Improvisational Cooking

I cook without recipes almost all the time. Sometimes this leads to disasters, most of the time it makes for decent food and sometimes it makes for sublime eating. Nancy often says she would prefer if I take my nose out of cookbooks and just cook my own way, which to me is a massive vote of undeserved confidence. I would be confident doing so if I had the mastery of say, Jacques Pépin. But the sheer number of bellyflops deters me from such overweening certainty. My culinary inconsistency seems to stem from an imperfect understanding of improvisational cooking and probably no small measure of impatience. I'm working on impatience, a lifetime struggle. As to the other:

"The Improvisational Cook" is my favorite cookbook of the moment. It was a brilliant birthday gift from Nancy, and I've looked at it every day since. The style appeals to me because I learned to cook using what was in the larder, which forces improvisation. And it fills a vacuum, which hits me hard: all the great cooks eventually talk about going into the market to see what looks good and cooking from there, but almost none close the loop on how to take advantage of that great-looking salsify, or those gorgeous tomatoes, or the perfect melon.

Author Sally Schneider takes unrehearsed cooking to a new level, by engaging the reader in a conversation about the process of improvisation, with plenty of examples (including exact recipes for those who aren’t quite ready to let go of the safety net of the tried and true -- and variations for those who are). It is marvelously freeing to connect with a cook who loves the moment of discovery as much as the moment of delivery. One example is her garlic and fried sage infused oil, which led me to the discovery that I too, can make infused oils (and even vodkas!) that work.

But the star example is her base recipe for Chocolate Wonders, which is almost guaranteed to provoke the response, “These are the best cookies I’ve ever had!” Duly tested, duly proven by actual responses from recipients of our Christmas cookie packages. These ARE the best chocolate cookies in the world. That alone is worth the price of admission, but to me, the lasting value of the book is the empowerment she provides by giving us a way of thinking about cooking, that allows us to cook in the moment.

I Feel Naked

It's not for lack of clothes. In fact on this wet and chilly morning, an extra sweater was needed. At around dawn the rocket dog and I walked in the little woods across the street from Nancy’s townhouse in Reston, VA.. We’ve been here for the holidays.

This district, West Market, has a series of green areas and walkways. This one leads to a “lake,” which is in reality a drainage catchment system prettied up with cattails around the shore and a fountain in the center that oxygenates the water to suppress unattractive algal growth. Reston has scores of miles of walkways and paths throughout, and this little bit is just part of a larger system.

The path to the lake is pretty and winding, with a bridge over a little creek and a fork that goes over to the community center and pool. There are native trees for as much as 30 or 40 feet to each side, and for all I can tell it’s just like virgin forest in there. In the fall we’d walk here and see squirrels, which would insouciantly hide on the other side of trees as we passed, at about waist level, and peek out at us just daring Daisy to give chase.

But Daisy has selective vision as will eventually come out in these tales, and she rarely “bites” at the chance to chase. After all, she has real squirrels to mess with, with much wider territory and a more finely crafted set of evasive tactics to contend with, back at the Farm. She doesn’t have much respect for these city squirrels, apparently. Or it could be that there are so many dog scents on the path, the trees, the sign posts, the concrete blocks, the cattails, the grass and anywhere else a dog could stream it’s own message, that she just doesn’t care for such flippancies as running after squirrels. Not when there is important canine business at hand. Dog owners know what I mean.

This charming glade is also the main dog walkway for West Market, so it gets a lot of canine wear and tear. In these precincts, Daisy seems highly energized as she walks at a barely suppressed run, tugging this way and that.

Yet she also seems tight and hyper alert. True, there’s a lot of dog communication in the air, but there’s something else too. She’s on high alert, poised and seemingly ready to dash like a runner at the starting line waiting for the crack of the pistol. Her nerves seem taut and strained. She reacts instantly to the slightest change such as a leaf falling to the ground near her, or other inputs only dogs can sense.

