A Sweet Surprise

Life on Farm Dover continues to amaze me, even after nearly a dozen years of living here. There is always something happening in the gardens, fields or woods that fascinates me. This past week it was the startling discovery that we could tap our black walnut trees (of which we have plenty) for sap, that could then be boiled down to a most-delicious sweet syrup. 

If you read this blog with any regularity, you know that I love to forage for wild foods and, while I never claim that I can feed us on them exclusively, I do appreciate knowing that I can walk out the back door with a bucket and come home most days with ingredients for a very local, very fresh dinner. The addition of syrup has added a whole new basic taste (sweet) that I can cook with, adding panache to pancakes and waffles, oatmeal and sweet salad dressings. Yes, I know honey, fruits and berries are also sweet, but not like this syrup: complex and butterscotchy.

It all started with reading a blog entry from Practical Self Reliance covering 27 trees to tap for syrup. I was amazed that all kinds of hardwood trees could be tapped. The more I learn about trees, the more in awe I am of them. 

I suppose I always knew that sap flows through sapwood, part of the outer tree trunk, delivering water, sugars, and nutrients throughout the tree. But I'm not sure I understood that sap production actually begins in warm summer months when photosynthesis creates carbohydrates that get stored in the tree as starch. It then gets converted to sugar that dissolves into the sap, which is stored for the winter. Beginning in late winter, the weather provides just the right conditions (alternating freeze/thaw cycles) to produce sap that can be collected to make syrup.  

With some quick Googles, we were on a roll, figuring out how to harvest about 8 quarts of sap, resulting in one, very precious, bottle of syrup. 

Because we didn't have any tapping supplies on hand, we made do. I carved spigots (also called spiles) from elder and sumac trees, hollowing them out with metal prods. 

Ed drilled a hole in the first tree, on the south side to take advantage of the warming sun and hung a metal bucket from a notch carved in the spile. 

And as we turned to go to the next tree, we heard: drip. drip. drop. The sap was starting to flow and the bucket filled up in just a few hours. Back at the house, we poured ourselves a glass of the sap, which is sometimes taken as a spring tonic. It was cold and fresh, and only slightly sweet. It tasted as I imagine water would taste from a mountain spring -- invigorating!

Once we had a pot full of sap, we boiled it down. It took most of the day and didn't really taste sweet until it condensed down to about a cup for every 30 or so cups of sap. Once done, and still warm, we poured it into a clean bottle and now it sits, just waiting for Hazel and Norbert to come for a pancake breakfast.*

* I did use the very last drips to flavor a bowl of oatmeal and it was spectacular. 

Next week looks like it will warm up and sap collection will surely fall off. But late next winter, we'll be ready and can hopefully bottle more than one flask of this precious elixir. 

Return of the Light

May you find peace in the promise of the solstice night,

that each day forward is blessed with more light.

12.19.21 @ 7:49 in the morning

That the cycle of nature, unbroken and true

Brings faith to your soul and well-being to you.

12.12.21 @ 5:33 in the evening

Rejoice in the darkness, in the silence find rest,

And may the days that follow be abundantly blessed.

12.20.21 @ 7:59 in the morning

(author unknown)

Walking in a springtime wonderland

About the time I posted my last entry, snow started to fall, and fall, and fall. I awoke to find 6+ inches of snow, the deepest snowfall of the year – and remarkable that it fell on the second day of Spring. I pulled on my boots for a walk through our springtime wonderland. Mostly so I can remember the remarkable beauty of this sure-to-not-last-long snowfall, I offer these photos from my walk.

Note: These photos have an added filter in Photoshop to posterize them.

Welcome to my world

Faded beauty

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.

– Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672) 

I walked extra early one morning this week; the fog hung thick, making everything look misty shades of brown or gray. Depressing some might say; but I love to walk along our paths in every season and almost always find something inspiring or uplifting. 

This time of year I'm on the lookout for early signs of spring: daffodil leaves poking up, grape hyacinths sending up spikes of urn-shaped flowers, lenten roses nestled in the snow with their heads turned downward, witch-hazel showing off its shaggy, spidery winter blooms. But I'm finding nothing. Nada. It's been an unusually cold couple of months and I'm thinking spring will be slow to come to Farm Dover.

I'm trying to make the best of it, knowing that I have no control over Mother Nature. On my recent foggy walk, I picked a bouquet of flowers. Granted they were dead flowers – in various stages of decay – but nevertheless beautiful in their own degenerated way. I brought them inside and arranged them in old ginger beer bottles and assorted pottery jars.

Then, a few days later, I spied a deserted American Goldfinch nest in a flower stem. I added it to my dead-flower collection.

I have to tell you this gothic show of decay isn't really doing it for me. I'm itching to purchase a bouquet of orange tulips from Whole Foods. But I've promised myself that I will refrain from purchasing flowers from far-off lands when I have acres of native flowers and grasses to pick from, just outside my door. Still, it is tempting....

