My Bit of Earth

When Halloween Goes to the Dogs

We had an all-doggie trick-or-treat this weekend with family. A little silly? Yes. Lots of fun for both people and beasties? Without a doubt! Enjoy!
"Dino-Moe" takes a break from playing.

Miss "Flower-Power Porter" sits pretty for the camera.

Sweet Ellie doesn't look like she would really suck anyone's blood.

"I Dream of Kaydee" was a little nervous to have so many friends over.

And tiny, but tough, "Tinker-Bailee" cuddles with her Dad.

The Darkest Day

I know that technically, the darkest day of the year is the Winter Solstice in December, but for me the darkest day will always be today--the day we "fall back" from daylight savings time back into standard time.

It only makes sunset one hour earlier, which doesn't seem like it should be that much. But there's a huge psychological difference between darkness at seven and darkness at six. And even though, again technically, winter doesn't start until December, the darkness has always really marked the start of winter to me. It makes me feel like I want to hibernate.

But in 2007, the darkest day will be a week later. A law was passed this year that will make daylight savings time last longer to save energy. Now daylight savings time starts on the first Sunday in April and ends on the last Sunday in October, but in 2007 it will begin on the second Sunday of March and end on the first Sunday of November.

Two less weeks of winter--it's not often that Congress does something that cool. It's a nice light on a dark day.

Close Encounter With the Red Planet

Sometime in the middle of last summer I made a note on my calendar for today--"Mars close, go look". When I saw the note earlier this week, I was a little fuzzy on the details, but thankfully I had left myself a link to fill in the gaps. You see, Mars is closer to Earth this weekend than it will be for the next 13 years. 43.1 million miles away, to be exact. It's usually 140 million miles away, so that's quite a difference. Even to our unaided eyes it was very bright and more red than usual. We got out the camera and tried to take a few pictures, and despite some technical difficulties with the tripod we had a few turn out fairly well.
This was taken with our digital camera set to a 30 second exposure. Mars is the bright dot (in case you weren't sure).

Murder Most Canine!

I walked outside the other morning and was shocked to discover that my two seemingly sweet, harmless dogs had MURDERED my scarecrow. And they didn't just murder him, they tore him limb from limb! My babies are killers....
At first I thought, "Well, at least they decided to do it now, while scarecrows are on sale." But then Sweet Husband pointed out that if we get a new scarecrow and put him out without protection, we would (literally) be throwing him to the dogs. We'd probably have another murder on our conscience quite shortly. But given the way our yard is situated and how devious our two little monsters are, it's going to be hard to make the new scarecrow safe.

We could get him a bodyguard, but I think it would get spendy to have someone stand outside all day. Maybe we'll ask for protection for him from the Roman god Priapus.

Priapus was the original scarecrow. Although legend says he was the son of Dionysus and Aphrodite, Priapus was born ugly. Farmers noticed that his statue seemed to scare birds, so they placed figures of him in their fields and gardens. Eventually Priapus became known as the patron god of gardens.

Then again, maybe we could scare the dogs into leaving our new scarecrow alone.

Priapus was a benevolent scarecrow, but some of the stories and legends surrounding scarecrows since are terrifying. Sources say that the Headless Horseman from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow was probably based on a scarecrow, and the Scarecrow character from the Batman comics--who got a revival this year in the new Batman movie--literally scares his victims to death.

But the thing is, most scarecrows these days are just a little to lovable to be very scary. Like Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, our new scarecrow would probably be a pretty lovable fellow who has trouble scaring a crow, let alone our two little homicidal canines.

Maybe we'll just give up on scarecrows for the year and put up a mean looking turkey instead.

"Encouraging" Bulbs Victorian Style

So, I got more bulbs this weekend. What's that? You mean some people actually keep food in the refridgerator? No way! Why would they do that when they can fill it with bulbs? And flowers are food--they're food for my soul.

I didn't really intend to get more, but on Sunday I went to Earl May "just to look" at something or other when I saw that they had hyacinth glasses. Hyacinth glasses are hourglass shaped vases used for forcing bulbs in water. The shape of the glass keeps the bulb just touching the water. While you can do this with any type of small-mouthed jar, specially made glasses are worth looking for because of their elegant shape. I got a clear one, but they also come in several different colors.