I’d puzzled about this acutely hyped-up behavior when we’ve walked here in the past. A glimmer came to me last night on another walk, when she was seemingly frantically looking for just the right spot, but each time she found one, something caused her to bounce out of her pre-poop trance and glance and spin all around.

We’d been walking along a berm and from the top one can sight down a little street full of Christmas decorations. A light wind was moving the air, and I spotted the visual culprit. A large inflated Santa was bobbing in the air, moving in an eerily menacing way. I could just barely hear it crinkle and scritch as its head lolled over the belly. No wonder Daisy couldn’t do her thing in peace. Yet even so, a fat inflatable doesn’t explain the whole excited state.

The answer fell into place as we were walking home. I’d paused, to breath in the cold night air, to get a bit of forest oxygen. All was peaceful and quiet, or so it seemed.

At Windmill Creek, when we go out at night, it really is quiet. You can hear the odd rustle of wind in the trees, the faintest tinkle of water over the stones in the brook, but that’s about all. To some visitors this degree of silence is a kind of aural vacuum which can be slightly unsettling at first. Most people have never heard it.

Here in this simulacrum of forest grace, it was the noise level, even at dawn. As if removing an invisible football helmet that normally blocks ambient noise, I mentally cataloged the sounds I was now aware of, that had been hitting Daisy's sensitive ears all this time: engine thrums and screams and tire swish from the nearby six lane, a distant harmonic of same from a distant multilane leading to the airport, aircraft engines shrieking on high as they approach and depart from Dulles, various motors and blowers from furnaces nearby, pumps, a siren chasing some wrongdoer, local street traffic, the hum of electricity from power lines, stereos on a score of stations from as many houses, and withal, a kind of energy buzz that both crackled and hummed in an eerie near-inaudible basso tone. To dog ears this must sound like an audio version of Dali. No wonder she was on high alert.

This audio waste reminded me of the great surprise I experienced years ago, thousands of miles away, in the Dutch Antilles. There, I’d done a little resort diving, exploring reefs and wrecks near Aruba. After peering over the gunwale at colorful fishes slowly swimming about in the gently wafting sea plants, I’d rolled into the water, expecting a graceful aquatic paradise.

Instead I found myself in a cacophony of constant and quite loud noise! Water is an excellent conductor of sound, and even in the relatively remote seaward waters of a small island, one hears the overlapping traces of deep sea ship engines, motorboats, pumps, screeches and tearing sounds, crunching noises, clanks and bangs of all kinds. It was like being tossed into the auditory equivalent of a smelly dump. Little wonder the whales sometimes go insane and beach themselves to get out of it.

Standing still and listening on our little forested path, I realized that the infrastructure of our technologically developed world, even relatively dispersed suburbia, emits a stunning quanta of vibrational energy on a vast array of wavelengths, from sub-audible sound to ambient noise to radio, microwave and light frequencies.

The immediate impact of this ambient incoming energy is usually filtered out by our brains, as many studies have shown. What no one seems to have counted is the energy and attention required to perform this constant filtering. And this cranial processing is only a sorting of priority, a suppression of awareness to keep the brain sane and able to process the most important inputs. It doesn’t stop the arrival of incoming energy as if our brain were some kind of force shield. Like our evolutionary mammalian cousins the whales, the ambient energy onslaught must affect the human organism, setting it on edge, trimming the nerves to a higher alert status unconsciously.

Merely by the contrast between how I feel at the Farm, cloaked in the surrounding natural silences and understood sounds, and the way I feel here, it would seem that the ambient waste noise of our highly energized urban society contributes to an unnaturally high level of tension and anxiety.

i had not realized how deeply such un-sourced anxieties and tensions had penetrated my own body-mind space, until I was in a rural setting for several months. Living in the stone farmhouse, built partially into the deeply reassuring ground, I gradually feel restored to a long-forgotten or perhaps never known normalcy. Again by contrast, some of the old anxieties return when we visit family in the Metro DC area, and are immersed in the sounds of civilization.

It has been estimated that the human organism evoloves naturally at the rate of about 5% every 100,000 year. Since most of the technology of our modern infrastructure is about 100 years old and almost all of it is less than 300 years old, it's obvious that we haven't had time to evolve and adjust to our own environmental handiwork.

