My Bit of Earth

A Broccoli Romance

 

I fell in love with my husband over broccoli.  Not even kidding.  This broccoli, in fact.

We started dating my senior year of high school.  (He was a sophomore--yes, I was the older woman!)  Just about a month after we started dating, our high school band (of which we were both members) took a group trip to Washington D.C.  We were big enough to be separated into two different tour groups, and--of course--we ended up in separate groups.  But one of the days the two groups got together was the day we toured Mt. Vernon.  

While others checked out the house, Sweet Husband and I wandered off on into the gardens.  And for the first time in my life, I saw broccoli growing.

I was not a city kid growing up.  I had dogs and bunnies and goats, for goodness sakes!  But somehow I had never seen broccoli growing.  It was like little broccoli trees just sticking out of the ground...I was entranced.  And instead of making fun--as many sophomore boys would have done--or rushing me along or being bored, Sweet Husband was excited with me.  And--while I can't claim that was when I knew he was forever, because that didn't come until later--that was certainly when I started to think that maybe he was a keeper.

Happy Anniversary Babe!

I Built My Fence of Sticks

I'm not very good at "garden design".  I generally just move things around until they look "right"--often ripping out plants and moving large rocks several times in the same weekend.  (Ask Sweet Husband about that...actually don't, I still owe him big time!)

A few weekends ago, I decided I needed some kind of barrier between the garden part of the yard and the (ever smaller) part that's still lawn.  I didn't want to spend a lot of money, therefore natural materials seemed to be the way to go.  But rocks alone--which we have a lot of--weren't enough of a barrier.  

Then we had a big storm and a neighbor down the way lost a branch off of her tree.  Then we went to Nice Friends' house in the country and took a few dozen more sticks from their burn pile.

From there it was just an investment of time, garden twine, and about a dozen long garden stakes.  I drove the stakes into the ground and tied my posts to them.  A little more tying and I had cross pieces too.  So far, it's withstood at least a couple of pretty good thunderstorms--I think it's sturdy.

The only mistake I made--and we'll see if it really is a mistake in a few months when everything is blooming--is that I fell prey to the garden center when choosing flowers to plant behind the fence. Instead of planting a big mass of one flower, I planted one each of twenty flowers.  I was going for pretty country mix.  I may get a disjointed mess.  

But if it is, that will give me something to do better next year....

More Fun With Great Grandma Minnie

My aunt and I were going through a box of textiles at my Grandmother's house when I lifted one up to my nose.

"Mmm, this smells like Grandma-Great's house...."

"You mean, like mothballs?"

"Oh....(giggle) yeah, I guess that's it, isn't it?"

I ended up bringing home a quilt, a few tablecloths, and a whole stack of doilies, but I didn't really get a chance to look at them until last weekend.  

I had just piled everything into our spare bedroom and shut the door until I had time to sort through it.  When I opened the door back up a few days later, the entire room was starting to smell like mothballs. I wrapped everything in a big ball and bundled it out to the clothesline for some much needed airing out.

 

I had noticed the quilt had names embroidered on each square, but I hadn't taken time to read them.  There it was, right in front of me:

Not only that, but both of my great-aunts names are on squares, and there are some family last names that I recognize, as well.  It's literally a family quilt, and it's in wonderful condition too!  Squeee!

As for the tablecloths, they've already been put to good use--and even received a baptism in red wine--and I hope to turn the doilies into this sometime soon.

Wednesday Morning Pretties

  

 

An Entirely No-Sew Backyard Banner

I was having poor luck with the sewing machine Sunday afternoon.  It was the first time I'd tried quilting on it, and I just don't think my little $75 Brother is up to the task.  It was shaking so badly I thought it was going to explode.

So, I put it away and decided to no-sew instead.

As you are all (painfully) aware, I'm kinda into banners.  And when I saw this one the other day draped across a back yard, I decided that I must have one.  But it involved sewing, and as we have established, I was done with sewing for the day.  

What to do?  What to do?  How about something like this?

