a convincing argument for making your own ricotta, chevre, and yogurt. Gives me something to shoot for in 2016...

...............................

My pantry and spice drawer are much more robust than they were when I lived in the city. In my prior life, it was all to easy to just swing by Burger's, Doll's Market or Lotsa Pasta and pick up the odd ingredient or two that I was missing. Not so these days. It is at least 10 miles to the nearest Kroger and I find that if I stock my pantry well, harvest a big garden, and fill our basement freezer with frozen soups and meats, I can go a long time between grocery runs.

...............................

Apple Peel Cider Vinegar
Reprinted from "My Pantry," by Alice Waters with Fanny Singer. 

Rather than throwing away the scraps after you make a pie or tart, freeze them, and when you have enough, make this mellow, fruity vinegar.

ingredients
2 quarts apple cores and peels
2 quarts water
1/3 cup sugar

Put the apple cores and peels in a large glass or ceramic bowl. Dissolve the sugar in the water and pour over the cores and peels. Cover with a plate and weight down with something heavy to keep the solids submerged. Cover the entire bowl with cheesecloth or a kitchen towel and leave on the counter out of direct sunlight for 7 days.

Strain the cores and peels from the liquid and discard the solids. Put the liquid in jars or bottles and secure a piece of cheesecloth over the opening with a rubber band to allow airflow. Allow to age at room temperature out of direct sunlight for 6 to 8 weeks, until the desired flavor is achieved. A "mother" will begin to develop after about 2 weeks.

I'm assuming that after the aging period, you can cork the jars and place them in your pantry. 

Knowing the dark

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

– Wendell Berry
from “To Know the Dark”

At nearly midnight tomorrow the winter solstice will occur at Farm Dover. By the time it arrives, it will have been dark for nearly six and a half hours. And it will be nearly eight more hours before the sun rises above our little cottage. It is the longest night.

In his poem, I suspect Wendell Berry may have been referring to the darkness that lurks within our souls, but I challenge you to embrace the physical dark, to know the dark – as it too blooms and sings. Bundle up. Go willingly into the dark. Surrender to it. Look up. The stars are brightly shining. A full moon will rise on Christmas Day. Listen. Around here, coyotes yelp. Turkeys gobble from their tree-top roosts. And an owl will let its presence be known by the soft flap of its wings.

There is a beauty in the darkness that we never imagined.

..............................

Yuletide blessings to you and your clan. May there be light in your life and much joy on your journey in the coming year. Rest assured that warmth, sunlight and longer days are somewhere up the trail.

Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say

For the past week or so, it has seemed more appropriate to wish you a Mele Kalikimaka than a Merry Christmas. While palm trees are not swaying at Farm Dover, the temperatures do feel more like Hawaii than Kentucky. Rather than hunkering down for bowls of warm soup and mugs of hot chocolate, Ed and I have been out in the fields in our shirt sleeves planting seven new paw paw trees, two buckeyes, a wild plum, two persimmon trees, a blue spruce, and dozens and dozens of daffodil bulbs.

We took advantage of the warm weather yesterday to buy not one, but two, balled Christmas trees. We planted one in the side field and the other, we'll haul up to our front porch and decorate with some simple white lights. It will stay there until Christmas Eve when we will move it inside for a day or two. Mary and I will decorate it (or not) on Christmas Eve. Last year, we decided that it looked just fine with the white lights and no ornaments.

Those who know me know that I don't like to decorate the house for Christmas. Don't ask me why, but it seems to me that red and green bows and garlands just look junky. I like them in other people's homes. Just not mine.

But in an effort to be more festive and try harder with my decorations, I moved the big wooden bear down from the mantle and replaced him with a wooden swan and a stoneware crock sprouting some bare branches. I cut some cedar branches with berries and tucked them under the goose. I stood back and looked at my creation and it made me slightly claustrophobic. I tossed the branches into the compost. To my way of thinking, the mantle looked better without them. Maybe I'm turning into a minimalist.

This morning, I unpacked our 1940's-era manger, with its chipped chalkware figurines. Despite its imperfections, I find it perfect.