It seems clear why Daisy is so wound up when we walk, why it’s so hard for her to relax enough to pee and poop naturally, and why she seems so happy when we get home.

And I better understand why I feel somehow penetrated and naked here, unable to evade ambient anxieties, noise and energies. And why I feel clothed by the familiar, and protected by distance and the absorptive power of the earth when we get home.



Even at home, we’re not entirely immune. Against the sunset, I can see the stark efficiency of our lone power line, its black directness stalking the vast complexity of nature’s own painting in the sky. Yet even technology is a little different here. When the weather changes that particular pole creaks and moans, like the bones of an elderly person warning of approaching rain.

Naming the Rooster

Chris wonders about our name for the rooster. I will explain. This chicken, otherwise known in my mind as “King Rooster” for his pushy, aggressive ways, is a Leghorn, a big one. The cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn is an obnoxious huge chicken, and so is King Rooster. Thus we call him Foghorn.

Going, Going, GONE!

Auctions are big around these parts. Most are held when someone passes away and the estate needs to be sold. The auction plays a complex role in Juniata society. The gathering is a large social event, where people can see and be seen, but in the context of a serious purpose.

There is almost always food, and always bustle, halloos and greetings. The auction forms a way for these thrifty people to obtain valuable tools, furnishings and necessary objects at tantalizingly low prices, and a way for survivors to disperse the hundreds and sometimes thousands of objects collected during a lifetime in a way that “does some good,” — and pick up a little money in the process.

An auction is an efficient way to recycle useful things into the community and to distribute them into the hands of those who either need them most or will value them. And, though no one would ever admit it, the auction provides a shamefully delightful snoop into various intimacies of the deceased person’s life, without giving offence.

Items sold at these auctions range from the pitiable ( a box of broken plastic toys, tattered Christmas decorations and assorted junk selling for a dollar) to the collectible (guns are big around here), to gigantic farm machines, to valuable family china -- and even the house itself.

Auctions are ideal people-watching opportunities. Since most people are either involved in what is being sold, or whom they are speaking with, it’s easier to stare at or photograph them.



The frugal and thrifty Amish are frequent auction goers, as are old farmers, young families, unattached girls, unmarried men, matronly ladies who often seem to be cooking or serving something, and the occasional antique dealer.

And us, of course who fit none of the normal categories of this surprisingly complex culture.

Reflections

The temperature is dropping now, after several days of remarkably benign weather. Were it not for the mild insanity we usually refer to as the Spirit of Christmas, to which I am unfortunately deeply prone, it would have been ideal to work outside, to trim and cut, to work pathways through those pesky “multiflora roses” that seem to infest the land in these parts.

The use of the word, “rose” in the naming of this marauding nightmare of a plant is to do injustice to all the lovely producers of beautiful blooms that we normally associate with the word. However, as we know them hereabouts, multiflora roses give no flowers but are instead prolific producers of large arcing masses of tough thorny stems as high as ten feet, of no purpose other than to deter passage through, under, around or near them. Walking anywhere near these obnoxious plants invites torn flesh, ripped clothing and rising irritation to the point of massive frustration. I spend much time plotting ways to eradicate them.

But tonight, I am content to let these "roses" sit there in the cold ground, their leaves dropped, and maleficent stems in pitiful arc as they endure the freezing wind.

Do I sound as if I hate these plants? Not at all. I understand that, like large black snakes, these creations of Universe have their own beauty, and their own proper place in the grand scheme of things. I respect and honor their right to exist, even to the point of admiring their unique ways of surviving. My only requirement is that they both locate elsewhere than around my place. I will enforce that dictum in due time. For now their brown stalks can rest.

I spent much of the day completing the final packing and shipping of Christmas presents for my sister and her family in far-away Chicago. After smoothing down the last bit of tape, I drove into town, deposited boxes with the good postmistress of our local PO, bade the boxes on their way and came home.