See, instead of sewing I just cut out big squares of fabric, folded them into triangles, and tied the ends together.  Then I strategically tied it to my clothesline in a few places to make it nice and drapey.

Voila!  A no-sew banner to make the yard festive for Spring!

 

Becoming One Big Happy Flock

The ducks and chicks are all living outside together in the coop these days.  We let them free range the yard for most of the day while we're at work, and then "put them to bed" in the coop at night.

The first time I put them all in the yard together it was like watching rival gangs.  They'd cluster together with their respective groups and stare each other down, with the chicks making disgusted noises and the ducks forming a little phalanx behind Kaki (the biggest) and lunging, beaks first.

After awhile they just ignored each other, but then little Macy decided to start making friendly overtures.

She'd waddle over to the flock of chicks and quack hopefully.  They'd look at her like she was nuts and scatter.  She'd try again.

Then, one morning sometime last week, I noticed that--while they still tend to prefer their own species--more and more often they all range together.  They're finally becoming a little family flock.

 

We've also had our first escapee!  We didn't even know it happened until much after the fact.  Nice Neighbor saw a chicken in the alley, figured she was ours, and tossed her back into our fence.  From the description, the culprit was Tori.  Not surprising--she's a very curious little bird, particularly when I have my camera out!

A Pretty Party

Tossed together a wee dinner party this weekend.  Two very old friends, and two very new friends that feel like very old friends. While we can squeeze six in the dining room, it was the first nice day in weeks so I decided to set up outside.  

We have this awkward concrete pad outside our back door that I've been trying to figure out what to do with for a few months now.  As we sat down to dinner, I thought, "Aha!  This is what we do with it--throw as many summer dinner parties as we can!"

It just so happens that I hate to put together "menus", but I love appetizer-y, snack-y foods.  So that's just what we had--a whole dinner full of starters.  I think the winner was this strawberry salad.  I will be making it once a week at least for as long as strawberries are in season.  

Also yummy, these fancified twice baked potatoes, a platter of beef carpaccio, and a beautiful salad that Nice Friend brought and I need to get a recipe for--cherry tomatoes, asparagus, feta, and baby mozzarella, all in the most perfect vinaigrette.

Then, after dinner, a little fire in the fire ring--yes the weed burner was used to start it!--chocolate cake, and much-too-much wine.  Yes, we do need to do that again soon!

Rhubarb, How I'd Love to Love You

Sweet Husband and I have been talking a lot about gifts lately.  As in, everyone has at least one thing that they're amazing at--e.g. "Friend X is an awesome guitar player," or, "It's a little sad that Friend Y is trying to go to law school when it's so clear that his real gift is cooking."

I've decided this line of thought applies to food as well as people.  

Take rhubarb.  It has a gift.  It is an incredibly beautiful food.  It is very good at that.  Asking it to be tasty also...well, maybe that's just asking too much.

(And when I say tasty, I mean tasty without being drenched in sugar.  When I was originally lamenting my rhubarb problem, I got an amazing recipe for strawberry rhubarb pie from a friend.  It was just that--amazing.  But 2 cups of sugar and a pie crust is cheating and not something I can eat on even a weekly basis if I want to keep my girlish figure!)

A few Saturdays ago, I made the above pictured recipe for Rhubarb and Pistachios over Thick Yogurt.  (It's from the book Lucid Food: Cooking for an Eco-Conscious Life.)  It's gorgeous, yes?  The vibrant red rhubarb, contrasted with creamy yogurt and bright green little pistachio crumbles, all atop a steaming bowl of warm grains.  But the rhubarb tasted like the spices it was cooked in and that was all.  No flavor, only magnificent color.

Is it just that my tongue is defective?  Have I just not found the right application yet?  Because I'd really like to love rhubarb, but it's just not cooperating with me.

Anyone have any ideas that don't involve lots of sugar?

Four Finished Objects

I'm on a bit of a knitting binge here, folks.  Casting on left and right, probably giving myself carpal tunnel--enjoying every second!  

