Monday

Rise before dawn, sleep soon after dinner. It's a good pattern, if a bit out of step with the modern world. (My grandma favored it. My grandma was not modern.)

Let the chickens out, study the skies, inhale deeply.

In anticipation of Snowdrop's Monday visit, I ask Ed to put together the red wagon that I have added to the farmette stock of childhood essentials. Watching him work, systematically, almost rhythmically is always deeply satisfying. In building something, he displays his fantastic patience and great care. He'll never throw out a curse or an exasperated groan when things go wrong. (Unlike me.) And so I look on, taking in, too, the pale sunshine that warms the morning air to a whopping 60F (15C) today.






Breakfast is late. The sun has almost left the east facing room. No matter. There is no rush today.






And shortly after, Snowdrop arrives.

Let me post a very representative trilogy -- it documents well her typical first minutes at the farmhouse.

There is the search for a favorite stuffed animal to hug.






An initial run between rooms, at first with just the stuffed rabbit.






With a pause for a look at a favorite book.






And now I interrupt her play and suggest taking bread to the cheepers. At first, she is happy with the prospect of putting on the shoes and zipping up the fleece jacket. But her love of the red wagon is not instantaneous. I took a handful of photos. This is the only one where her face is not sporting a grimace.






But you know how it is: if you're unsure about an activity, you get very excited when you're on safe ground again. And so back in the farmhouse, she is especially happy to be doing one of her very favorite things these days: filling her arms with a jacket, shoes, maybe gloves, and, too, a stuffed animal...






...she runs with all this in a delightfully hoppy happy manner.






And if Ed's patience is in putting together parts to form a coherent whole, her's is in keeping a load in her arms. If something is dropped (and it is -- every few sauntering steps), she picks it up and tries again. And again. And again.






Lunchtime. Hey, little girl -- a new bib from the Conservatory in Minneapolis!






And the afternoon? Oh, the games Snowdrop invents for herself!

She makes penguin stew... (penguin stew???)






She brings her stack of stuff to "work" alongside Ed, who watches, amused at her cleverness, her sparkle.






The two with the wild hair!






Later, toward the end of the day, I take her back to her own neighborhood and Ed tags along, happy to go out for a walk with us...






And we find that first beautiful sign of growth: snowdrops.






We stop briefly at the coffee shop...






Snowdrop knows she has to wait for her wee morsel.






She is also learning that sharing is important. That even a wee crumb tastes better if you can eat it with a friend.






Such a good beginning to a week! But you could have guessed that just by reading this one fact: we had May-like weather today. On March 7th. In Wisconsin. Amazing.

Sunday : from their home to my home

The last leisurely hours in Minneapolis. In their apartment...






... then at brunch, because you know now (see previous post) there will always be brunch. This time, we eat at the Eastside which gives me that final taste of city.






And a final long pause which, honestly, is never long enough to cover all that I want to ask, all that she wants to ask.






It is a beautiful day outside. As promised, the sun is strong, the air is warm. Oh, but the sadness of leaving!

Never mind. We have planned encounters ahead. Looking forward is as familiar to me as any other feeling that I bring to the table.


And speaking of realizing a future wish, here's a tiny bit of news: Ed reports that the chickens are out and about and no one is thinking of killing another. Or if they're thinking it, they're not acting upon their deep rooted desires to eliminate anyone who stands in the way of total stardom. In other words, it appears that the pecking order is holding, with only a few missing feathers to show for it.


Back home now. Ed and I go for a late afternoon walk. Not too long, not too far. Just enough to feel the breeze coming in across Lake Waubesa, all the way to the frozen pond where a sandhill crane does a shout out to the coming of spring.

a Saturday in the city

As many of you know, I was a high school and university student in Poland. I moved to the States somewhere between what Americans call sophomore and junior years. The difference between being a student in Warsaw in the early 1970s and in New York were tremendous, but what I recall vividly now are the large and small ways in which the life of the American student seemed to me then to be so very decadent. There was the obvious: the dizzying array of irrelevant (to your future career) courses (suddenly, my transcript was peppered with such course titles as "the photography dark room" and "J.S.Bach" and "The African Queen's impact on the development of film" and "Italian for beginners.") There were, too, the small things: a cafeteria, with trays of donuts and big vats of coffee for those morning classes. Or the smell of pot in the residence halls. Then there was weekend brunch at the casual restaurants of upper Broadway.