Whereupon I felt oddly depressed. Nancy said it was because I won’t get to see the reactions as the presents are opened. She was right, and the observation made me feel better.

Later, Dog and I went out to close up the chicken coop for the night. This is a fine evening indeed, a stillness of 35 degree temperatures and brilliant stars. It was chilly-beany though and we didn’t linger outside.

Tonight Daisy and I rest inside the farmhouse, warmed by a good fire. She was outside for much of the day, earning her keep. Her large envelope-shaped ears were cold when she came in, and she was very happy to get a little warm hug as she pranced in. She likes to curl around under my legs as I sit on the sofa and rub the infinitely soft fur around her head.

Having done good work today, the mood inside is peaceful and quiet. Dinner is bubbling, and Dog is curled up in front of the fire.

I have in mind to share a picture that conveys my mood of the moment. It was taken earlier in the season, of the pond. It was a coolish day, with a light wind that moved the water into an oddly regular rippling pattern. In this image, the reflection of trees in the background waver into immanent horizontal patterns that seem to express that certain feeling of peace and quietude which perfectly matches my mood tonight.

Fog Warning

Out here, the weather often imposes itself into the simplest decisions. This has taken some getting used to. In the city we tend to ignore weather unless it’s in the category of disaster. Our homes, offices, roads and general infastructure insulate us so effectively that weather almost seems irrelevant. In rural Juniata County though, weather affects everything, from housekeeping (will freshly washed clothes dry on the line today?) to shopping (is the river high enough to block the bridge into town?), and outside work (if it rains we can burn that huge pile of scrap wood lying in the field).

In today’s early morning email was this slightly eyebrow-lifting message from the emergency warning service:

PAZ019-027-028-045-046-049>053-056>059-063>066-141400-
/O.NEW.KCTP.FG.Y.0015.061214T0715Z-061214T1400Z/

215 AM EST THU DEC 14 2006

THE NATL WEATHER SVC IN STATE COLLEGE HAS ISSUED A DENSE FOG ADVISORY, WHICH IS IN EFFECT UNTIL 9 AM EST THIS MORNING.

CLEAR SKIES & LIGHT WINDS HAVE LED TO THE FORMATION OFLOCALLY DENSE FOG. EXPECT VISIBILITY TO BE REDUCED TO NEAR ZERO AT TIMES, ESPECIALLY IN THE RIVER VALLEYS.

A DENSE FOG ADVISORY MEANS VISIBILITIES WILL FREQUENTLY BE REDUCED TO LESS THAN ONE QUARTER MILE. MOTORISTS SHOULD DRIVE WITH EXTREME CAUTION & ALLOW ADDITIONAL TRAVEL TIME. USE LOW BEAM HEADLIGHTS & REDUCE DRIVING SPEEDS.

I like the way they capitalize every sentence in these messages, as if their keyboards have no lowercase letters. It's reminiscent of the early computers which used teletypewriters (only caps) for printed output. Or telegrams, the old-fashioned kind where the message was composed of strips of paper glued onto a form. These were ALWAYS important. It's odd though that emergency messages should be capitalized. Any graphic designer will tell you that all-caps sentences are the hardest to read. Perhaps in our cultural consciousness a sense of vital importance attaches to all-capitals messages, even though we've long ago abandoned these ancient technologies.

After reading the emergency warning I became curious and walked out into this dangerous fog. It had enshrouded the landscape in pleasingly mysterious ways. I glanced at the barn and coop. The warm glow from the chicken’s heat lamp, seen against the hugeness of the surrounding fog and the looming nearby barn, seemed extra cozy. To my eye, the scene formed a visual metaphor for primeval security and warmth against a cold and threatening exernal world.

This made me think about our dependence on electricity. If the line goes down, no warmth for the chickens on 15 degree nights and no stove for us. But as the dawn broke, these thoughts soon lifted, as did the fog.

As I stood looking at the coop in the brightening morning mist, Foghorn the rooster let out an ear-splitting screech to welcome the day. All seemed well in chickendom. Now if his five wives would only start laying again – we need eggs for the Christmas baking!

