food sources

Since I was young, I've cared about my food sources. My grandparents cared, too and I suppose they passed this on to us. My whole family -- mother, sister, nephews, daughters -- they all care. Sure, with different emphases and sensitivities, but we all pay attention to how food is cultivated and consumed. You know that line about kids these days not knowing that the supermarket cellophane covered drumsticks actually come from a chicken that once had feathers and a personality? It doesn't apply to me. My grandma axed live chickens for Sunday lunch and I helped pluck feathers out of the barely dead animal. I know what's what.

But I have my lapses. Sometimes, when I'm not thinking, I can do something that shows just how removed we really are from having an ingrained understanding of where food comes from.

Take this morning, for instance. Oh, I'm fully aware of chickens alright! Up at 5:30 and even that is late for them. Clean coop, make sure there's water and only then do I stumble back to the farmhouse, just as the sun breaks through the clouds at the horizon.






Breakfast. A little rushed, but still good, on the porch, on a sunny and warm Friday morning.




                                                               

Ed goes off for his round of techie meetings and I'm about to go off to pick up groceries for the week and as I take stock of what's in the fridge, I shout out to him -- you know, there's not enough left over kohlrabi soup for even a small lunch portion. I should give it to the chickens.  

I throw down the last bit of soup into a plastic container and watch them enjoy a rather tasty mid-morning snack.





And then I go off to do my shopping and in ticking off in my mind things that I need to restock the pantry, I remember something: at the last minute, I had decided to use chicken stock for the kohlrabi soup. Damn! Yes, it had plenty of vegetables, but it wasn't really vegetarian. Oh, sure, it was greatly diluted and boiled and the whole thing was not much different than giving a piece of cake (made with eggs!) to a hen, but still, I feel duped by my own absentmindedness, rooted in that same kind of thinking that leads you to forget that a box of beef or chicken broth actually has a source.


In other news -- it is plenty warm today. Still, garden work is pleasant and no longer rushed. The basics are in place (and will remain in place if only the hens would quit digging up dirt around my flowers).





And I even have enough time to do a tornado clean up job at the farmhouse (my little one and her soon to be husband -- in two weeks! -- are coming to town for the weekend) and to take a walk with my older girl all around one of Madison's lesser lakes.

Toward evening one of our many secret sources of free wood chips came by with a truckload of freshly chipped pines and cedars and so after supper we were out again, throwing pitchforkful after pitchforkful of chips around one of the old raspberry islands until I could throw no more.


We end the day on the porch.






There is no better ending than this -- whether we are reading or writing or doing absolutely nothing at all except watching the bats swoop down. It's quiet now. Around midnight the coyotes will howl and at four, Oreo will begin his daylong song. But in the hours just after dusk, sounds are muted. As if far away. Receding as the day recedes, colors blending into one shadow of lushness, until tomorrow, when each individual sweet plant will impress me all over again.

delivered

The promise of a sunny and mild day -- delivered. And the midge population is starting to move on. Thrilling news for the chickens. And for me.

[In answer to a commenter's question -- the chicken's job description does include eating pesky bugs. I attribute to them the remarkable truth that this year, unlike elsewhere in the county, we have had no ticks. But catching things that fly -- that's tricky business. They try. Rarely do they succeed.]


We wake to a foggy morning.






It's the kind of mist you love: secretive, mysterious, but at the same time adding a softness to the landscape -- it's all very lovely, especially when you know that the sun will lift it soon...





...to reveal something special.


And indeed, by breakfast time, it is a sunny day.






We have yet another opportunity to make progress in the yard. As if we still need to make progress! In years past, we would be off off and away by now for our month long vacation. I would never finish all that needed to be done and we would not witness the emergence of summer. Not at the farmette, not in Wisconsin. This year, is, of course different. Outdoor work is never really finished, but the seasonal checklist is only so long and I have crossed off most of the items on it. In the next week, I'll have attended to every corner, every hanging limb, every raspberry cane, every pea shoot, every flower that made it through our hard winter and those that were added just this year. The irony is that yet again I wont sit back to revel in its completion. Leaving at the end of June will mean that yet again I will miss that moment of magic when the garden leaps into the abundance of summer.

I was thinking of this as we inspected the vegetable plantings in the morning.





The peas are starting to grow, the corn is doing well, the tomatoes are terrific. Will the harvest wait for my return in mid July or will Ed reap the first benefits of our planting efforts?

The fields to the north of us are fully green now. It's hard to watch all the activity and know that farmer Lee, who for many years planted just to the south of us isn't here this year.