I bought 5 "Woodstock" hyacinth bulbs, but only one glass. So I put 1 bulb in the glass, 2 in regular jars. The idea is, you put the bulbs and water in the glass or jar (with the water just barely touching the bottom of the bulb) and chill for about thirteen weeks or until good roots have formed. Then you pull the glass and bulb out of the fridge and--presto, chango--beautiful flowers in a beautiful vase. Mine should be ready around the end of January.

I'm going to use the other 2 bulbs for an experiment. I know they say bulbs need to be chilled--and I think I believe them, whoever "they" are--but I'm curious what will happen if I just try to grow some as if they were pre-chilled, as if they were paperwhites. Do they just not grow? Do they grow funny? In order to find out, I put two of the bulbs in jars with water, just like the other ones, but I'm going to not chill these. Could be a waste of two bulbs, could be a way to move food back into the refridgerator--time will tell.

I also got five little Muscari corns ("Grape Hyacinth Plumose" or "Lavendar Muscari") but, although they do have to go into cold storage, they don't need to be potted up until they're done chilling (just eight weeks--I'll pull them out right after Christmas). After planting they need to go to a fairly cool, dark place until they sprout, which should take just a few days.

Again, happy thoughts are appreciated....

(Note: Throughout all of my bulb experimentation, I've been relying heavily on Better Homes and Gardens Bulbs For All Seasons. This book has amazing pictures and really great directions, which are kind of rare to find in one place. If anyone's looking for present ideas (Birthday, Graduation, Christmas--I'm about to hit the motherload all in one month) I've added it to my Amazon list--click on the "Outdoorsy Sorts of Books" link to the lower right).

A Visit From Jack Frost

We had our first frost this morning. I'm enjoying one last sweet semmester of college student sleeping hours, so I would have missed it entirely if Sweet Husband hadn't told me he heard it on the news. I guess we were down to 28 degrees--brrrr!

Whenever I think of frost I think the old Jack Frost Rankin/Bass holiday cartoon. In the cartoon, Jack Frost is spreading winter when he falls in love with a human girl. Father Winter has the power to turn Jack into a human and give him a chance to make the girl love him back, but only until the first day of Spring. It's very endearing, although the end is kind of sad.

Before Jack becomes human though, he flies around and makes frost appear on everything with his breath. When I was little that's how I thought the frost got onto my windows in the morning--Jack Frost came by in the night and blew on my windows.

Actually, frost happens when the temperature drops below the dew point (the point at which water vapor turns to liquid) and then below freezing. So basically, it's dew freezing.

Not nearly as exciting as Jack Frost.

The Incredible, Edible (Liberated) Egg

A box without hinges, key, or lid, Yet golden treasure inside is hid.

I've mentioned a search for humanely raised eggs more than once now, and I'm so excited that I've finally found some! So what's my deal with eggs, you ask? Well, until about six months ago I didn't eat them. Then someone introduced me to eggs with garlic--which really is a completely different and tasty beastie--and now I can't get enough.

But, one thing about living in Lawrence is that sometimes you are alerted to stuff that it might be easier not to know. Like that most commercial chickens are kept in tiny cages with floors that cut their feet. Like that chickens get part of their beaks burnt off so that they can't peck each other to death in those cages. Like that chickens are stuck in those cages, never getting fresh air or room even to stretch their wings. Kind of makes those yummy eggs not sound so good, eh?

So began my search for liberated chickens.

But finding truly liberated chickens isn't easy. The label "free range" covers an entire spectrum of practices from what I would truly think of as free range ("liberated" in my-speak), to chickens that are kept in cages for all but a very short time each day. What's more, some companies that offer free-range eggs also still have non-free range eggs, so even if I buy free range from them I'm still giving business to people who are cruel to chickens.

So I wrote to the Grocery Manager at the Merc (which I figured from their general philosophies was my best bet to start with) and got a very nice reply. She gave me a list of brands that met my "liberated chicken" requirement, some of which were even local, which is always good. Turns out that one of her favorites (Coyote Creek Farms) was the brand we already buy, so that's easy-peasy.