A Christmas Card for All

Sail On Silver Moon

Please enjoy this one minute of sheer unalloyed joy. If this doesn't make you smile, there is something terribly wrong with you. Music is by Billy Vaughn, a tune called, "Sail On Silver Moon.". Half the fun is in the camerawork which is (mostly) inspired and incredibly simple.

Of Cows and Garlands

The season is upon us at Windmill Creek. Tendrils of the Spirit have been wafting in for days, stimulating the Joy (and hassles) of Giving. The imagination chugs into gear, conjuring wonders and thrills to be gifted to loved ones, and ideas for presents come out regularly like Pop-Tarts. Most of these ideas are wildly impractical, such a day as a fighter pilot in a real jet for my brother. As a fallback, I guess warm socks are always appreciated.

Nancy has the Spirit in a big way, having now decorated her second tree. The first one was in her home in Virginia, now listed for sale (cross your fingers). The second was here at the Farm.

She began her seasonal decorating by placing her world-traveled, elegant silver reindeer sculpture, with it's trailing silver sleigh on the mantel, on a bed of pine boughs from outside. In the sleigh, she placed her German polar bear doll and a tiny Christmas tree which is being bought home from the woods. This arrangement was eerily prognostic, because we got our real tree in the same way. That is, cut in a “forest” and hauled home in our sleigh, aka the pickup.

We got our tree over at Frantz’s, a friendly family business out near Fermanagh Township*. We would have milked the selection process for more fun, but it was 21 degrees out, with an 18mph wind efficiently extracting the heat from our bodies. So we ran into the field, argued choices quickly with shivering bodies and instantly came to agreement when we spotted "the" tree. With gratitude for a very sharp saw, I got that tree down fast.

It's a Canaan fir, which looks much like a blue spruce. The blue spruce sports zillions of hypodermicaly sharp, blood-sticking "needles," which are appropriately named. However, the needles of the Canaan Fir are so soft, uniformly colored and perfectly made that they look and feel like something synthetic. When he saw the tree, my helper Calvin said, “This tree is so nice, it looks fake!”

We lucked out. This is a great little tree, just the right height, with regular branch spacing giving plenty of room for ornaments, with no irritating needles or sticky sap. It's pretty, nicely proportioned and smells nice. There's even a feature for Daisy - she loves to drink the tree water in the stand.

The water in the stand is going down rapidly. Along with Daisy's visits, our tree is gulping pints of water daily, which makes it alive, I guess. But what really makes it alive is the delightful “special edition" decorating created by Nancy.

For many years, she collected farm-themed Christmas tree ornaments, intuitively sensing that she might some day live on a farm. Which, contrary to the rationalist corner of my mind that rejects the idea of intuition, has now come true. This year, in a kind of quiet triumph, she unpacked her collection of ornaments, and for the first time happily decorated the tree in the farmhouse she now lives in.


The tree is festooned with scores of farm animal ornaments, primitive and literal, cute and artistic. These include a glass pig, many versions of cows of which one is a tiny cow-shaped canvas by a famous Native American artist, various chickens of which the polish glass chicken with a real feather for a tail stands out, plus tiny milk bottles and 4-inch bales of made of real hay. The tree even has little chains made of paper rings, just like we used to make when we were kids which I suspect were made by Nan's kids years ago, or even her as a child.

It’s not cute, despite having plastic popcorn and cranberry garlands. It’s comfy and charming. I don’t condemn the plastic popcorn either, not the least because years ago I tried unsuccessfully, for three years running, to string real popcorn. ( It’s much harder than you think. If you know how to do it, please leave a comment).

Tomorrow, a Christmas Card.

____________
* Fermanagh. I wondered how to say this for years. It's "Fir-Monna."

The Gang of Six

DAISY AND I FINALLY TURNED onto the farm road at dusk, after a lengthy journey home. Coming out of Virginia on our way to Maryland, we’d been delayed by a huge traffic snarl when someone reported a “mysterious package” thrown out of a car near the Beltway. We spent 45 minutes examining the rear gate of an enormous and very dirty green truck in great detail. The next stop after getting through this major ado about nothing, was to visit my folks.

