Tuesday - 151st

 In the middle of the night, Ed and I talked about schools. We'd both read an article about how some kids do not thrive in schools -- quite the contrary, they suffer. What if you have such a child? Forget about the option of home schooling. Assume you are a working parent. Do you, nonetheless search for alternatives to school? In other words, do you take seriously a child's misery when she or he is forced to go to school?

Ed was such a kid. He is, perhaps, one of the most widely read persons I know, but he did not like school. I'll skip a description of what that lead to, but I do know that a pandemic type forcing of online learning would have thrilled him. I pushed back that this is only good for privileged children who have at least pseudo-supportive environments, but Ed shook off such generalizations.

I'm not talking about solutions, he tells me, at about 3:30 a.m.  Those take far greater thought and discussion. I'm just saying that it should be recognized that for some kids, schools are a terrible idea.

*.    *.    *

Do you know the weed purslane? It sort of looks like a spider web, with little droplets of water stuck to it. We have it all over our courtyard. At least I think that's what we have. Today,  I read an article in a local news source that claimed purslane leaves are incredibly healthy and should be used in veggie dishes or even salads. The question is -- how much do I trust myself in plant identification? What if what we have is actually not purslane at all, but some toxic horror that gives you hives in your stomach? (I know you can't really have hives in your stomach.)

When I worked for three years in Madison's high end restaurant as a line cook, I heard a lot from our chef about cooking with weeds. She was big on that. Forage and cook up what you find. She was one of few chefs at the time who liked to make a nice batch of nettle soup and charge you a small fortune for it. I'm far less trusting of what grows in the wild (or in our courtyard). Too many stories from my childhood of village people poisoning themselves with mushrooms and weird berries. Still, we have so much purslane! Should I be brave?

*.    *.    *

It's a beautiful day today. Stunning to the core. Sunny, warm, completely inviting. Still, I do only a modest garden clean up. Ed has a morning meeting and we need to fit in a breakfast before that.

(Not so busy that I can't load a whole bunch of garden photos for you!)

























(Breakfast: Dance sniffs, we eat.)





*.    *.    *

The kids come and today their enthusiasm spills over. We feed the chickens, check for eggs, take a stroll to the new orchard. And we look up at the moon. There in broad daylight.











I do get an eye roll from one of the grandkids in response to my constant identification of all the blooming flowers in the meadow. As in -- does it really matter what that one is called? Can't we just concentrate on looking for four leaf clovers? But I like that image of a child groaning at grandma's flower obsession. It's sweet.






More super pig sketches!






*.    *.    *

And in the afternoon I catch up on calls and owed letters, while the sun moves gracefully from one side of the farmhouse to the other and the cats stretch lazily on the porch and the crickets make a racket somewhere in the grasses of the farmette lands.






Finally, just before supper, I take a walk -- to the development.

(stepping out the door...)





(Looking at the farmette from the back...)




I have in the back of my mind a bunch of new virus worries (not ours but of friends, exposed), but I'm keeping them neatly pushed back. I mean, this is life right now: a new question, a symptom, an exposure. Worry wont get you anywhere. Belief in good outcomes is way more satisfying. So, I believe in good outcomes.

We eat a typical summer supper of grilled stuff. It almost doesn't matter what it is, right? The taste is of the grill (even if for us, that's a cheat because we don't actually use a grill to grill foods!). With corn of course. In August, you cannot have too much of good corn.

Monday - 150th

150 days of isolation.

150 days ago, I went one last time to the store, picked up the kids at school, chatted to the teachers, packed up winter jackets, mittens and boots from their cubbies and drove them to the farmhouse. Schools weren't closing yet, but Ed and I had decided to retreat into isolation. It seemed so much the right choice given the obvious community spread of the virus. (Two days later all schools closed in Madison and the young family joined us in isolation.)

No one knew 150 days would pass and we would be where we are right now. My own prediction? It will be another 150 before Ed and I step out into the real world. If we are lucky.

Well, I believe in luck. Onward to the next 150. With courage and as much joy as we can work into each day!



