hot

That one word says it all. Hot. You could add "dry" and then you'll have the complete package. Our day is built around this prolonged blast of desert like heat.

We are up early because we're still on edge about the lurking nocturnal predator. I know the orange cat has been hanging out here when it's dark (I see its tiger-like large form moving stealthily in the courtyard just before daybreak), but surely he can't be the one who snatched our young hen!

Today, though, the morning is calm. No sign of any disturbance in the barn. And since the morning air feels fairly pleasant in those early hours, I stay out and tend to the flower beds before even a thought of breakfast crosses my head.

What am I doing with the flowers now? Well, they need to be watered. Most of the established ones will get by without rain for a few weeks. But the new ones need help. I'm thinking it surely is unfortunate that I planted so many new ones in a year cursed by a drought. Between the 225 new perennials, the 67 trees and the 70 tomatoes, we have our work cut out for us!

In truth, I like watering plants. It's a chore that I find deeply satisfying. I imagine their dry roots gratefully filling with water, ready to grow, to deliver needed nutrients. I refresh one little one and move on to the next. Sometimes with the hose, sometimes with a watering can. As I've said before, it's meditative work.

Nonetheless, this year the typically satisfying task has been a challenge. I'm never done! I do two fields one day, and the third and fourth the next, and by the time I've cycled through the entire rotation, a week has passed and I need to go back to fields number one and two again. 

When is it going to rain?

(water drops from the hose, not from the sky)

(Unie with her unique cheek plumage)

(what's a peony without an ant...)

(Cherry, picking on my tub flowers)

(the two oldest ones...)

(Dance, keeping an eye on... everything!)

Sometime toward noon we pause for a very late breakfast.

 

And then I continue watering. All the way until it's time for me to drive over to the Flower Factory, where I've been cleaning them out of their last ancient day lilies. They're getting rid of all of them and I am just the sucker to bring some of these gorgeous flowers home.

In the late afternoon, I leave the garden and start in on dinner. The young family is here again, for the first time as a family of five.

(the middle child)

(the oldest)

(the youngest)

It's hard to think of Sandpiper as just less than two weeks old. It seems he's been around for a while!

We have the fan out on the porch, but no one's really complaining about the heat. I think the first weeks of this intense summer-like weather is a bit of a gift to winter chilled northerners. It's only after a week or two have passed that you begin to wonder if you've been cheated of a typically milder month of June.

Later, much later, I sit back and think about the summer before us. I'm sure it will speed by too quickly. It always does. For now though, I have grandkids in my days and a whole season of lilies to look forward to. How beautiful is that!

struggling

If you live in south central Wisconsin and your garden looks great right now then you must be standing over it with a shade umbrella in one hand and a hose in the other. We are in drought conditions. The sun is hot, relentlessly crisping and wilting everything in its path. The peonies started the day well and upright but by evening, they looked like all the joie was zapped right out of them. 91F (33C) in the first week of June is just not right. The lilies haven't even started their bloom and already the garden looks like it often does in August: tired.

But let's go back to the early morning, when the heat wasn't yet oppressive and the peonies dominated the flower beds (we have about a dozen peony bushes here).  

 

 

 

(And let's not forget the siberians and campanulas by the path to the door!) 

Once again we slept too little and were up way too early. Ed kept coming in with animal reports ("someone knocked over this or that and pushed it all the way down the path..." "someone dug under the coop trying to get in..." and so on). And just as I was settling in for a final lap of sleep, Ed tells me that the water pump is going nuts: it wont stup running. There is a leak somewhere, only he doesn't know where, and so the water must be shut off indefinitely.

That drama lasts for several hours. By the time he finds the problem, the desire to sink into more sleep is long gone.

We eat breakfast on the porch, but it's not really a leisurely meal. We're running the AC inside so that the bedroom upstairs doesn't turn into a toaster oven set on high. I'm sure Ed would have preferred to be in the coolness of the kitchen, but I haven't had my fill of porch time yet, se we eat outside.

Afterwards, I drive out to my mom's place to coordinate a visit with my daughter and her family. 

 

 

 

Still masked and outside, but at least she has a little time with her great-grandkids.