We munched lunch while Daisy received advanced training from my mother on the subject of not sitting on chairs. Watching the contest of will between a firmly determined, patient woman who has the command voice of an experienced Mom against the stubbornness of an 8 month old beagle was terribly amusing. I called it a draw. We got on the road around 3:30, making the Farm three hours later.

All seemed well, as I unloaded the truck in the approaching darkness. I’d been worried about our six chickens, though. During our absence, they’d been cooped up for four days, during the coldest nights of the year so far, some reaching the low 20’s.

After getting the perishables inside and Daisy watered, I walked through the dark to the chicken coop to check. Armed with a strong flashlight, I swept the light through the coop window and inspected. I saw three motionless hens and Foghorn the rooster sitting atop the nesting boxes, and spotted the dark hen perched as usual in the corner. Blinking eyes confirmed life. The fifth one was on top with Foghorn and the others, but lay prone, head away from me, motionless. No blinks, but then I couldn’t see her head. At first I thought she was lying down to stay warm under the rooster. Then I thought, maybe it was dead.

I went to bed, thinking there wasn’t much I could do till morning. But the memory of that hen nagged at me. At 3AM I awoke, wondering if the chicken's water had frozen and thinking that we'd probably lost the one chicken. At 4AM I pictured the poor hens shivering and freezing down into a slow agonizing death. At 4:30AM I listened to Nancy’s voice in my head, talking about how rooster’s combs get frostbitten and that to avoid necrosis, you have to cut the combs off. At 5AM I resolved to go out at first light, ready to reload warm water to the survivors. I steeled myself for emergency surgery, wondering whether scissors or a knife would be best. Perhaps, I thought, when I get to the coop there might be another dead one or two.

At dawn, I laced my boots and walked out to the coop, feeling both antsy and a bit glum. When I put some feed in the outside dish, I heard a wan, weak-sounding crowing sound from inside. Maybe it was me, but this didn’t sound like the full-blooded screech of a lusty healthy rooster. I opened the coop’s little side door, hoping that one or two iced-up birds would stiffly emerge.

Like an explosion all six came flying out, skreaking* and flapping wings as they raced to the feed dish. Boy, those were some hungry chickens!

I counted carefully. SIX. All accounted for and all clucking and pecking their food like maniacs. Between rapid fire pecks, Foghorn let out a hell of a screech. Guess he was just waking up before.

Relieved, I went inside to see if the water had become solid ice in the waterer. Nope. Not even close. Full of straw as usual, but not frozen. And only half gone. So I swished out the straw and left it.

I’d left a 5 quart pot more than half full of feed, figuring that was more than enough for four days. Nothing wrong with the appetites on these birds – the pot lay empty, half-turned on its side, and full of straw. They’d given that pot the once-over.

Then I checked the nests for eggs. I didn’t expect much. Poor chickens. Perhaps the force of nature had pushed one or two small eggs to appear, but in the cold days and nights of our absence it didn’t seem reasonable that hens on the edge of survival could spend any extra energy making eggs.

Looking into the next boxes, my eyes popped. Those un-dead non-frozen ravenous chickens had been busy and very alive! I collected 20 eggs - that's four for each of the five hens over five days. Given that a hen normally lays one egg every 3-4 days, that's some production!

All is well. But I do think it’s time to get one of those heaters for the chicken water.

Now — what to do with 20 assorted brown and blue-green eggs? Quiche anyone?















The Gang enjoying breakfast this morning



* skreaking is a real word.

Eric's Chai

I was at sixes and sevens one afternoon, and decided to make a hot something to warm up with, the better to figure out what to do next.

What to make? Coffee was out, I'd had too much lately and the flavor was getting tiresome. Hot tea? Hate it. Herb tea…. Nah.

Ah ha! Chai! I spied some Tazo Chai in the back of the refrigerator and eagerly poured it.