We go to our local farmer's market in the late afternoon and again I miss seeing her at the table she occupied in the past. Still, we have our vendor friends and they are a comforting presence. In addition to the greens, Ed buys his cheese curds, I pick up a baguette.

And here's a surprise! The baguette from the French bakers is a universal hit at home! It is the only food I can think of that our whole clan -- Ed and I, and Isis the cat, and all four chickens absolutely adore!






The hens throw themselves at every crumb and the typically shy Scotch is at the head of the pack. Really Scotch? You're all about the baguette now?





With the retreat of the midges, the chickens are making up for lost time. That means, too, that they dig and scratch with a vengeance. You'll see me running to redirect them away from the large flower bed many times today. I have to remind myself that they don't really destroy the plants. But at the moment of planting, every gardener is terribly invested in all the emerging growth and every damaged leaf is a blow to one's sense of order and propriety.


Supper is a typical post market spring meal. Asparagus, spinach mixed into the salad, oyster mushrooms and our chicks' eggs with chives.

evolving

If your views change, does that make you flexible or uncommitted?

I would pick flexible (at least I think I would; I may change my mind on this).



peony at dawn


Not so long ago, I couldn't fathom why, here in buggy Madison, we do not consider following the practices of Virginia Beach: they spray and kill adult mosquito populations on a regular basis. In the weeks when mosquitoes at the farmette are dense, I would think that Virginia Beach got it right.



peony in the afternoon


I changed my mind when I started skimming the literature on fogging against mosquitoes. If you read the labels of the pesticides used, the warnings are enough to send you indoors and throw up your arms in despair.

But then I changed my mind again. It's not that I favor Virginia Beach's approach necessarily, but further readings tell me that there are foggings you can do occasionally, oh, say once or twice a season, that are not nearly as damaging as they likely were in the past.



peony in the evening


I mention this not only because we are awaiting the season of mosquito activity here, but also because it really gives you pause about strong convictions. If reading more literature changes your mind and if reading even more literature changes it again, what room is there for strong convictions anyway?
Maybe we can just say that our views are evolving. Rapidfire, or slowly, over a lifetime -- evolving. I can live with that (until the day when I cannot).


Right now, midges, not mosquitoes are the talk of the town here, at the farmette.  It is their week of annoying the daylights out of me and not only me. The chickens hate them. Oreo positively despises their buzz and pogo-sticks his way to the garage, to hide underneath the sailboat Ed keeps there (it's a very tiny sailboat). All day long, he hides.



Oreo in the morning: tentative




Oreo in the afternoon: are you okay, buddy?



Other news? Well, there is breakfast. Porch. Despite the rain outside.






And, as I said, the chickens mostly look for places to hide today: from the rain and from the pesky, tiny flies.






By evening, the rain passes, the clouds part and the farmette looks its springtime best.






Midges and evolution of thoughts notwithstanding.











Early night. Because Ed is out riding his bike with his regulars, I'm the one who is locking up the coop. I step out into the most perfect moment. It's cooling down a bit and yet it feels deliciously summer-like. The midges have retired (who knew that they only like daylight), the mosquitoes haven't emerged yet. It's absolutely still.


 


I walk the farmette land -- from coop to the veggie garden (it's splendid this year --  vibrant and on schedule), to the great big willow that joins various parts of the property and holds it as her own.





Of this I am certain: nights this beautiful come maybe a handful of times each year. And you can think that's not good enough. Or you can not think much of anything at all. You take in a deep June breath of air, let it out, look up, look out, walk home.

Tuesday

For the outdoor months (perhaps for all months?) the weather always provides the context. If I wake up to a clear sky and a golden sunrise -- it matters.

By the way, in the years we hiked around Sorede (south of France), Ed and I would marvel at how pretty their roadside weeds can be. Somewhat frustrated with our quack grass and bramblers and densely spreading vines, we'd say -- damn. Even their weeds are beautiful. But I do think we have one weed that absolutely shines, even if it is rather aggressive and so we neither encourage it nor grow it. When it pops up to the side of the property, however, it's a pretty sight. Quite fragrant too. Here it is, at sunrise -- Dame's Rocket:





(It's a shame that,  good stewards that we try to be, we'll have to remove the flowers to prevent their spread. They can decimate a forest of native flowers in no time, they are that fast spreading.)

Everything proceeds with the mindset of a sunny day. For the cheepers as well, I think.





And, of course, the garden looks that much lovelier when the sun sends its first gentle warmth our way. Consider, for example,  our siberian (butter and cream indeed!) iris, against a lovely yellow false indigo plant called "Carolina Moonlight."





We had our usual breakfast, though we've switched out seats to the striped sling back chairs. A degree of laziness has been added to the meal. Appropriate to a summer morning. And it does feel like summer right now.