The next question most people ask is usually "Ok, but how much more are you spending on these eggs?" It is more--raising liberated chickens takes more space, higher quality feed, and more time than raising chickens inhumanely--I would wonder what was wrong if they weren't more expensive. But they aren't unreasonably so. Using the price of what we used to pay for eggs vs. the Coyote Creek eggs that we buy now, it's only costing us sixteen cents more per egg.

Totally worth it for a guilt-free scramble.

Collecting Acorns

When I was in third grade it became fashionable among the girls in my class to collect acorns that fell from a large oak tree that grew on our school playground. Most girls had special places to hide their stash outside, but I decided that it would be much safer to keep mine in my pencil box inside my desk. This kept them quite safe from squirrels and the other girls, but one predator slipped past my defenses--acorn weevils! You can imagine my surprise when I opened the box one day to find the little green worms munching through my precious acorns. And you can imagine my teacher's feelings as she made me stay in from recess to get rid of the worms and sanitize my entire desk.

But I don't think I learned my lesson.

We were walking home from dinner with a friend the other night when I noticed a bunch of acorns lying on the ground between three tall trees. Much to our friend and Sweet Husband's amusement, I decided to gather some "to use for something." I thought I'd bring them home, maybe put them in a bowl on my coffee table for some free fall decoration, and, of course, watch them scrupulously for the first sign of anything resembling a bug.

But I came home and did some research, and it turns out there is a lot about acorns that I didn't know. For example, acorns are edible. Before the mass production of corn Native Americans would collect and hull acorns, and grind the nut inside to make a flour-like substance. In order to make the acorn meal palatable it must be leached of bitter tasting tannins, but that's as simple as rinsing it with water until the water runs clear. Once rinsed and dried, acorn meal can be substituted for flour or corn meal in bread, cakes, tortillas, or whatever else strikes your fancy.

I also found out that oak trees which grow from acorns, while slow to start, live for hundreds and hundreds of years. I'm a big fan of Elizabeth I (very important Queen of England and all around kick-ass lady for those of you who don't know) so when I was in England about four years ago, I made a point to visit Hatfield House which was her childhood home. On the grounds at Hatfield, there is an oak tree that is supposedly the tree Elizabeth was standing by when she got the news that she was Queen in 1558. I followed the map and found the tree, but--despite the trees gnarled and old appearance--I was just a little dubious that a tree could really live for 500 years. But, as it was an oak tree, it's entirely possible.

In my search, I also came across a few articles about planting acorns, which I decided would be the best use of mine. The first step was to figure out what kind of acorns I had, so I went back to the trees I collected the acorns from. Based on the leaf shape and unique white backside of the leaf, I've decided that the tree is a Swamp White Oak, which is fairly common in the Midwest.

Next, I did a "float test". I put the acorns in a bowl of water for 24 hours, and threw away the two acorns that floated. Acorns that float have an air pocket inside of them created by bugs eating away the nut inside--good-bye acorn weevils!

From there, many of the sources I've found disagree on what the best next step is. A nice poster on GardenWeb told me to "be a squirrel" and that seems to be the general thread that runs through all the methods I found. Some places say to plant the acorns where you want them to grow, about two inches in the ground, with some kind of covering to protect them from squirrels. You can also plant them in pots and then sink the pots into the ground, again protecting from squirrels. Another, very comprehensive site said to put them in a loosely closed plastic bag with a bit of peat and store them in the fridge over winter, keeping them just barely damp. The acorns can then be planted in paper cups in mid-April and gradually hardened off and transferred to bigger containers, until you plant them in the ground either the next fall or spring.
I decided to make it a bit of an experiment and try all three methods. I've planted 15 acorns out and about in the yard surrounding our house, and 15 acorns in our previously empty grow box. I'm diverging from the directions a bit on the grow box because I don't think I could dig a big enough hole to put it into the ground. Some sources say this will be ok, others say the lack of insulation can be harmful. I guess we'll find out! I've also stored 15 acorns in my (ever fuller) refridgerator for planting in the spring.

Right now I'm just interested in the process, I don't have plans for the resulting trees. "It takes faith to plant an acorn," and I have faith that if they grow I'll find something worthwhile to do with them. Maybe I'll send one to my old teacher.