Alas, it was spoiled. This just got my dander up and off I went to research chai ingredients. After a short search I came up with a rough formula and tried it.

We'd just been to Chicago, which included a visit to Penzey’s Spices, a remarkable source for fine spices and herbs. That left me with a large bag of superb absolutely fresh flavorings of all kinds, from star anise to Indian curry mixes.

I went through the list of needed ingredients in the recipe, hoping that I wouldn't have to make too many compromises or substitutions. To my delight, all parts needed were in the Penzey's bag! I mixed, brewed, tasted, and lucked out on the first try, which is unusual. The good ingredients made it work.

The result was a revelation.

Chai made with excellent ingredients goes beyond beverage and into spiritual experience. The richly ornamented flavors are complex, and mystifying. It’s a beautiful beverage. To me it conjured up images of the Silk Road, of ancient markets, long-ago genetic memories vaguely redolent of adventure and love.

Part of the beauty for me is the process. When working with fresh spices, it's essential to smell and judge the amounts as you add them, since the individual spices will very in strength. Use the following as guide:

Eric’s Chai

The Spices (roughly 1 teaspoon each)

Cardamom (powder, freshly ground)
Black Pepper, freshly crushed
Ginger, fresh or well stored powder
Cinnamon, fresh ground from sticks
Cloves, whole
Star Anise, whole

The Rest:

Good Black Tea (3 bags)
Brown Sugar or Honey
Bourbon Vanilla Extract
Soy Milk or Cream

Brew tea and spices together till dark and smell great. Strain out solids.

Add the vanilla. This is the major balancing ingredient; be generous. Together the spices and vanilla create a sense of sweetness, so it's better to add vanilla before sweetener.

Add brown sugar or honey to taste.

Add milk, soy milk or cream.



Below:

This is not the chai, but another tea, on another day. To me, the story is about the person who ordered it, who is not in the picture. It's a warm day (note the condensation), why would s/he leave a refreshing cool drink behind?



























Iced Tea Alone

Leaving

Leaving the farm is never easy for me. For one thing, it’s usually the case that many projects are underway, which all have to be stopped or stalled. Then there are chickens to consider – providing them with enough food, water (and these nights, heat) to survive their keeper’s absence. There are lists to make and complete: things to pack, to bring, to give to others; things to do here and enroute. And the house must be shut down, which is not as simple as locking the door. It involves checking all the windows and the doors, making sure enough heat is left on to protect the pipes if it’s going to be very cold, leaving lights on strategically, closing curtains. The mice are never far away so extra care is taken to remove little bits of temptation such as crumbs on counters and floors.

Chores aside, departure often feels to me as if I were a plant being pulled out of soil. It’s an uprooting, unsettling kind of feeling that seems to disturb deep and ancient instincts. I am of the Farm and it is of me. Leaving, even for short trips, is something like leaving a trusted friend behind.

The Farm is a dynamic system, with interconnections of many kinds that require tending and if not monitoring, at least awareness. Some of these are alive, some are elemental, some are mechanical. Chickens and streams and chimneys.

When I’m away, there’s always a nagging sense of worry, of not knowing if something is going wrong while I’m gone, and the corresponding potential frustration of not being able to fix the problem, or mend the damage. Part of this worry stems from past experience. Take the flood this Spring. I’d gone down to Virginia for a few days, and came back the day after a torrential and truly unusual downpour, which dumped four and five inches of rain in less than an hour onto the farm and the mountain behind.

The memory of turning off the county road into the farm lane, and seeing an almost impassable washout, with 2-foot deep ruts cut by rushing water is still nearby and in color. The sense of dread that flavors the memory is also alive: it water could cut this deep so close to the road, what on earth will I find at the top next to or in the house? The story of The Flood will be told another time, but I can say that it took most of the summer to clear the immediate damage. Had I been there at the time it might have been possible to divert the stream sufficiently to avoid the worst of it.

I’m away visiting at the moment. There had been high wind and heavy thunderstorm advisories the day I left, so before leaving I moved some of the rocks in the stream to divert the water away from the house if the rain was torrential.

