city mouse

Normal and different. Most days are like that. You see it, don't you? The normal:





And now for the different: a shopping day.

It's cold outside -- it never moves beyond freezing. And still, I take Rosie out. I want to go downtown and she's a champ for that: no parking issues, none at all. But oh, do I feel the freeze on her windy back! There's a beautiful sky around me and I detour slightly to get a good, satisfying look at it.





But when I turn Rosie around to get back on my route, she slides, glides, tips over and falls. And I fall with her. At 2 mph, it's an inconsequential set of bruises. But it's a reminder: Rosie does not like winter. Much as I love the freedom she brings for me, I really should retire her for the cold spell. And in the meantime, I should watch the turns.

Alright: out of the country, into the city.






It's "small business appreciation day" and I'm plenty happy to be doing what little gift shopping I have down on State Street.





I have the luxury of taking my time on this. If you're crowding someone's home with more stuff, it better be thoughtfully acquired. Today I can be thoughtful.

It's pretty downtown now, in a holidayish sort of way.





Nothing at the farmhouse would tell you that we are at the cusp of the Christmas season. The same cannot be said of downtown.

At a kids' store, I come across a book signing. This throws me back to days when bookstores where a place I'd readily spend any and all my free hours. And when my girls were little, any new book by this author would be near the top of my shopping list:





It's satisfying to see him still drawing a crowd (our local hero: Kevin Henkes).

And it's delightful to see among the shoppers a beloved character from his stories -- the lovely Miss Lilly, with her plastic purple purse.





That wold of children's stories! Of sadnesses, presented so well in just a few words, and of hope- filled endings, of colorful characters, of impossible feats, silly, serious, all in one -- how could you not love that world!


I get back on Rosie, I tell her to stay focused, to go easy. We head home.


At the farmhouse, we have a pleasant, if slow evening. Not much crossed off any master list. We make a trip to the public library, I prepare leftovers for supper.

It's a good ending to a superbly wonderful holiday period. As one commenter noted -- I have two weeks of intense work ahead. A deep breath and a look to the weeks after, when I can exhale again.

the day after

One last holiday (or is it post holiday..) meal together: breakfast the next morning.

But before it, I toss and turn as an unusually strong weather system moves through overnight.  We don't get the precipitation, but we most certainly get the winds. Howling like the dickens, all night long. And then, in the morning -- cold.

Slowly, very slowly, the household eases into the new day -- with the kind of breakfast you want (I hope) for a cold morning -- eggs with sausages, pancakes with blackberry maple syrup, fruits, juices, coffees.






In the meantime, wild turkeys trot by, as if defying our celebrations the day before.





And then it's over. Oh, one daughter lingers, another does too, for a while, but we all have our work agendas for the day and the holiday mood can be only a memory. With leftovers. Turkey salad. Which Ed and I eat alone later in the evening.

Thanksgiving

We sit down in the living room of the farmhouse, someone puts in the movie, we turn it on. We digest.

For me, it's not just the food -- it's the day, all of it. Some things did not happen: there was no time to take the family walk outdoors even though it was immensely gorgeous and unseasonably warm. Also, dinner was ready by 6:30 - not 6, as I had planned (blame it on the turkey which came advertised as "never frozen," yet felt quite iced over when I took it out at noon).

But far far far more important is all that did happen. As usual, on the fullest, richest days, I haven't the hours to properly talk about them here, on Ocean. That's a given. But, photos helps and they'll set the theme for today which was -- well, see if you can pick one out.


I'm up at 5. Something about taking the cinnamon rolls out so they get to room temperature. And my head starts spinning about what side dish to serve in which bowl. So I'm up. And I know I'll be tired too soon, but I remind myself that after overnight flights I'm capable of moving through a day without much sleep, so too, I'll be fine today.

Oh, there's the sun: finally, witnessed from the farmhouse breakfast room.





But on this morning, we do not eat breakfast here. We're back in the kitchen.


 


I place the cinnamon rolls and the bacon and the fruit and the coffee on the table and people help themselves.






There are still two meals ahead of us and so now we must focus and, too, strike a balance: get lunch foods on the roll (squash soup with cheese dumplings, chive scones)…









… but also keep to the schedule with the big meal.





As you can see, I have help. My little one and her guy are in the kitchen with me and we check off one item after the next.





 


My older girl keeps us entertained with the click of her knitting needles.






And because I have help, the meals stay on schedule. Beautifully so.

We eat lunch at a decent hour...





And then we get back to the main meal prep. In the meantime, Ed, too, has his hands full. With the new orchard. This is the day to finally build those fences around the tiny stalks. It's quite the project and when I go out to say an encouraging word, I'm impressed with how much he has accomplished.