Later in the morning, a friend stops by -- someone whom I hadn't seen for... what, maybe a dozen years? Since class time in Law School. But I surely know her well, I think (and maybe you do too, from her blog, which I think she'll revive soon...). Blogs and emails are wonderful in that way. I never met her sons though (they all live in Denmark right now and are only fleetingly here) and it was a joy to finally finish the image construction that takes place when you see someone for the first time after knowing them well, but only through the words and images of, say, their parent.





We kept our distance from Oreo, though I think he is learning that not all little boys will step on his foot and shatter it to smithereens. In any case, the hens accepted them as part of their world and the morning unfolded in a very lovely way.






Later, I returned to digging, dividing, fixing, mixing, removing, moving -- you get the picture. Apply all the above to plants and you have before you my full day.

(mostly) about perennials

Flowers are like crying infants -- it's a bit of a guessing game when things aren't quite right. Most of us don't have the needed skills to identify and fix plant problems. In this way, flowers are not like infants: we don't fully learn on the job. They don't command all our attention. Well, for most people they only worth a fleeting thought. And for those of us who are dedicated perennialists, it doesn't help to fret. There are too many variables affecting robust growth. You learn the basics and then you cross your fingers.

I fell in love with perennials when I first saw the beds in Great Britain some three dozen years ago. Not Poles, nor the French are the kings or queens of flower gardens. In fact, when I traveled to Poland in March, I took with great pride photos of my daughters, then, too, some of Ed and quite a number of my farmette flowers. My Polish friends looked at the gardens politely and I could tell that they could not fathom why I would bother -- both growing and photographing them. But the English! Ah, the English - they would understand!

Which brings me right to this day -- the first Monday of June. A stormy day, or at least a stormy morning. Rain, real rain came down soon after I let the cheepers out. (No, they do not like getting wet. I'm sure they blame me for it.)






It rained so hard that we stayed indoors for breakfast.






And just as I was to settle in and resume indoor work, the clouds passed and just to tease us some, the sun came out. And so I planted. And weeded (always that). Here's yesterday's siberian iris:






Compare it to a bearded iris that I have growing in another flower bed. Both in bloom right now!





We tinker as well with creating paths for the wedding that will take place here just two and a half weeks from now! Here's the beginning of a path that benefits from one of my flower tubs and from a bronze statue cast by Ed's mom a long while back. Oreo watches, a bit puzzled. I get the feeling that humans often cause him to feel bewildered and confused.





In working my way around the beds, I noticed how much the rains had caused the grasses to shoot up. (And weeds: our grassy areas are full of them!) It is time to mow. And here I depart from your quintessential fanatic gardener/outdoor person: there are some aspects of yard work that I dislike immensely. Mowing. I really do not like mowing. The trouble is, Ed doesn't like it either. And even without touching the "prairie" out back, we have so much to mow!

Typically, Ed does the bulk of grass cutting. Not today. I want a tidy job and Ed isn't tidy with the mower.

And hours later, when I am done, I know that if I never work a mower again, I'll not be disappointed.

Ed rewards my efforts by buying me a flower. In a pot, of course. To put in one of the beds. It's become an oddly common triangle for us: swing by the garden store, then the Harbor Freight Tool shop for some needed cheap tool, then home. This time, we pick up (at Harbor Tool) a few solar paneled lamps for our path posts, marveling at how it is possible to sell these night lights at $2.50 each.






In the evening, we eat Thai take-out on the porch. I cannot properly describe the beauty of an outdoor dinner on a gentle evening of late spring. A photo, I can do that. Leave you with a photo of Ed, digging in. Food this time.






Now imagine a quiet time, with only the chirp of a cardinal who will not shut up. And a fading light. And the faint smell of something sweet. Last wisps lilac or lily-of-the-valley? Something else? Heavenly. Really heavenly.

Sunday

Coordinating tasks today is a challenge. The easy part is early morning: letting the chickens out doesn't vary. I'm up, they're out. And almost always I fit in about a half hour of weeding as I walk to and from their coop. And oftentimes, this early walk will inspire a photo, because the light is always better at dawn than it is at noon. Today, it's all about flowers.











Now then, it's Sunday. Famhouse cleaning time? No. Let's put that off until later. The weather's sketchy in the afternoon, so outdoor work should be done early. So, after breakfast...