Tonight I see by the local weather report that night temperatures are down very low – in the mid-20’s. The 7-day forecast predicts three more such nights. I fear for the chickens should their heat lamp burn out. I feel relieved that just the day before I left, I’d been able to drain all the outside water lines, blow them out with compressed air and fill the main line with antifreeze. It takes only 3 freezing nights to form ice in plumbing. I hope the fireplace will draft properly when I get back – it will take days to warm the rocks.

Chickens and streams and chimneys.

Curiosa

Some mornings, the light at the Farm is so beautiful it should probably be outlawed. These moments are so transitory - ten minutes later this scene looked totally different, as the sun peeked in over the hillside behind.

Just found a nifty site about words. Packing my dopp kit (which isn't really one) for a coming trip, I became curious about the name itself. What's a dopp?

Here's the answer:

[Q] “What does the dopp in dopp kit (shaving bag) mean, and where did the term originate?”

[A] I am indebted to the American Dialect Society, and in particular to Jim Rader, for the answer to this question, which otherwise I couldn’t find in any of my reference books. The word Dopp is a registered trade mark of a man’s toiletry kit. It was designed by Jerome Harris for his uncle Charles Doppelt, a German immigrant to Chicago in the early 1900s. So it’s presumably an abbreviated form of Mr Doppelt’s family name. The word became widely known during the Second World War when GIs were issued Dopp kits. The company was purchased by Samsonite in the early seventies.

And here's the link to the website, that only an Englishman could construct:

www.worldwidewords.org

...and a bonus from an email by PositiviTee, a mom and daughters business which sells t-shirts and donates portions to worthy causes:

"I am cherry alive," the little girl sang,
"Each morning I am something new:...
I am red, I am gold, I am green, I am blue, I will always be me, I will always be new!"

Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966)

Should you be curious about PositiviTee:

http://www.positivitee.com/browse.htm

Spoke with Raymond tonight. I'd called to ask advice about planting oats in the Spring on the fields, and we got to chatting. He saw no problem with oats. Which was good, since the hay man refused to cut our field this coming year, and I'd agreed with the neighbor farmer that he could plants oats in the fields, if he'd leave me the straw bales. Why I want straw bales will have to be the subject of another post.

Raymond is normally a volubly expressive hale-fellow kind of man, with a sensibility honed by years of meeting physical challenges. He'd grown up in this valley, in the days before they had electricity. In those days, a man never spoke of defeat or difficulty. Life was hard for everyone, and the social metier was one of cheerful disregard for setbacks. Even so, there was bright quality to his voice as we spoke. He seemed unusually ebullient. I asked how the hunting was going, since it's been buck season for a few days now. Hit the jackpot.

Raymond said, with scarcely-concealed pride, that he'd got one. "A nice one!" he said. He'd been in his blind, the one we can see across the meadow. This is a first class affair, high above the ground and built by him to include every comfort. Windows, a hot plate for coffee, a piss-pot, cans of beans, even a little stove for heat. Not that you'd use any of these amenities, since any one of them would create an off-putting scent.

"About 4:30," he said, " he came into view and I got 'im." That's right across the field from our born (barn). I remember that afternoon. I was walking the dog at the time and we both jumped a little. The report boomed past us, then came back off the mountain behind us and across the valley and back again from the far hills, like mini thunder. They don't use 22's around here for buck hunting.

He said happily, "Took him down to the taxidermist already." I pondered. When Raymond takes something to the taxidermist, it's something special. At 89 or so, having done this all his life, he's a bit of a buck-hunting snob. Well, that's unfair. A grand connoisseur of bucks, is more like it. He won't bother with young bucks. It's about the points, number of. (Points are the tips of horns, which is to say, relative magnificence of the buck). Rarity of the quarry.

Regarding female deer (ie., doe +s), he said with the expression of one who knows that you both share the same level of unexpressed contempt normally reserved for miscreants such as serial rapists, “Anyone can shoot a doe.”