In an effort to bring new life into the house, I've cut some branches from a wild pear tree, pruned some twigs from our orchard trees and snipped some blossoms from the magnolia bush in the bee garden. I put them in vases filled with warm water,  hoping to force them into blooming.

Perhaps these coerced blooms will be enough to cheer me until the circle of life pushes forth new growth and I can pick fresh flowers to my heart's content.

_______________

From my archives: Some photos from previous years, when spring bore her gifts early.

December 31, 2015

January 26, 2016

January 30, 2013

February 5, 2016

Reset 2018

Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right.

– Oprah Winfrey

We've been home since mid-September, the longest stretch that I can remember spending here at Farm Dover. I was happy to get back to the farm after a busy summer and fall of travel, and the farm seemed to be happy to have us back. Until this recent cold spell, Ed and I had spent most of our days outside, working on various projects that were calling out for attention.

And then there were the holidays.... Jack was home from Berlin. Mary and her boyfriend Brian flew in from Brooklyn. Maggie and Nate came Christmas Eve. So that night, the house was full – and my heart was even fuller. 

But they lead busy lives.... On Wednesday, Mary and Brian took off for a few days in Portland, Oregon. Jack has gone up to Indianapolis to spend the New Year's celebration with a friend from college and his family, who have very nearly adopted him. Maggie and Nate are entertaining friends at their home in Louisville. That leaves Ed and me to quietly welcome the new year. 

I've been thinking much about the new year. When the kids were young, Ed and I would try to carve out a few hours between Christmas and New Year to talk about the direction we wanted to focus our lives in the coming 12 months. We had categories! We had goals! We had action plans! And, for the most part, it was a helpful exercise. It was always surprising to look back at year end to discover that we had accomplished many of the plans we had set forth, despite all the crazy day-to-day living that was going on under our roof. 

I don't feel the need to dissect my life to that extent any more. I am who I am, and mostly happy with that person and the life she leads. Still it never hurts to do a bit of introspection, to shift focus a few degrees, to hone a new skill. 

And so this week, I hauled out that old planning format and considered a few of the categories: Farm. Self. Marriage. Family. Friends. Community. I noted a number of tasks that I wanted to tackle under each category. Once done, it looked more like my weekly "to-do" list than a stab at meaningful resolutions. And that's when it hit me. I don't need more to-dos or resolutions. But I could benefit from an awareness of my intentions for the new year. What do I want more of? Less of?

And so off I went on one of my internal dialogues – thinking hard, arguing with myself, making notes and revising them.

More moonlight/sunrise/starlight. 
More poetry/music/art/science. 
More touch. 
More gentleness to the earth/self/others. 
More intention. Less autopilot. 

That's it. Well, that's mostly it.

What about you? Do you make resolutions? Focus on intentions? Choose just one word for the year?

Whatever works for you, I hope you know that I am sending you wishes for a very happy new year, and another chance to get it right.

Light Victorious

This morning at 5:44 here at Farm Dover, the sun momentarily stood still. For it was at this predawn instant that the sun was directly overhead the Tropic of Capricorn. One moment later, it amazingly reversed its direction. The Winter Solstice, that time when the sun reaches its southern-most position, had come and gone for another year. Once again, the light is victorious; the time of increasing darkness has passed.

This phenomenon happened while I was fast asleep. It would be another two hours before the sun peeked above the horizon and dimly shone through the fog and into our bedroom window, waking me from my long winter's nap. The sun rose just to the east of the cottage at 7:56 this morning and will set tonight over the driveway's end at 5:27, marking the day a full 5 hours and 20 minutes shorter than on the Summer Solstice.

I shouldn't complain. Our day will be 15 minutes longer than Mary's in Brooklyn and nearly 2 hours longer than in Jack's Berlin. If we lived in Reykjavik, Iceland, our hours of sunlight would measure only a bit more than 4.

It's funny. I never paid much attention to the hours and minutes of sunlight or darkness when we lived in town. But out here, it is such a part of our lives. To a large extent, it governs when we wake up and when we sleep, when we do our chores and take our walks, when I wipe the dust from the bookshelves and when Ed builds the fire.

The darkness commands a hunkering down: a braising of warming stews, a cracking of whole nuts, another log on the fire, a good book to sink into. Conversely, the gaining light signals a time of rebirth: concocting spring tonics, perusing seed catalogs, planning the spring garden, ordering tree seedlings, cleaning and sharpening tools, and seeking out the first hyacinths, daffodils, and ramps.

I wouldn't want a world where there were always long days and short nights. I treasure my hibernation time, but eagerly look forward to the return of the light. Bring it on!

Yesterday's late sunrise

Yesterday's early sunset

Wishing you and your beloveds the light and warmth of a brightly burning hearth, on this, the longest night of the year. May you welcome the returning light in your life with joy and anticipation.

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.