Not only did Poles rarely eat out in those years (oh, how things have changed!), but brunch was not even in our vocabulary.  When a guy invited me out for morning brunch (of dim sum, because, you know, it was New York), I wondered -- how do I dress for this? As I followed him into a narrow restaurant with Formica tables and somewhat torn vinyl booths, I was impressed by the slow flow of conversation (Poles never talk that slowly). The casual way in which people ate, with a spread of the Sunday NYTimes on many tables.  Decadent, I tell you.

I still think of brunch as an unusual and, for me, special event. Ed and I never go out for it. Weekend brunch has become that wonderful extra meal to be enjoyed when, for example, I am visiting a daughter living in another city. This is when I look forward to this exotic and wonderful late morning indulgence -- as foreign and deliciously decadent to me now as it was when I first encountered it on the upper west side of New York.

This morning the three of us head out to Hola Arepa.






What are the origins of these dishes? I ask, digging into the yuca hash, with beans, pickled cabbage, and a poached egg.
Venezualan.





Oh, how the food culture has changed in the Midwest! Both my daughters and their husbands pay attention to food in good ways and I wonder out loud if they call themselves foodies. Predictably, they don't much care for the label.
Am I a foodie? I ask, somewhat amused. I thought the answer was a resounding yes. I've moonlighted in restaurant kitchens for God's sake. Why else would I burn my hands in hot ovens after teaching classes during the day if not for the love of good food?
My son-in-law teases me -- you're too much into healthy foods to be a proper foodie.

Damn it, he's right. Over the years, I've backed off, admiring great meals mostly from afar. On menus, I get excited by vegetables (mushrooms will do!). And yet, I study dishes and combinations of ingredients as if my life depended on it. I care deeply about the foods we eat.


Time for a walk. The temperatures are about to make the leap to above freezing and there they shall stay for weeks on end! But in the meantime, it's on the cool side and so we go to the Conservatory to admire plant life that belongs to another climate, or at least another season.






We walk through it twice. The humidity alone is worth the trip: it's like stepping into a spa for your eyes and for your winter weary skin too.











And then I have business to discuss with my sister in Warsaw and so we make our way to a coffee shop where I can Skype with her over a wonderful aromatic cup of coffee. (The young people lose themselves in books.)






As if this whole trip wasn't indulgent enough, we do another thing that I almost never do these days -- we go for ice cream at the Milkjam Creamery. People have very individual relationships to ice cream. For me, it's not just a food -- it's an evocative treat that brings forth memories of other places, other cones and cups eaten over a lifetime. But Milkjam is memorable in its own right. How can you not love a flavor called Indian Elvis (curry, banana and peanut butter)? Or one that mixes the milk of a cow with that of a goat?






The sun comes out now: it's as if our ice cream defiantly pushed thoughts of the cold season away for good. We linger in the neighborhood of the ice cream store, window shopping, pausing to look. Why rush now? Sun's out. Life is warm.






In the evening, we go to a new kid on the Twin Cities -- St. Genevieve. It's styled to be a buvette -- a kind of neighborhood bar with great food where all are welcome -- locals, with or without kids, the occasional visitor. And it is excellent!

(As you can tell, I love photographing people and I especially love photographing people I love. You can decide if these two are posing, or oblivious to my camera work.)






A full day, a beautiful meal, a late night. A good night. Good night!

up up

... and away! A day of travel. A weekend away. Except I'm no urban escapee from the chaos of the city. I'm leaving the quiet of the farmette to once again wallow in the deliciousness of a visit to the city.

I don't take off immediately. At sunrise, just as the first splash of pink leaves its quiet mark on the patches of snow...






... I am up hurrying to open the chicken coop. There's squawking inside and I think I am not incorrect in believing that Butter is picking on little Henny again.

And yet, the chicken way of thinking remains a great mystery to me. Though it's below freezing, the girls come trotting out -- all but Henny. I open the roost -- she is huddled inside, but not for long. Hearing her buddy Java below, she goes down and both hens follow the older girls outside. What happened to warfare?