At home again I think about vacations. Should we do a quick trip somewhere? Maybe with the young families? Isn't it time to step outside the boundaries of our pandemic life just a little?  Every time I glance at the paper, there is an article about where you should go this summer. Shouldn't we be driving somewhere too? 

Ed, always the homebody, tells me -- how about checking out Lake Waubesa?

I can't say that going to Lake Waubesa is going to challenge us and take us out of our pandemic comfort zone -- it's just one or two miles up the road from the farmette. Still, we hop on the motorbike and go the short distance to where our road dead ends by the water's edge. So many people here with boats today! And there are parties at the lakeside picnic tables: a 40th birthday, a 15th birthday -- it all seems so joyous, especially after the quiet of last year's spring season.

The little beach here is pretty empty. That's a good thing. Certainly the grandkids could play here if they have a hankering for sand and water.

Ed and I walk along the road -- to the lakeside pub (crowded!) and back again. We are not yet immersed in anything near a normal life: another time we may have gone in and split a beer. Not today.

The air cools, the faces of the flowers perk up.

It's still spring after all, the hot dry days to the contrary, notwithstanding. Let's hope for some rain this week, okay? For the farmers and gardeners among us. For these guys too.

Rain, okay? We would like some rain.

what if...

Do you find yourself sometimes spinning in thought to another reality? Here's one that's been floating around for me: what if we were all born to consume just plants? No animals at all. Protein derived from vegetables and legumes. What if all mammals foraged on stuff that grows rather than stuff that runs or crawls? I mean, if a giraffe or an elephant can live on roots and fruits, wouldn't it have been cool if all animals evolved to do the same? Ed and I used to watch a lot of nature shows but lately I've turned away from them. Too much violence! Nests raided, young animals hunted down by lions and tigers and humans and hawks -- it's one big massacre out there. I can't watch it anymore.

Though we eat almost no meat, Ed and I are not purists in this. If served some, we wont refuse it. And we routinely eat fish. But I can't help thinking that it would have been truly awesome if we were born to be like groundhogs or deer: roots and shoots and fruits. That's it.

This idea came back to me full force in the middle of the night when Ed came in and told me that we'd lost Rosie, our young pullet, to a predator. She'd been impossible to corral into the coop in the evening (such a bird brain! she often has a hard time aiming for the door!) and so Ed paused for a while to let her settle down. The hens get drowsy at night and they're easy to handle then. But by the time he returned to the barn, we had had a visitor. Some beast had come and taken her away. He'd also attempted to destroy the coop, judging from what damage was done to the roof, but that proved to be a futile effort. Still, the little girl became someone's late night supper.

The morning walk was deflated. Definitely some air had gone out of our spring balloon.

(just two little ones now...)

Breakfast on the porch.

Sigh...

We've shared news of other chicken casualties with the kids, but this one feels too fresh and so we put the topic aside when Snowdrop comes over after school. It was her last day as a kindergartner and honestly, it's cause for celebration of sorts. I mean, what a year!

From remote learning, to a hybrid model, to in-class instruction, but with masks and distancing, though less distancing halfway through spring. Was there anything normal, steady, reassuring or reliable about any of it? Yet the girl sailed through and managed to come out with a smile today. And of course her smile is our smile.

(the kids wrote and illustrated books marking their faves and their milestones...)

It's a hot day, but the breeze kicks up and you feel almost okay with it. At least in the shade. Heading to the farmette I ask her -- would you like to go to Bernie's Beach? It's almost on the way...

She and I used to go there after school -- it's the park with a small sandy beach that borders the "lesser lake." By summer, most of the lakes in Madison have algae levels that make them unhealthy for swimming, but at this point the beach is still open for business and in the hour after school, it's pretty empty.

Oh, how Snowdrop loves splashing in the water! I did not bring a swimsuit, but with minor adjustments, we get her ready to hit the water.

We don't stay long. A number of other kids begin to arrive and I haven't the confidence in how much anyone is following precautions these days. But it is enough to give her that joy of sand and water that truly marks the beginning of summer vacation. 

At the farmhouse we're back with the books, the fruits, the trees outside and the check of her favorite flowers.

Summer stuff, all of it. Well, maybe not the books!

As I drop Snowdrop off at home, I catch a moment with Sparrow...

... and I take a very chill Sandpiper for a little bounce on the knee.