I'm still looking for the perfect spot for my other favorite nativity. This one I inherited from my mother. She loved Christmas and always went all out with her decor. I don't know where she got this little piece of pottery. Growing up I don't remember seeing it. It appears to have been fashioned by a child. There is Joseph, leading the way. Mary on a donkey, holding Baby Jesus in her arms. After their child was born in a lowly stable in Bethelehem, the family returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. "And the child grew and became strong; he was filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was on him."

"...That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

..........................

Mele Kalikimaka
Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say
On a bright Hawaiian Christmas day
That's the island greeting that we send to you
From the land where palm trees sway
Here we know that Christmas will be green and bright
The sun to shine by day and all the stars at night
Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way
To say Merry Christmas to you
Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say
On a bright Hawaiian Christmas day
That's the island greeting that we send to you
From the land where palm trees sway
Here we know that Christmas will be green and bright
The sun to shine by day and all the stars at night
Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way
To say Merry Christmas to you...

                                                  – Bing Crosby

Wanderings

I've been doing a lot of wandering around the farm this past week. The mornings have been frosty, foggy, and sometimes a bit damp. I may procrastinate a bit getting going. My fuzzy robe is, well, fuzzy. And Ed is good about bringing me my latest morning concoction: ginger and mint tea.

But as soon as I pull on my boots and walk out the door, I'm glad. There is always something interesting to see as I make my way down the beehive trail, take the woods' path, circle around the pond, cross the creek at the waterfall, move down the line between our farm and our neighbor's, cut across the drive to the hackberry trailhead, leap across the creek to the upper field, circle back to turkey nest trail, cut through the walnut grove, follow Christmas Tree Lane back to the drive, and head to our front gate, where I always touch the red flag on the mail box before turning around and heading back home.

Not much color to be found. The fields are a hundred shades of muted browns; the early morning skies painted in a palette of soft grays.

But rounding the corner of the front field, something bright caught my eye: a lone December dandelion. Made me smile.

Attaching memories

My cousin Merty died last February. A few months before she died, she asked me to take home one of her beloved Christmas cacti. I wanted to warn her that I wasn't trustworthy. I didn't have a green thumb. I couldn't guarantee that her plant would outlive her.

But instead, I thanked her and placed the green plant in my bathroom in the hopes that it would get good light and moisture, and that if I saw it every day, I might remember to water it.

Much to my delight, it bloomed last December and, as if on cue, has bloomed again this week. Every time I look at it, I think fondly of Merty.

____________

This morning, I trimmed the spent blossoms off the sedum plant out by our birdbath. One by one, I cut the long pale stems topped with brown dried blossoms. And with each cut, I thought about my beloved Grandmommy. You see, my start for this plant came from Mary Rinehart's garden on Cannons Lane. It has followed me from Natchez Lane to Rainbow Drive, to Calumet, to Dover Road.

I remember sitting in Grandmommy's driveway a half century ago with my sisters carefully smashing the top layer of a leaf from this succulent. If I rubbed it just right with my thumb and index finger, the top cellophane-like layer would separate from the fleshy center. I could then blow it up like a little balloon. Great fun for an 8-year-old (or even a 58-year-old!). I taught Maggie, Jack and Mary how to do it as well.

But back to this morning...once I cut all the stems to near ground level, I discovered the most beautiful baby sedums. I got such a kick out of seeing them huddled into the very center of the plant, tightly packed, just waiting for spring.

_____________

Not all my plant gifts are attached to memories of those departed. I've got spice bushes in the backyard from Paul and Jackie, a magnolia tree from Sherry, irises from Lynn and Vivian, peonies from Gay, tulip trees from Sandy, ramps from Maggie, an orchard of fruit trees given to us by friends, lily of the valley and wood poppies from Holly, and a monster fern from Kathleen.

But perhaps my favorite is the houseplant that Mary left in my care when she moved to Brooklyn. It's a big floppy-leafed Fiddleleaf Fig tree. It seems to like its home in our study and is growing by leaps and bounds. It's a little bit like having a puppy around. Every time it sprouts a new set of leaves, I text Mary a picture. Every time I see it, or give it a drink of water, I think of Mary, off on her big adventure in NYC. I can't guarantee I won't kill it, but I'm trying very hard not to.