I have to think -- might we be past the worst of it? Let me stay with that chipper cheeper vision. As rosy as the morning rays of sunlight...






Breakfast at the farmhouse. Warmed by the early sunshine.






Things are looking up, no? When I come back, every hen will have found her place in the wee group of four, right? The snow will be gone, the crocuses will continue their steady push toward the heavens. Dream big.

And as if to give substance to these lovely thoughts, I go outside and see a vignette that warms my heart: the cheepers are not that far apart. Henny feels safe next to Java. Nothing, not even Butter, seems threatening when she marches by the big black hen's side.





Spring, peace, harmony -- here we come!

There is a morning of chores -- of shopping, of car washing -- the usual end of week stuff. But in the afternoon, I do the most luxurious thing: I board a plane for Minneapolis. The big airlines have introduced discount fares (no seat, no this, no that -- stripping it down to the bare essentials of going up, staying up, and landing in the place you want to be) and I grabbed one before it disappeared. That's a 45 minute journey, as opposed to a brutal and cold five and a half hour bus ride.

Up up indeed, over the isthmus that is Madison...






What, you can't spot our Capitol? Look closely.






A slight turn west and north and we disappear into the clouds (the same ones that have just dumped an inch of snow in Minnesota, but I have no complaints: our sister state is due for a warm up starting tonight. Remember: rosy thoughts, Ocean readers, rosy thoughts).


In the early evening, I am in the Twin Cities, riding the lovely light rail to meet my daughter and her husband. A stroll through the maze of skywalks, a quick drink in the office building where my girl works and then the three of us head out to dinner at the Brewer's Table.






It's the restaurant that sits right in the belly of the Surly Beer company. It has a well deserved reputation for delicious food (the chef here shares the honor Madison's young food geniuses received this year -- all nominees for a James Beard award) and we choose to have it paired with superb craft beers.  Yes,  despite my love of good wine, I am perfectly capable of saying kind words about beer. You just have to catch me at the right place and at the right time. This weekend, in Minneapolis, at the Brewers Table with this wonderful twosome for example.

But shhh! They're both fast asleep as I write this. I am proud to say that for once, I outlasted the younger generation. Snore away, my dears. Me, I'm already thinking about tomorrow's adventures.

Thursday

Oh, the noise, the squawking, screeching, flailing! I heard it when I stepped out to place a letter in the mailbox. It sounded desperate and mean.
Ed! Ed! -- not that he could hear me through the closed windows of the farmhouse, but I felt the need to shout for his help.
I'm inside the house now, panting -- I think the coop has been attacked!
Did you go see what happened?
No! I want you to come! It sounds awful!

But of course, I'm dressed and ready. He tells me to get going -- I'll catch up.

As I approach the coop, the noise is just tremendous. I see that Scotch is outside and she is part of the trouble. Standing on a bench by the sheep shed, the girl is positively screaming. I would transcribe it to something like - I don't like this! I don't like this! I don't like this!

I turn toward the coop. Ed is at my heels. Downstairs, Butter is chasing Henny who is a great flyer, but you just can't fly in a space that is less than two feet tall. Java is upstairs, taking up a huge portion of the roost. (She is one big girl.)

I chase Butter out of the coop with a broom. Everything is suddenly very quiet. As if nothing had happened. As if there had been no battle, no great disturbance.

Well it sounded horrible!
Pecking order: they're still working it out.

I blame their prolonged squabble on the bad weather. We'd introduced new hens before: I'd say it was more like placing a new singer into an existing choir. Oh, you have to shuffle things around to make room, and someone doesn't like being put behind, another one relishes the front row spotlight, but eventually the singing continues and apart from a kick and nudge, you'll hardly notice any ruffled feathers. But here, it's cold and the new hens are staying in the coop and it seems that every time Butter walks by she feels compelled to show how put upon she is by the intrusion. She wont go after big Java in a confined space, but she has no problem chasing Henny, who is, in fact of a more anxious disposition.

The warm air is almost with us. Perhaps tempers will ease and the hens will move back to the business of laying eggs. It cannot happen soon enough.