The finished objects for the past week or so?  First, a little aviatrix hat....second a Shroom hat (this didn't quite turn out big enough for a grown-up, even though I made the larger size--but, eh, some little girl always needs a cute hat, yes?)....third an ipod sock for my g-phone (that's got to be illegal!)....and last, my completed February Baby Sweater (which I'm so proud of that I keep unfolding and refolding it just so that Sweet Husband will say, "That's a nice sweater!").

Great-Grandma Minnie's Knitting Needles and Cake

Over this past week, my family has been cleaning out my grandma's house.  She's been in assisted living for a bit now, and, for various reasons, decided it was time to start sorting through her worldly goods.

As I suspect would be the case with anyone who's lived in a house for over 50 years, there was way more than any of us could or wanted to take.  But--vintagey nut that I am--I did find a few treasures, and,slowly but surely, I want to take the time to tell the stories of them.

We were all sitting in the basement going through an old trunk full of pictures and souvenirs--many of which seemed to be from my grandpa's Navy days--when someone pulled aside a bit of clothing to reveal these.  I was almost too excited to talk, but eked out, "Oh, can I please, please take these?"

"What are they?"  my dad asked, with a puzzled look.

"They're knitting needles!"

Judging from the rest of the items found in the trunk, we guessed they belonged to Grandpa's mother, Minnie.  From them, I was able to add another few tidbits to my store of knowledge about her.  

First, she wraps her double pointed needles in string from the last project she worked on, just like I do.  Second, she was a good knitter.  The needles are sizes 0 and 2--good for knitting socks and lace, not just chunky beginner scarves.

That's a lot to add, considering that I only knew about three things about Grandma Minnie before.

I knew that her great-grandfather was a tailor for the King of Sweden, and her grandfather worked in the King's gardens.  Her father, David, married her mother, Bengta--who worked in the palace brewery--and they immigrated to the United States in the 1880's.

According to my grandmother, who would have been Minnie's daughter-in-law, she was fairly meek and submissive to my great-grandfather--refusing to spend money on even small household goods without his permission.  But to the extent I remember him talking about her, I got a definite sense that my grandfather, her younger son and the baby of the family, adored her.

One summer--I must have been 10 or 11--my step-mother and I connived to surprise my dad with a picnic dinner.  I decided to make him a cake from a book of family recipes, and settled on one submitted by "Minnie", unaware that she was my great-grandmother.

Somehow, I ended up putting in far too much shortening--I think I must have switched the amount of shortening and the amount of sugar.  The picnic surprise came off perfectly, but then my dad bit into the cake.  

What you have to understand about Nice Dad is, he was wonderful about eating what I cooked with a smile, no matter what.  But this was so bad, even he couldn't fake it.  "Is this a joke?" he sputtered, as he spit the piece of cake out.  I quickly took a bite myself, and--there was no help for it--the cake tasted like a spoonful of straight Crisco.

When we next saw Grandpa, I recounted the story of the "Crisco cake".  It was he who informed me that "Minnie" was my great-grandma.  He said he remembered her making that cake all the time, and smiled fondly as he told me how he used to love it.

Looking at Grandma Minnie's knitting needles the other day, I got to thinking about that cake.  I pulled out the book of family recipes and decided to give it another try.

I immediately realized why--at 10--I had difficulty with it.  It's obvious from reading it that she had it memorized so well that she didn't need basic instructions, like how long to bake it for or at what temperature.  But I took a good guess (350 degrees, start testing at 20 minutes and go until a knife comes out clean), and I can see why it was one of her favorites.  Not too sweet, light but still substantial...my piece didn't even make it long enough to get icing--it was perfect on its own with a big glass o'milk.

Robin's Egg Blue

Found this guy laying the the grass this weekend--freezing cold, but unbroken--and couldn't decide whether to be happy or sad about it. 

Of course, I would have preferred for this little robin to have lived.  Being (obviously) a huge fan of The Secret Garden, I've always loved robins.  And the very first time I dug a garden by myself--and thought I was going to die before I managed to make something palatable from the heavy clay soil I was dealing with--a little robin showed up to help me, just as if I were Mary Lennox herself.  (OK, so the robin might have been more interested in the bugs I was turning up--it was still nice to have a friend.)