It's a steamy hot morning. We'd kept the windows open at night and the upstairs is like a bathroom after someone took an exceptionally long, hot shower.

I do a brief garden clean up. Here's what's still blooming:

























Breakfast with Ed and five cats, on the porch. Not sure why so many felines joined us there today. Perhaps it's one of the cooler spots on the farmette.

(with sweet melon slices from our CSA box...)






The kids arrive. One is bouncy and happy, the other in tears. Something about having to leave behind a Sesame Street doll. Our time outside is brief.






(Gaga, I will let you take a photo of me and Sparrow in front of any flower you want if we can go in right away afterwards!)






The sad little guy cheers up quickly. A child's smile may be fast to disappear, but it's also speedy fast on the return.

We read, then they work on their various set ups...






.. and then we're back in the art room. Today, Snowdrop manages to remain reasonably satisfied with three new pages of a future Super Pig book. Progress!






(Sparrow finds a bib. Sparrow does not like bibs. Sparrow does not like carrots. But he puts on this bib just to make me laugh.)






The storms revisit Wisconsin today. I just manage to get the kids home before the rumble and the rains set in. We need the rain. We also need this sauna bath to move on!

Evening. In addition to the usual Monday leftovers, I sautee five large zucchinis. They are accumulating in my veggie bin. The farmer who grows the produce in our CSA box claims they have a huge crop this year. Each week, we get a generous supply. Ed crinkles his nose at zucchini - something I don't quite get. What's there not to like? I'm determined to open his eyes to their deliciousness. He tastes one stalk, nicely flavored with oregano and just a dash of salt, nothing more needed!

Verdict? Nose still crinkled.

I eat a lot of zucchini tonight.

The night is cool. How fantastic is that! Windows wide open, we settle in to watch a final gripping episode of our current crime drama series (Unforgotten).  With popcorn.

Sunday - 149th

When my grandkids -- Snowdrop, Sparrow, or Primrose -- sleep over at the farmhouse, I'm sure the excitement is in the evening here: the making of the pizza, the later bedtime, perhaps the movie and popcorn. For me, though, the sweetest part is the morning (assuming everyone sleeps until at least 7 and these days, that's almost always the case for all three).

Maybe it's because I remember so well my own mornings at my grandparents' village house in Poland. My bed was always in a room by the kitchen and the sounds from her morning kitchen, as she stoked the fire in the oven and brought in the day's produce for cleaning and cooking, or, better yet, rolled out the dough for baking poppyseed cake or cabbage and mushroom dumplings, all of it against the backdrop of light rays of sunshine poking through the curtains of my east facing windows -- heaven.

I can't say that I replicate any of it here, in the farmhouse. At least at these young ages, the kids, Snowdrop included, all want to come downstairs and be part of the kitchen activity the minute a grownup gives them permission to do so. Nonetheless, it is for me the best part of a sleepover.

Sure enough, today Snowdrop woke up bouncy and full of smiles. In the kitchen, she supervised my preparations, assisting in making decisions -- this fruit for that person, these spoons, those bowls, no, not that mug -- use the other one!

In many ways, preparing a breakfast is more of a timing challenge than even a dinner for a crowd. For an evening meal, the food is pretty much the same for everyone. For breakfast, I let everyone pick and choose. I stay with my oatmeal with kefir and fruit. Ed typically stays with his fruit. Snowdrop today asked for Cheerios and toast with cherry jam. And fruit of course -- she is on a peaches and strawberries kick. Her mom loves farmette eggs and so I scrambled some up, along with bacon for anyone who wants it. And toast. She's a tea drinker. I'm a frothy milky coffee person.

All this must come out at the same time and if we are to eat outside, you can't put out anything that might tempt a cat or a little girl. (The cat will steal the bacon, I'm sure. The little girl snitches fruit from her bowl.)

Alright! Ready!






(Looking out from the porch...)






Breakfast must be leisurely. It's a given in my book. Years of a morning rush have taught me that if you can slow down early in the day, do so. It's miraculously calming.

(Snowdrop brings a jump rope outside to practice high speed jumping while the grownups are lingering...)