Shooting Down Stereotypes

In my family when I was growing up, everyone pretty much stuck within traditionally defined gender roles. I didn't have to mow the lawn, but my brother wasn't expected to help do laundry. For the most part, I didn't have a problem with that when it came to chores--well, I didn't have a problem until I got older, at least--but when it came to the fun stuff that came with "being a man" I sometimes felt like I was getting short shrift. Going hunting or driving the tractor always sounded like great adventures to me, so I was always a little jealous that my brother was encouraged to do those things because he was a son, and I was discouraged because I was a daughter.

Fast forward. The summer after Sweet Husband and I got married, he had a job in the town we both grew up in. Since it was only for a few months, we sublet our apartment in Lawrence and Nice In-Laws let us stay with them. During that summer, my father-in-law was getting back into an old hobby of his--collecting and shooting guns. About once or twice a week he and Nice Husband started going to the Bone Creek Sport and Gun Club to target shoot. One morning at breakfast, after they had been out shooting, I started asking questions about which guns they had taken and how well they had done. After answering them my father-in-law said, "You know, you ought to come out with us sometime and try, I think you'd really enjoy it."

I think my eyes must have lit up--enjoy it? I'd been waiting my whole life for someone to ask! But I was still unsure. I remember asking Sweet Husband later:

"Are you sure it would really be ok? I mean, don't you guys need bonding time or something like that? Do you really want me as a tag-along?"

He rolled his eyes at me and smiled, "No, really, you should come. You'll have fun."

So, the next time they went, I went too.

That day we shot a rifle. To my untrained eye, it looked like something from a Rambo movie. It was just a little bit intimidating, and the next day, it looked like someone had beaten me just on my right shoulder. But I hit the target, and it really was fun.

Gradually we moved into shooting pistols. After shooting rifles for a month, I hated the change at first. We were shooting rifles off of a rest (a table with a tripod-like thing to support the gun), which made a nice sort of hiding place. It felt completely awkward to try to get on target with nothing but air and my arms to keep the gun steady; I felt like I had two left feet as Sweet Husband and Nice Father-In-Law told me how to stand. But I kept trying, and was encouraged to keep trying, and now Sweet Husband and I are on a quest to find an affordable pistol range in Lawrence so that we can practice more often.

But, even though it's great to be shooting with the guys, I have to confess that I still have two lingering girly prejudices. First, I like smaller caliber guns. This makes complete sense to me. I feel like I'm more in control when the gun isn't trying to jump out of my hands every time I fire. Second, I love pretty guns. When I say pretty, I mean old-fashioned looking, blued finish, dark handled revolvers. This makes less sense, but all I can say is that holding one gives me the same feeling as a nice glass of red wine or a really beautiful pair of shoes--it's satisfying.

I've also gained at least a little appreciation of some of the issues surrounding gun control. Listen up guys, if you want laws that are more favorable for responsible and logical gun control take your daughters shooting. Without even getting into the statistics that say that more women register to vote than men, women are half the population and half the vote. It makes sense to get those women voters educated and invested while they're young. I'm not calling for a drag-your-daughter-shooting-against-her-will day, but don't just assume she's not interested--ask. Take her once, just to try it out. If she can't deal with shooting Bambi, let her try targets. If she's nervous around big guns, let her try a smaller one.

At the least she'll learn a little about gun safety and how guns work, at best you'll have something that you both enjoy to do together--very important as she grows into a teenager and common ground becomes scarce.

And at this time of year on a cool, red-golden morning with a cup of steamy coffee or hot chocolate...wish I could go today. Happy shooting.

Carving Jack-O-Lanterns

It's been almost a week since our trip to the pumpkin patch and we finally carved pumpkins last night. According to many sources a carved pumpkin can last anywhere from two weeks to just a few days before it starts to get nasty, depending on many variables such as freshness of the pumpkin, temperature, and care taken to keep it intact. The weather was pretty warm at the first of the week, but I also want to have some time to enjoy my pumpkins before Halloween. And most importantly, when it comes to pumpkins, I have the patience of a small child! But hopefully my pumpkins will still be at least mostly whole for Halloween (eleven days away!).