On the other hand, that color!

I've heard tell that you can know what color an egg a bird will lay by the color of it's ears.  I plan to test the validity of this theory by examining my chicks eventually, but if it's true, imagine what beautiful little lobes lady robins must have!

Eventually, of course, the egg had to go to the compost pile, but I'll admit I saved it for a few days just to enjoy looking at it s'more.

Moe Speaks: Fierce Chicken Protector

Went outside tonight to do my nightly P&P (that's pee and patrol), when I noticed something wasn't right in the chicken coop.  Although I would very much like to have the chickens for dinner myself, you can bet your last squeaky toy that I'm not going to let anything else eat them.  Mom's awfully fond of them, and, they're sort of becoming family...in the way that creatures can be family when you'd gladly have them poached with gravy...but, anyway, the point is no other critters are going to hurt them--not on my watch!

But just as I was getting into some good, scary barking at the young upstart that was trying to get my chicks, Mom came outside fit to be tied.  Something about "neighbors" and it being late and "damned crazy terrier".  After the third "inside" command, I figured I'd better do as I was told, chicks to protect or not.  I went in, and, without even a word of thanks, Mom roughly wiped off the mud from my paws, scolding me the whole time.

And then, the lightbulb went off in her head.  (Aside: If you're going to successfully train a human you have to always be watching for those lightbulb moments--the times when they all of a sudden "get it".)  Her face screwed up in a funny smile, she grabbed a flashlight, and walked back out to the coop.

Sure enough, she found that this ferocious beastie had already breached the outer run perimeter and was attempting to crawl into the coop with the ladies.  Two seconds alone with him and I could have finished him off forever, but Mom insisted that he was just a baby who didn't know any better.  Because by that time she was loving-me-up-to-the-skies for my heroic deed, I was feeling gracious and let the culprit live.

In Progress

A bit unfortunately, knitting occurred this weekend.  I say unfortunately because, had the weather been what it should be at this time of year, there would have been less knitting, more playing outside.  But, hopefully that will improve soon!

In the meantime, I'm discovering that I really love Elizabeth Zimmerman.  Like, want to play a boom box outside her window, love her.  The pattern for this sweater?  Not even a full page.  Completely concise--not one extraneous word--but everything I needed to know is there.  I did have to do a little research to figure out exactly how to modify the pattern to do the sleeves in the round--I avoid seams whenever possible--but otherwise EZ says it all!

And not only that, the pattern--the February Baby Sweater--has worked up beautifully.  This little guy was just to use up some CotLin in my stash--and honestly, I've got about six or seven little projects in line before I'll get back to it--but next winter I'm so making one of these in my size!

The other weekend project?  An ipod cozy.  Again, trying to work through some leftovers--my stash basket is overflowing, and my poor, abused cell phone could use the cushioning. 

The Verdict

Although, again, it's not 100% until eggs are laid (or not) every person to comment on my "Is this a rooster?" post on Backyard Chickens agreed....Norah is a rooster.

It's an easy enough mistake to make with chickens, but my family actually has a long history of mistakes in sexing critters.  The most recent and infamous story involves a little grey kitten, who has now had--count 'em--four names.

The kitten arrived at my house when I was in college, via my Nice Roommate's Mom who found him in a grocery store parking lot.  We happened to be all full up on pets, but my Nice Mom had mentioned getting a kitty for Sweet Sister, so the supposedly female cat was taken to their house and named Darla.

Upon being taken to the vet for her spay, it became clear that the cat was male.  Nice Brother then started calling the cat Darwin.  (Darla to Darwin--easy to see how you get there, yes?)  Sweet Sister did not like the name Darwin, however, and declared the cat's name would be Frodo.  Nice Mom and I tried to please them both, and called him Frodo-Darwin, which was very awkward indeed.