And we have forged ahead too, back at the farmhouse.

In the evening we take one more pause to snack on raw veggies and cheeses and bits of smoked salmon…





And now comes the final push. No, wait, the men need a more extended pause.





 Okay, back for the sprint to the end. The turkey comes out, three dishes, waiting for this moment, go in. I carve, others keep an eye on the stove...









We're ready: the herb rubbed turkey with the savory stuffing and mushroom gravy, the mashed potato, coupled this year with a sweet potato, the corn and chilies, the brussels sprouts with maple syrup and roasted hazelnuts, the cranberries…





Followed by the single item that takes almost as much time as the bird -- the apple pie.

Oh, it's all good: all lovingly put together, and appreciatively eaten.

It would be hard under these circumstances, when I have nothing but good will and enthusiastic energy around me, not to love Thanksgiving.

Impossible.

It is too late to try to sound clever here. I can only say that I truly hope that your day was brilliant. As golden as they come. Happy Thanksgiving indeed!

day before

I would like to be not too fussy in life. Not easily flustered. Mellow. (I worry that I think myself to be more devil-may-care than I really am.) One thing's certain: living at the farmhouse has loosened me up considerably. The traits of the other person become, if not your own, then at least sweetly accepted as part of life now. Socks, left on the living room floor (not just yesterday's, from the day before, too), junk mail on the kitchen table, four shoes in various state of disrepair tossed in any direction in the mudroom. I smile at all this. If it nags at me, I quietly push it aside.

But all that I don't mind in my everyday must be tidied and swept under the rug by tonight when the first batch of family arrives. They wouldn't care, of course, but I care. And so I get up early again, give myself (and my yoga buddy, who, despite an ankle fracture, is back at it!) a yoga hour to reset some internal compass or other (so early is it that the morning fog hasn't even begun to burn away)…






…and then I do stage three (one and two were earlier -- Woodman's comes to mind) of food shopping -- the best stage of all, because it includes all my favorites -- the produce, the bird, all of it. (Stage four is less desirable and I had stage four today as well: it's when you get home and realize you forgot the eggs.)



filling the cart with produce


And now it's time to unpack the foods...



(in a fit of giddiness, I added a bottle of Chaume... for the dessert)


... and pay attention to the flowers (looking especially regal in the late afternoon sun).






I have, too, a new vision on how to proceed this year: I'll create a timeline, so that tomorrow's preparations aren't random or surprising. It really made an impression on me when a food magazine editor admitted that last year his guests had to wait too long for the meal to appear. It's no good serving snacks and having people consume too much (foods, wines, you name it) before the turkey stops running pink juices.

So now back to the kitchen for me. To start in on -- whatever it is that I have as item one on the timeline.

come ride with me

Sometime in the middle of the night it struck me that this fall I rarely biked to work. Understandable: it's 50 minutes each way and that's if you put some muscle into the effort. Yoga filled what free time the work week offers. But I had this nagging thought that maybe I should get up earlier just this once so that I can bike before it becomes too difficult (cold) to do so. Today has the unexpected pleasant temperatures and I have no meetings after my classes. Come on, just say yes!

Whatever reluctance I had washes away as I glance at the morning headlines in the paper. 96.5% of my fellow countrymen and women do not even get to the 150 minutes per week level of movement. Let me not ever turn away from movement! And given that so much time will be spent on eating this week, shouldn't I work ahead to earn what's soon to be heaped upon my plate?

So I ride good old Mr. Red. And I am in a hurry.  I pant all the way to campus and I can hardly take the time to smell the roses (besides, there aren't any roses). But it is a fine ride!



leaving the country




entering the city



The campus starts to empty out on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Looking out my office window at the quiet Bascom Mall, I can hardly believe that it's the late November holiday already. The trees are quite bare, but still, our grasses remain green and our students continue to be scantily clad.





Going home is the more pleasant ride. Not needing to rush, I take the longer loop.

The sky is a pale hazy blue, or gray, depending on how hard you stare at it. Fishermen are out on Lake Monona and I can pause now to admire them (on Rosie, there is no pausing by the lake -- the stretch of road doesn't permit it).






Home. Where there's already too much to do and too little time for it all, but as always, Ed distracts me and we walk the land together. He has a new fencing system in mind for the young orchard and we talk about the new strategy.  Isis tags along.






In other news:

After a not too easy day at work, I ignore all impulses to crawl under the quilt at home and I throw myself into cleaning the farmhouse. It doesn't need it, but I have become one of those odd types who must clean to a shiny gloss the house that my girls (and their guys) will be visiting soom. I laughed at this very trait when I was young: why would parents (in-laws in my case) clean and prep a home because the kids are coming?  And now here I am, scrubbing my knuckles bare because the kids are coming.