Although carving a jack-o-lantern has been one of my favorite Halloween traditions for years, I haven't ever really thought about why we do it. It's such a funny thing, if you really think about it. We cut up a vegetable into a funny face and then light it up--it's a little strange. So, I did a search to see if I could find out why we carve pumpkins, and found the story on the University of Illinois Extention site. It's really quite a good myth:

People have been making jack-o-lanterns at Halloween for centuries. The practice originated from an Irish myth about a man nicknamed "Stingy Jack." According to the story, Stingy Jack invited the Devil to have a drink with him. True to his name, Stingy Jack didn't want to pay for his drink, so he convinced the Devil to turn himself into a coin that Jack could use to buy their drinks. Once the Devil did so, Jack decided to keep the money and put it into his pocket next to a silver cross, which prevented the Devil from changing back into his original form. Jack eventually freed the Devil, under the condition that he would not bother Jack for one year and that, should Jack die, he would not claim his soul.

Soon after, Jack died. As the legend goes, God would not allow such an unsavory figure into heaven. The Devil, upset by the trick Jack had played on him and keeping his word not to claim his soul, would not allow Jack into hell. He sent Jack off into the dark night with only a burning coal to light his way. Jack put the coal into a carved out turnip and has been roaming the Earth with it ever since. The Irish began to refer to this ghostly figure as "Jack of the Lantern," and then, simply "Jack O'Lantern."

In Ireland and Scotland, people began to make their own versions of Jack’s lanterns by carving scary faces into turnips or potatoes and placing them into windows or near doors to frighten away Stingy Jack and other wandering evil spirits. In England, large beets are used. Immigrants from these countries brought the jack o’lantern tradition with them when they came to the United States. They soon found that pumpkins, a fruit native to America, make perfect jack o’lanterns.

We had so many pumpkins this year that we were able to make little pumpkin men. And we used Sweet Husband's drill--who doesn't love power tools? The result--some very boo-tiful jack-o-lanterns.


(Update 10/31/05: Pumpkins were too soggy to light tonight due to carving too early. Next year carve them later knucklehead!)

Miracles for Moe

Every morning I have a companion in the shower. Nope, it's not Sweet Husband (this isn't that kind of blog)--it's Moe, my Welsh Terrier. I know what you're thinking. My family and a good number of my friends have all told me that this is a very strange practice.

"He just...hops in?" (with a horrified look and a raised eyebrow).

"Yup."

"And he just hangs out with the water coming down on him? He doesn't mind at all? He doesn't get in your way?"

"Yup."

"And that doesn't bother you at all?"

"Least he's getting clean."

The truth is, Moe loves, loves, LOVES water. This summer we tried to take him to a neighbors pool to play while we swam. We ended up having to take him home because he absolutely would not stay out of the pool. And the other day when I was watering, out of nowhere he just started attacking the stream of water coming out of the hose. It was the greatest game in the world to him.

But what's really funny about the shower is that--while the miracle of water may be a fluke elsewhere--he realizes that the shower is a place water regularly occurs. So every time I brush my teeth, or go potty, or do any of the other things you do in the bathroom, he has to come too. On non-showering trips he sits at the side of the tub and just stares. You can almost see the wheels in his head spinning, willing the water to come out of the spout, trying to figure out how to make it happen. If he had opposable thumbs our water bill would be sky high, but as it is, he just can't quite figure out how the water thing works.

But--and this is the greatest part--I do know how the water thing works. Go figure! Almost 20 years of school now, and I could have skipped it all and would still be fully qualified to be Moe's very own miracle worker. No matter how bad of a day I've had--if I've said the wrong thing or just completely messed something up--I still have the power to make one little dog go through the moon with just a spin of my wrist. Don't mess with me, I'm a powerful woman!

I think this story illustrates why I get so upset about animals who've been needlessly harmed or irresponsibly taken care of. As a law student, I've read hundreds of cases over the past few years about all the horrible things that people do to people. It used to really bother me, but I've gotten to where I can pretty much leave it at the end of the day.

When I hear about people hurting animals I'm completely different--it tears me up, because animals don't even really understand what's happening other than that they're in need or in pain. As Moe's routine with water demonstrates, we really are their Gods. We have power to rule their whole universe. Don't we owe it to them to be just, benevolent Gods, as often as we can? Don't we owe them a few miracles?