Eventually there's nothing left on the plates or in the cups to linger over and so we retreat to our usual morning activities. Today, Snowdrop helps me feed the cats...

(You have to run back from the shed to get to the little kitties waiting under the car...)






...and then we settle in to read a new chapter book.






And soon after, the two return home and I return to my garden work. Sunday is a day when my flower beds get a big boost so that I can, these days, go easy (or easier!) during the week.

Here are today's garden canvases:






















(Froggies, where will you go once the lilies are done for the year?)






(Calamintha is such a draw for honeybees!)






Toward evening, the whole young family is here for dinner.

(Sparrow, with cheese and cracker.)





(Snowdrop and mom, going after the same.)






It's our usual foods -- pasta, seafood, corn, salads. Indoors. A storm rolls through and causes me to hastily bring the whole meal back into the kitchen.






After, Sparrow and I go on a little adventure. He's so eager to get back to the barn!






(And back again...)






A Sunday with a good morning and good evening and a whole lot of calm in between. I could not ask for more. Well, a Primrose family visit would ice my cake splendidly. But in these challenging times, one cannot turn greedy. Instead, the greater our ability to remain patient, the sooner we'll be where we most want to be: with our families, our friends, out and about, without great thought or worry.

The storms passed, the night is clear, the stars are out for those of us who can't quite get to sleep at the end of the day. Look at us, they seem to call out. There's so much more to this universe than your earthly petty problems!

Well yes, sure. But this is our life and we are all waiting until it returns to where it was 149 days ago. Give us a break, stars. We're mortal.

twinkle twinkle twinkle shrug.

Ah well. Never try having a conversation with a million stars. You're outnumbered.

Saturday - 148th

Weekend mornings are leisurely. I know for you, the reader, there isn't much difference here: I take care of animals on all days of the week. I tend to the garden, then eat a breakfast with Ed, almost always on the porch, every single day. But on a Saturday, I ignore the clock. I just don't look at it. I move at a comfortable speed, I work outside until that vision of a mug of coffee with steaming milk is just too powerful, at which point I tell Ed -- breakfast is soon! And he says -- sure it is. Call me when you're sitting down. He knows that it will take another half hour or more for me to actually give up the work and concentrate on fixing and mixing bowls of fruit.

Our flower beds are August flower beds. There hasn't been much rain this year and so the soil is dusty rather than richly moist, as it is in spring. The colors are there still, but there isn't a doubt in my mind that we are nearing the final stages of a summer season.

Today's garden photos:

(bee, coming in for a landing!)






(I learned from one of Snowdrop's book that most frogs shed their skin once a week. Where are all those skins? Oh, the frog eats it up! Yum!)






(Stepping out of the farmhouse door...)






(Eyes towards the driveway)






(There are still lilies to be had...)











(The meadows...)






Followed by a very late breakfast:






Followed by veggie gathering: our own tomatoes -- the ones that haven't been chomped down by deer. Corn: from our local farmers...






And the CSA box, which has grown heavy, overflowing with green, purple and yellow veggies, new potatoes, little tomatoes, and today -- melons. I'm beginning to realize that one box per week is a lot for two people. Perhaps we should have gone with the "every other week" plan. Still, I've been mostly keeping up! When we eat a week's supply of beans or broccoli, we eat mountains of it in one night. Somehow, by the end of the week, the fridge empties out.


And here's a small twist to the weekend: Snowdrop and her mom are here for a sleepover. Since the farmette will be off limits to the young family come September, we are all soaking in its small magic at every turn now. And so we have this special additional time here on a summer evening that is rich with the sounds and smells of farmette life.

A few photos from this sweet farmhouse interlude. (We are determined to not give in to the sadness of it all. You just can't think in those terms. Every contact with my young families, live or streamed through the internet, is meaningful and grand. And it will always be meaningful and grand.)






("Would you like to look at a cook book, mommy?")






(I don't think that Snowdrop has ever slept over here when there hasn't been a home made pizza..."






(Two pizzas today!)






A movie, some books, lots of snacks. Popcorn. Late tuck in. The two younger ones sleep. The grandparents stay up and marvel at how quickly they all grow up.