So tomorrow, if all goes well, my younger girl arrives with her guy and on Thursday morning, my older one and her guy will be here and then, well, let's not run away with ourselves here, on Ocean. Then will be then. Let's keep our minds and hearts open to all possibilities. So long as we're under the same roof, who cares if the turkey fails and the pies collapse. (But I'll tell you if that happens because it will be entertaining.)


Finally:

Ed is out playing pick-up volley ball. I'm done with cleaning, prepping, working. Right now, I band in solidarity with all those who have a person in the house who configures the TV/PC/DVD system to such an art that no one but said person can understand how to jumpstart it. So it's quiet at the farmhouse at this second. The "no signal" sign parades across the TV screen, Isis sleeps by my side, the work for today is done.

Tomorrow my whole being will focus on getting food into a state of preparedness so as to make Thanksgiving flow effortlessly, smoothly, without panic, without complication. In the alternative, I will try to pretend that all the above is true and that any mistakes are intended and not mistakes at all.

Thanksgiving is a wonderful holiday because, despite the challenges and mishaps, it always, always is joyous.

gifts

It was almost as if there was a theme for this day -- a gifted theme. Here's one example -- that the sun stayed out long enough for us to have our breakfast in its warmth. That's a real present.




Another unusual offering: a doctor's appointment where the doctor stayed on schedule. So that afterwards, I had time to spare and as a result, I could sidestep into Madison's most secret natural outdoor space -- Owen Woods.





For not much more than a glance, but a highly satisfying glance. November's earthy tones!

And there was time, too, to pick up wines for the Thanksgiving meal. A gift from my mother.

And wait, not done yet -- the gift of a visit with my friend, who is passing through Madison on her way north.





You noticed the cast on her arm, right? Two of my good friends cracked bones this last week. Am I third in line?

Still going strong: Ed and I want to deliver a bag of goodies to a friend who is long overdue for such a gift. After dinner, I tell him.  That in itself is a gift (from Ed): we're scheduled to have a dinner out. Well, this one's expected. He is craving mussels and fries and at Jac's they're on sale on Mondays (and wines are half price… I mean -- win win).





And by chance, we run into my friend (and her husband) there -- the one for whom we're toting a gift! One other way to describe her -- my yoga buddy. And here's yet a third way  -- she's the one who broke her ankle last week.





I'm home now. I have only a few minutes. So many classes to teach tomorrow, so many meal notes to prepare afterwards, for the Thanksgiving that's before us. So many gifts, all in one week.

Sunday

A Sunday of long lists! We both have them: to do lists. This time his is as long as mine. The difference is that what I can't do today will have to be pushed into an already stacked line of what needs to be done on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday. His items move seamlessly from day to day, as if there is no wrong day, no too late day.

And what progress do we make? He finishes work on his newer old car and so now he can move it out of sight. Only the old, old, rusty Geo remains suspended by the garage shed waiting for some miracle. Ed tells me that nothing short of that can save it anymore. (The presence of two wrecks these past weeks has been reason enough not to take photos of the farmhouse. Cars (at least these cars) are so unattractive!)

I focus my camera elsewhere.  The breakfast. There's always that.






I think to myself -- one task that I really need to hustle with is the planning of the holiday menu. It's a silly game, of course, because my daughters insist on the same old items: the old ways of doing the turkey, the feel-good traditional dishes that they've known all their lives. Occasionally though, I work in something new, or maybe an updated version of something old. I search for such updates this morning. Okay. I'll fire off ideas and wait to see which will get rejected.

My, hours fly! I do understand that there isn't really time for yoga -- not today, not tomorrow. Maybe later in the week, but it wont be easy.

 But, the day isn't done. I turn to helping Ed deal with the honeysuckle.





We have an unusual week of warm weather ahead (low fifties!) and so we may very well dig most of the offending bushes out. He saws, digs, heaves -- I carry it all to the huge pile (which is now nearly the length of a city block).

We work in a good, coordinated effort. Occasionally I look around and I scratch my head: weather.com and one local TV station have issued a weather advisory for today -- something about poor air quality. I cannot believe it! The sky is a dazzling blue, the air feels crisp and invigorating. What's not good about it?





Eventually we stop and we switch to the further afield errands -- Woodman's (the cheap grocery store), Farm & Fleet -- where Ed buys his blue jeans (and we have a long and impassioned discussion about how short his jeans should be: I tell him that if he, at 6'4" sees himself as needing a 34 inch length, then I don't know who is slated for the 36s and 38s. But, it's  his choice and so we walk away with him grinning and the jeans barely touching the rim of his shoe).