(Not Really) Indian Summer

Early this week, I heard a weatherman say we were going to have an "Indian Summer". He was right about the weather, after a few weeks of fall, this week has been between seventy and eighty degrees every day. But his use of the term was not excruciatingly correct.

I did some searching and, in order for a day to technically be classified as an "Indian Summer" day, it has to happen after a killing frost. Since we haven't had a frost, it can't be Indian Summer.

Indian Summer is what's called a weather "singularity". A singularity (also called a calendaricity) is a discernable weather event that recurs around a specific calendar date each year.

But why is it called Indian Summer? According to a nice article in the Wisconsin Natural Resource Magazine

The term "Indian summer" is most often heard in the northeastern United States, but its usage extends throughout English-speaking countries. It dates back at least 200 years, but the origin is not certain; the most probable suggestions relate it to the way the American Indians availed themselves of the extra opportunity to increase their winter stores. According to New England Native American folklore, Indian summer is sent on a southwest wind from the spirit Countantowit.
European folklore has Indian summer equivalents: "Old wives’ summer" in central Europe, probably from the widespread existence of "old wives’ tales" concerning this striking feature of autumn weather; "halcyon days" also in central Europe, based on a period of fine weather described in Greek mythology; and "all-hallown summer," "St. Luke’s summer," and "St. Martin’s summer" in England, depending on when the autumn time the weather occurs.

So, bottomline, it hasn't been cold enough yet for the warm to count. But it's still nice.

"Encouraging" Bulbs

As a two season veteran of paperwhites, I've decided to branch out a little this year and try to "encourage" some tulips and daffodils (I hate the word "forced"--it makes it sound like I'm holding a gun to their heads). I'm taking the bar this winter, so I was originally going to do a massive, all-winter, two week interval staged operation, just to keep studying cheerful. Then I realized we wouldn't have room for food in our refridgerator with that many bulbs, so I decided to scale back a bit and make it an experimental year.

I read that miniature daffodils do well inside so I got five "Tete-a-Tete" narcissus. They're so sweet! According to the book I got from the library they need to spend 12-15 weeks in cold storage, and should be pulled out when roots are coming out the bottom of the pot or there is a little bit of top growth on the bulbs. That should be between December 24th and January 14th. They should bloom in 15-17 weeks.

I wasn't really intending to try tulips, because I couldn't find any that were specifically intended for forcing, but I found these "Greigii Diantha" Tulips and they changed my mind.

The bulbs were a completely unique color--kind of peach, like a summer tan with just a little bit of burn--and the blooms are gorgeous. What I really like though is the variegation on the leaves. I really hope they work out. The bulb book says they should be brought out of cold storage at 10-12 weeks or when the sprouts are about 4 inches tall. That should be between December 10th and December 24th.

Since I'm experimenting, I wanted to be scientific and find out what the fridge temperature is, but the thermometer I'm using doesn't measure that low (Christmas present idea, everyone!). Sweet Husband says that standard home fridge temperature is about thirty-eight degrees--and he generally knows random things like that pretty well--so we'll go with that.

I'm also a little concerned about the fruit in our fridge. You're never supposed to keep bulbs with fruit because fruit lets off a gas that will inhibit the bloom, so I've put all of our fruit in the crisper drawer and hopefully that will be enough to prevent cross-contamination.

Think encouraging thoughts everyone!

Sniffing Geranium Cuttings

This summer when I was buying herbs I spotted a few different kinds of scented geraniums mixed in with the mints. They probably wouldn't have even caught my eye, but in one of my very favorite books, Anne of Green Gables, Anne has an apple-scented geranium that she names "Bonnie".

The ones for sale were lemon-scented geraniums, not apple, but I got two none-the-less. They had a nice summer outside, but when I started bringing stuff in for colder times I realized I only have windowsill space for one. Last winter I checked out a book about propagation and I remember reading that one way to economize where geraniums are tender is to take a cutting from your plant in the fall and let it root over winter. If I remember correctly, I'll have to get it started in dirt in a month or so, and by spring it should be ready for it's own grown up pot.


So, a little experiment--we have one geranium freshly repotted and pruned and we have two geranium cuttings from the other plant rooting in water with just a titch of rooting powder on the ends. May the best plant win.