Breakfast. A blissfully quiet meal. A moment of total peace.






And now I shift gears again. I'm with my granddaughter one last day before again retreating for a bit, this time because of a trip up north to visit my younger girl and her husband.

Snowdrop is already dressed and ready to play and as I watch her, I smile at how sometimes an article of clothing will bring on a mood. I remember seeing a number of skirts and dresses this season that have a sort of dancer's element -- gauzy skirts, that kind of thing. It's a fad, it will pass, but this season, girls, big and small (at least on the other side of the ocean) seem to sport these fuller skirts. And the funny thing is that in this morning hour, Snowdrop, who otherwise seems not especially dance inclined (at this stage, she is a runner and a climber), seems to be raising her leg just so.






Favoring her tippy toes...






Stretching out her arms in her run.






Oh, I know it's just in my mind, possibly because of this impending visit with my younger daughter who, in fact, was a great dancer once, but it is a sweet recollection and I enjoy it especially because it came without prompt or any actual awareness on Snowdrop's part of what she was doing.

Onto the more serious business of what, in fact, has been an important discovery for the little babe -- sometime this week, she has enthusiastically embraced the game of "point to (fill in the blank)." Ask her to point to a giraffe or a strawberry and she literally pounds her finger on the given item (possibly because that has been my way of pointing as well).






And why use just one hand ...






And so is our morning: point to the banana! the baby! Oh, the joy of understanding what's what in this world!

In the afternoon, well, this was the one thing on her mind: are we going out yet?






Why she loves these excursions on days when we're just hovering around freezing is beyond me. Perhaps a testament to her time of birth -- in the deep chill of January.



(pointing, this time to the pinwheel)



We've discovered a new favorite cafe -- a bit further, but the staff more than makes up for the chill of those extra minutes outside. Lovely people who make a point of remembering your name. And her name.






Yes, telltale signs of cookie on her mouth. I always buy just one, for Ed, and she and I split a few crumbs of it.






Today, I let her explore a little on her own.
Just watch the wine bottles, Snowdrop!






Can I run here, grandma?
Go for it, little one. Go for it.






I'll leave you with that image of the girl on the run.


At home,  I find Ed petting Butter (to appeal to her gentler instincts) as the new girls watch.





We feed them in their various private places and eventually they all migrate upstairs in the coop. Not a sound. No protest. Tonight, all is calm. The beginning of a more permanent truce? One can hope.

Wednesday

Sometimes sunshine can perk up the most prickly set of hours. Then there is a day like this one:

The old hens laid their eggs in the barn. We hadn't noticed. The eggs froze.

The new cheepers are up in the roost without interruption for what is now the second day. I brought up food for them, feeling like I have two aging grannies rather than spry new hens.

The morning reading on my walk to open the coop was 5F (-15C).

At breakfast (in the sun room), Ed thought it was funny to hide behind the blender container.





At Snowdrop's home, the little girl wanted to pound on my laptop even more than she wanted to play with penguin, hat and jacket. When I refused, she was crestfallen. And no, distraction didn't work. At least not for significant parts of the morning.

She didn't finish her breakfast and was therefore hungry.

The banana I ate was so rotten that for a moment I wondered if even a pig would reject it.

And so on.

None of these are great menacing events in the scheme of things, but they show that the day was just a little off center. As if someone forgot to give us instructions on how to keep things on an even keel.


And yet, there is that golden warmth of the sun...






... and the snow and the sky took on beautiful shades of blue...






And Snowdrop never goes for long without showing her radiance.






After all, happiness can be as little or as much as a crumb of cookie after a cold, long walk to a cafe...











... or a page full of penguins.







Later, at the farmette, there is the usual negotiating with the girls: which chicken gets what treat in whose corner. Ed had intervened, picking up the new girls and placing them outside. I throw each pair of hens food, making sure that no one is expropriating the riches of another.



(not afraid to touch snow)




(still afraid of nearly everything)


Finally. Everyone is set for the night. Safely inside the coop. At the farmhouse, I heat up leftover soup for supper. Outside, a herd of some dozen deer pass through.






The start of the day was rocky. Now, at the end of it, I can hardly recall why. Looking back, it seems so very lovely.