Frodo-Darwin was not long for my family though.  The other cats in the neighborhood were continually beating on him, and he was not amenable to becoming a completely indoor cat.  For his own safety and peace of mind, Frodo-Darwin was relocated to Nice In-Laws' house in the country, where he was dubbed "Cat", and lives happily still.

Which brings us back to Norah.

I have a lead on a pet home for him, and if that doesn't work out, Nice Farmer/Lawyer guy said I can bring him out for butchering day at his house.  Either way, I want to wait a bit just to be super-duper-extra sure.

And in the meantime, it's been hard to think of what to call him.  I'm thinking "Norbert", although I did toy with "Stewie" for a few hours.  (Yes, it's supposed to be punny.)  Or maybe we'll just keep calling him Norah--"Boy Named Sue" and all that--because it's hard to change it up at this point.

In any event, I'm really grateful that I started with five chickens.  I questioned the wisdom of it when I was ordering them, but now that we're going to be short two, it seems I picked the right number.

Although, as long as the duckies pull their weight we should still be swimming in eggs soon enough!

 

Poppies

Feeling a little blue this week.  No worries, nothing serious...but rather than write tonight, I offer you the beautiful poppies that are unfurling in my backyard.  How can you be blue with bright orange poppies staring up at you?

Additionally, here is a harrowing squirrel tale and the story of some friends who came to visit the ducklings today.  (Goodness, but my duckies are sweet...if I do say so myself!)

Freeloaders!

We fed them a good holiday meal.  We did not chase them off, even when they started to get a little creepy....

And this is how they repay us!  By shacking up and (we think) getting knocked up in our attic.

 

Based on their behavior as I was watching them this afternoon, Mama Squirrel is hanging out with the wee ones while Papa Squirrel brings her dinner.  They will have to be evicted soon, of course, but we certainly don't want the babies to die, particularly in our attic.  So, no foreclosure for a few weeks at least.

May Day Stories

Happily, I spent a good chunk of May Day in the garden digging and planting.  

Ten kinds of tomatoes, cucumbers, okra, edamame, pumpkins, some flowers, herbs...and making their "my-garden-debut" corn and watermelon.  And if we actually get a real, big-girl watermelon, we're throwin' a hell of a party, let me tell you! 

And yes, that is a finished coop you see in the background--finally!  The girls spent their first night out there this weekend with a heat lamp to keep them toasty.  They're actually getting quite grown-up and almost pretty.  

Except for Norah, who I'm starting to worry might be a Normand.  Only time will tell, but she's not plump and chesty like the rest.  She's also brave as hell and growing a very pronounced, bright red comb.  I knew it was a possibility--chicken sexing is far from perfect--but I hadn't really thought through exactly what I would do with...um, him?  

Roosters are illegal in town, and I wouldn't do that to our neighbors at any rate.  I have a few friends that would gladly take an extra and butcher him for the freezer, but...if that's the way it's got to be, part of me...I want to do it myself.  It just doesn't seem right to farm the job out.  Hopefully it won't come to that, maybe she's just a late bloomer.  And maybe I can't kill my first little favorite chick....let's just all cross our fingers for no crowing!

In other back-yard farm drama, Porter almost ate Ella the Duck.  Moe was off jogging with Sweet Husband, the ducks were outside with me, and Porter was howling in the house.  (She doesn't much like being left alone.)  So, I decided to let her out with us to see how she would do.  I was very watchful at first, but then Porter--being fairly deaf these days--didn't notice the ducks at all.  In fact, she decided to take a nap in the sun.  I took her calmness for complacency and went about my gardening work.

Then, quite suddenly, she woke up.  Her mouth was on Ella when I turned around and reflexively whacked Porter with the handle of my shovel.  She was stunned enough to drop wee Ella, who was thankfully only a bit stunned herself.  A lesson learned by all three of us, I think.

The dogs excepted, everyone is pretty much charmed with the ducklings.  As long as they can follow whatever human is out and about in the yard they're happy to be adorable....a little swim now and then doesn't hurt their feelings either!