...we (nearly) finish trenching the hose and I put in some Farm & Fleet plants. [We've created many wonderful new flower beds this past month, but we can't just stock these expansions with garden center blooms. We are often on the lookout for less pricy alternatives. You get to learn which big box discount stores care most about plants. Who knew, for instance, that Menard plants are terrible (from the perspective of a perennial gardener) but Farm and Fleet plants are quite well tended. Even if they do come all the way from Minnesota. Craigslist can be a good source as well. And of course, dividing your own garden is terrific, though it's a little late in the season for that. You nearly always do damage dividing plants at their peak performance times.]


Okay, now it's afternoon. We pause our outdoor work to scrub clean the farmhouse. And now comes the tricky part. The weather sites say storms later. What's the chance that they'll come earlier? -- Ed asks.
I check. Zero probability.
He goes out to finish up his hose work and immediately there is a loud rumble of thunder.
Of course, this deters me, but not him.





I glance at the sky. Threatening. Maybe not. Partly cloudy now. But might these be the makings of storm clouds?

And it is like this for the rest of the day. There may be rain. There is no rain. Thunder. One clap. Nothing more. An odd meteorological chase all Sunday long.

Just before dinner preparations, I find myself with a spare hour. Nice! Ed settles in for a nap while I drive down to the Flower Factory. You have to understand how soothing a trip there is for me. It's a 13 minute drive (I'm that close!) through pretty countryside.


 



Toward dusk, there are only the die hards milling about. I pause for a handful of minutes to discuss the idiosyncrasies  of the siberian iris with another customer. A Flower Factory worker joins us and we talk about the business of growing flowers. She tells us that people come to the Flower Factory for the experience as much as for restocking their gardens. Sometimes, she says, they'll bring a glass of wine and sit on a bench and just watch. I can understand that. I dont quite bring the glass of wine, but the place has that kind of an effect on me as well. And yes, I do pick up a plant. A yellow siberian iris. Absolutely stunning. It'll take me hours to decide what prime spot it will command!



In the evening, my girl and her husband stop by for dinner.


 


I hesitate about eating outside. It's really muggy now and then there is the storm question: will it or wont it? So we stay in and after, as they leave, the storms do threaten again and yes, the downpour comes, but this is of no consequence for us. All that remains is to lock the chickens in.

Simple, right? Lock the chickens in. We've been doing it rather on the late side, just in case the cheepers want to wander about a bit at dusk. But I have second thoughts now. Last night some animal was prowling around the barn and it was forceful enough to knock down and spill out a bin of chicken feed. And so Ed locks the brood in before it's completely dark, although again, who can tell if it's dusky dark or stormy dark. We're on the cusp of threatening weather again. On and off. All night and all day tomorrow. Storms, no storms, more storms. Passing through. Making the flowers grow.

Saturday

My older girl and I are strolling through the Farmers Market downtown. I turn to her and ask -- do you notice anything about my nose?
She looks at me. It's crooked.
In what way?
It's sort of tilting to the right.

I give it a moment's thought. Maybe she's joking. She can be such a tease. I glance at her, but her mind's off and onto a different topic. She's not teasing. Damn.

Well, I suppose a nose can self correct. I've smashed my nose before -- on the ski slopes, when I was an adolescent, doing stupid things on the T-bar. This time, I wasn't being teen-silly. I was mowing the prairie fields out back with the tractor (see yesterday's post) and I had to duck a tree. I managed to avoid the first branch, but the second one slammed me in the nose so that my teeth tingled.



In other news -- it was a brilliant day...






...with a brilliant breakfast...






...and brilliant chickens keeping us company at every turn.












Okay, but what turns did we take? What did we do on this day?

As I noted, I zipped down to the market, where I met up with my girl...






It's so good to shop for produce that doesn't originate in a greenhouse! The asparagus is exploding at the moment and new potatoes make their first (to my knowledge) appearance.






By the time I return home, it feels warm. Very warm. Flowers-are-drooping warm. The plants I had divided and planted by the sheep shed? Wilted. I carry buckets of water to give them hope.They revive, but only after several bucket runs. Ed asks -- should we trench a hose down here?

We'd already buried a hose (last year) and ran it to the new orchard. Should we run another one toward the sheep shed? I'm planting and dividing so much in this area! Bringing water down would make maintenance quite a bit easier!

And so this is how we spend our evening. Digging, watering, trenching.


 


Oh, and packaging raspberry canes. We have a trickle of buyers. Our dense raspberry islands are being whittled down somewhat, shared with others.

And that's a good thing.

 I have to end with a flower photo. A true mark of full spring is the prominence of blues in your garden. Did you notice it in the picture just above? My favorites today had to be the "butterfly" iris. This is the flower that, once established, will always show its cheerful face, straight up, without a waver or a falter. It doesn't last for a very long time, but when it's here, you can't help but love it with all your heart.