"Mums" the Word

Up to now, I've pretty much avoided annual flowers. They don't make anything (like vegetables do), the don't last for a long time (like perennials do), they're just pretty for a few months and then they die. Kind of silly to spend money on something that just sits there, right?

But the other day I was at Sunrise, where they have rows and rows of mums. They're kind of a gaudy flower any other time of the year, but in the fall mums just feel right. Maybe it's the colors--rusty red, pumpkiny orange, golden yellow--but they just work.

So I brought some home. No place to put them in the ground outside, no place to put them inside. Just brought some home and plunked them into a pot. I've spent ten bucks on far less useful things.

And I know I could try to save them and plant them in the Spring and yadda-yadda, but, really, I did some research on Mums and they're a bit of work to keep. They need extra rich soil and they're supposed to be moved every three years, prone to pests, etc. And I really wouldn't want them in my flower bed in March or May or July, anyway. Just right now.

As part of my little annual-buying rebellion (and also because I want my mums to survive my dogs) I put my pot'o'mums outside our back door instead of the front. We use the back door much more often, and they make me smile every time I walk by.

So they aren't useless really, they're perfect. They'll sit on my back stoop, be beautiful, and make me smile everyday, and when it's time for a poinsettia, they'll be done blooming and ready to step aside.

There's definitely something wonderful to be said about flowers in the perfect time and perfect place.

It's the Great Pumpkin (Patch) Charlie Brown

Today we spent the day at the Louisburg Cider Mill and the KC Pumpkin Patch with family. I was in Squash Heaven, of course, and brought home way too many. We started in the morning with the Cider Mill. Adorable Baby Niece couldn't get over how they squished up the apples to make the cider, she kept making us go back into the building to watch the machine.

First the apples were washed and floated toward the mill.

Then the apples were squished.

And then--PRESTO--apple cider.

We wandered around the cider store for a little bit. They had everything apple you could imagine--cider, spices, caramel, apple butter.


Emma found some pumpkins that were just her size.

And I found a cave woman gourd!

After a tasty lunch (thanks Grandma!) we headed over to the KC Pumpkin Patch in Gardner. It was like, a little Pumpkin amusement park. They had a barrel train, lots of slides, a "haunted barn" (which was a little silly, but still fun in a kooky kind of way), a petting zoo--oh yeah, and there was a pumpkin patch too. The best part though, was the PUMPKIN CANNON.

With the press of a button, this cannon would fire pumpkins through the air into a nearby field where you could see the very satisfying splat they made when they landed.

We also tried the "Chunkin' Punkin'" which catapulted baby pumpkins at targets out in the field. The target we were aiming for--a life-size wooden dairy cow!


They also had this smaller pumpkin gun that allowed for a little more targeting by the person shooting. But I still couldn't hit the cow!


Did I mention that I was in squash heaven? There were all kinds of gourds and different shapes and sizes of pumpkins. Some year when we have more space (and a big truck) I think we'll have to go back and get a giant pumpkin. But for now we settled on this one for a regular pumpkin.


But with all the variety, it was hard to pick just one.






So we brought home three! Combined with what we picked out at the Cider Mill we added five very cool vegetables to our (ok, my) collection.

The Last Rose of Summer

'Tis the last rose of Summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

Edam-mama-ame

One of the very wonderful things about living in Lawrence is there is always new food to try somewhere. And, although we tend to get into a rut at our favorite places (Milton's, Free State, and Paisanos are our trinity) I'm very glad that we decided to try an appetizer of edamame (ed-uh-ma-mey) at Zen Zero one night this summer.

Edamame are soybeans picked in the green stage. They are then typically boiled and frozen, although they can be eaten fresh. I like mine steamed and salted a bit, but they can be eaten cold. They're also loaded with protein, which is very cool for those of us who don't get enough in other ways (I'm still questing for truly humane chickens).

And they're so fun to eat and just neat to look at! When edamame are steamed they turn this beautiful technicolor green. The pods, which are inedible, are covered in tiny white hairs, but the beans inside are slippery and smooth. In Asia (so the internet tells me) they're eaten like peanuts, which seems like an apt comparison, but the moisture of the edamame makes them so much more tasty. They just slide down your throat like an oyster.