And we go to Mounds pet store to study once again the kitty litter situation. I have to say that your comments, dear Ocean readers, were invaluable and we did make a decision that sort of combined a bunch of your suggestions. The one idea I won't do (yet) is install an in/out door for Isis. In his old age, he has developed a great resistance to the cold or wet weather. That is what pushed me to get a litter box for him: I found him sneaking off to puddle in the closet twice rather than asking to be let out. There are weeks in the winter when he never goes out. So if he is to feel happy and I'm to feel less anxious about opening closet doors -- litter box it must be.


And now it's dark. So quickly it gets dark! My older girl is here for dinner and because her husband  is away tonight, we throw away any semblance of formality. Shrimp and beans, in front of the TV.





The weekend is done. My list remains long, but that's okay. Lists are always long. You just need to ignore them every now and then.

look around you: it's one heck of a beautiful November

We've been waking up routinely to cold and misty mornings. Frosted fields, iced over windshields, pretty patterns of crystals on the fields -- there to greet you if you step outside early enough.






Today I stepped out early. There is a morning yoga class. There's something to be said about doing yoga before my bowl of oatmeal (there's also something to be said about not doing yoga before my bowl of oatmeal, namely that I haven't the right level of oomph without it, but let's focus on the positive) --  after, I am in such a state of such equilibrium that everything, even my bowl of oatmeal, has a halo over it.



random, but pretty


So I sign up for this early morning class. And because I've been coming to classes seconds late each time, I make a point of heading out early.

But the misty fields distract me.






How could they not? It's as if someone took a brush to the bleak dark landscapes and came away with something gentle and kind.


The yoga class is full of motivated, well trained, been doin' this for years types and so I can barely keep up. And it has some hard core exercise elements thrown in which I suppose is good, but my oh my, it makes for a grueling hour. Had it been my first class back in September, I may not have been so enthusiastic about signing on. I don't look for yoga light, but I do look for yoga reasonable. Today went to levels of intensity that had me panting like a pup.

Back at the farmhouse, by the time we coordinate our activities (Ed's still working on his car), the sun has moved away from our breakfast nook and so for breakfast, we chase it to the front room (a converted old porch that faces south).






Yes, plenty of sunshine, despite the tall pines, the maples, the odd trees that, without rhyme or reason dot our front yard.


After, Ed lobbies for more honeysuckle removal and I really push for a hike. In these warmer days (in the forties and hazy, but in a bright way), it is just so tremendously satisfying to walk through a quiet forest taking in deep breaths of woodsy air.

We compromise by agreeing to do both.


The hike is just south of us. There is this truth about living in the country: the drive to anywhere is sure to be prettier than if you were driving to it from the city.







And it is a perfect little hike. Here, I offer a few photos to take in our ripply landscape in November.













blaze orange: to scare off the deer-hunters







And here's a lovely peculiarity about the place where we live: one minute you're hiking the Ice Age Trail and a breath later you're driving by a terrific chocolate shop. We stop and pick up a small box (not the one in the picture -- that's a big box). For Thanksgiving.





You could say that the day had it's most troubling moment right after. We drive to a nearby Target because  Ed has a craving for coconut ice cream bars and, too, he's thinking we need more kitty litter.
Which kind of kitty litter?
Cheapest.
I look at bags and bags of kitty litter. This one has deodorizes. Ugh. That's like chemical fragrance! I don't want that.
Let's get the plain clay.
That doesn't say that it fights odors effectively! How about this one? Grains. Natural!
He'll scatter bits of that all over the house with his paws. Believe me, I've had cats. Get the clay.
Let's read the labels. And so we waste a good many minutes reading the fine print on bags of kitty litter and we get nowhere. Help me out, cat people: what's a decent odor fighting natural product that doesn't get carried around by little paws? Pine bits? Clay particles? Baking soda? I'm stumped!

We pause at Paul's to regain our composure and to eat a very delayed pb&j.

There is still daylight when the red donkey veers into the driveway of the farmette.

And now, without pause, we take out the shears, the work gloves and head to the farmette's tree line. The burn pile of chopped honeysuckle is huge, but we add to it nonetheless.

Ed asks -- are you tired?
I am, he is too, but we continue. Until the light fades. We do this so well, he and I -- we work until our arms ache and then we do some more and then we stop. Sun's long gone, the day belongs to another time. A post on a blog, that's all.





If you'd asked me several months back -- how good are the days of November, I would have said bleh, not so clever, not so bright. Shows how much I know.