So, of course, being me, I've been thinking of trying to grow some edamame of my own. I sat down tonight and did a serious search for where they grow successfully and where I can get seeds. I found Wannamaker Seeds which has both seeds and information about planting, and Seed Savers Exchange which has seeds in smaller quantities, but in less variety. According to Wannamaker, they can be grown in Kansas--which seems like a silly thing for me to have wondered about as I live just a few miles from acres and acres of soybean fields. I think what threw me is that I read that they also do well in the Northwest where the climate couldn't be more different than here. Evidently a very versatile (and tasty) plant!

Following Sheep To Crocs

Today, I succummed and joined the millions of fashion-sheep who wear Crocs. It took a really long time for me to get to this point. If and when I jump into something that's a trend, I try to be at least a little selective about it and only buy and wear the stuff that I really like as opposed to just picking up everything that comes along. And let's face it Crocs are pretty darn ugly--especially in some of the colors they've come up with! No one over the age of ten should wear neon pink rubber shoes. No one.

But I will admit, I've thought they'd be very convenient for working outside--still washable and breathable, but a little more toe protection than my standard flip-flops.

And then this weekend I noticed that Adorable Baby Niece had a pair that were a really nice mellow greeny-blue color (I was blessed with a sister-in-law with excellent taste). I later found out the color is called "sage"....which is ever so much better than neon pink.

And then I wore mean shoes (heels that hurt) for two days which gave me nasty blisters, and earned me sympathetic looks from complete strangers because I was obviously in pain.

And then (after being unable to find the knock off Airwalk version in the right color and size) I did some research on the Crocs website (which is ever-so-much fun and, of course, chock full of reasons that you "gotta have 'em") and discovered that Crocs are non-marking, slip resistant (can't say that for my flip-flops), bacteria and odor resistant, and fully sterilizable.

Well, how could I not buy such a wonderful shoe?


But in defense of both myself and my new shoes, they are terribly, terribly comfortable...and they are such a nice color...and everybody else is wearing them, right?

Ok, but I solemnly swear that I will never, ever, ever, EVER own Ugg boots. (Well, maybe I shouldn't say never....)

Getting Older

I was walking upstairs to go to bed last night when I turned back and realized that our sweet Porterhouse (Australian Shepard Mix and eldest of our two fur-kids for those who don't know; pictured above taking a nap in 2003) was a little slower and stiffer walking up the stairs than she's been in the past. She turned eight in September (which is firmly in the "senior" category for her weight and breed)and this isn't the first sign we've had that she's feeling her age. It kind of made me realize that although Moe (Welsh Terrier puppy and Porter's younger brother) is our baby these days, Porter is...well, she's the soft, quiet...soul of our home.

She's lived with me through six years of college, nine roommates, five houses, and one tiny apartment. She was unwaveringly patient with my three year old baby sister when we moved back in with Mom during my junior year--submitting to all manner of petting and mauling. She was in our wedding, and there to cuddle during all the fights we had the first year we lived together. She's so well mannered that every time we go see my Grandma she says, "Now this is my kind of dog," as Porter sits calmly to be petted on the head. And (just so you don't think she's all sugar and spice) she's the greatest escape artist ever! Over or under, if there's a hole or a weak spot in the fence or a place she can jump from she will find it.

So, to try and help her be more comfortable, Sweet Husband and I bought her a big soft new bed tonight. We made the PetCo employee laugh as we tested the different softness, and then we headed to the craft store for some stuffing to make it even fluffier. And then I came home and looked up all the things you're supposed to do to help an older dog--things to help lift them up the stairs, special food, special ramps--even doggie massage and acupuncture.

And I realized I've never had a dog get old before. We lived in the country when I was younger, and between other animals and the nearby highway, our dogs tended to die in their prime. Which is more sad in some ways, but it saved a certain amount of the calculating that I'm afraid may be coming. How do you give back for eight years of unconditional (and sometimes undeserved) love? How do you put a price on priceless?

But, how does that saying go--don't borrow trouble? So for now we'll enjoy our old girl all the more for knowing that she won't be here forever. It's like the Fall--you love the bright, blue, perfect days just that much more when you think that it will soon be Winter.