Evening. I had promised myself a new cooking idea for tonight's supper and so I put in a small amount of effort to produce this pie with spinach, escarole and a few turnip greens. Onion, garlic, a couple of cheeses.

Good taste, good smells from the oven. I ask Ed if he likes the "pie.". He says "yes," but it's not a bouncy yes. 

So, should it go on the rotating menu?

Maybe not. When pressed, he tells me it tastes like it's on the heavy side. I suppose it's the pastry, since the stuffing is rather on the lean end of things. Certainly no heavier than that of a frittata. But then he adds -- I like that you're making new things again.

Yes, I like that too.

the company we keep

Ed and I worked so hard this morning (before breakfast, before the heat set in) that we hardly noticed the time.

He concentrated on watering our 67 baby trees (not easy, given that the hose, even in its doubled length, doesn't reach nearly far enough) and me -- I weeded and watered some of the new babes in the Big Bed and did the Monet lug of water to the meadow. (What's blooming there right now from last year's planting? Lots and lots of lovely flax flowers.)

 

At 11 we stop. Ed has a scheduled Zoom call and I want my breakfast. Because we dallied, I will now have to eat alone. Or so I thought. As I step out on the porch and set the table with breakfast foods...

I notice a chipmunk scrambling for cover in the corner of the porch. How it got there is a puzzler. How it should leave is an even greater puzzler. I call Dance over. She sniffs and is poised to chase it. The chipmunk takes to the screen and scrambles to the top. Dance is no fool. What comes up must come down. She settles in at the base of the screen and waits. 

Well this wont do! I quickly swing open the door to the porch (remember: there are no nasty mosquitoes yet!) and tap the screen with a broom. The hope is that the chipmunk will go down and head out. But of course, Dance is fast. Chasing chipmunks is serious business for this cat, second only in importance to chasing mice. She's been training for years! So she catches the chipmunk (sorry, chipmunk!) and now the little vermin is dead. I close the door on the both of them and settle down to my solo breakfast. But it's not to be. Dance brings the dead rodent back inside the porch (using the cat door) so she can do her favorite thing: toss it around like a toy, just like the little stuffies she likes to toss around inside. I eat breakfast as the cat bounces the dead chipmunk about, finally tiring of it all and retreating to her resting post under the flower pot. The chipmunk, hopefully RIP, stays in full view, showing its chipmunky teeth at me, as if to chastise me -- you let this happen, you meanie!

Sigh... Farmette life can be brutal.

In the intense heat of the day, I turn on the oven. It seems strange, for sure, but I need to do something with the mounting pile of rhubarb. Yes, I could freeze it, but I still have last year's crop in the freezer. Better to bake with it. I triple the recipe's rhubarb load and slide the yogurt based cake into the oven. It comes out just as it's time for me to pick up Snowdrop.

We do play some (outside and inside!), and read some (weird new chapter book, my fault), and eat some (mango, strawberries, cherries, oranges, watermelon, and of course -- rhubarb cake)... 

 

 

And as it is a Thursday, we make sure to pick up our CSA box of veggies for the week. The farmers have had a tough few days. Indeed, a tough spring season, with temps jumping from warm to cold to hot to freezing. Last weekend, they used all available strategies to keep their crops alive as frost struck south central Wisconsin. Seeing their photos of iced over strawberries was heartbreaking, but at lest the berries survived. Some of the peppers and their young corn crop? Not so much. And now it's hot again.

But first, I drop off my sweet companion at her home and say a quick hello to the two brothers waiting for her.

And now the sun has almost set and I finally turn to dinner prep. And I just do a repeat of foods I've cooked a million times here at the farmhouse. Is it time to add more unusual dishes to our rotating menu? The pandemic had us eating at home, foods cooked by me, every single day for more than a year. Aren't some of my recipes sagging a little from old age?

When I cook for Ed and the kids, I want to prepare stuff that I know they'll love. This is what keeps me from innovating in the kitchen.  Or is it that I'm blaming those at the dinner table for my own unwillingness to get creative in the kitchen once again? Sure, cooking something new risks their rejection. Still, with the pandemic receding a little, I'm thinking it's time to get unstuck. Time to try something new. Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow. Today? I stay with our usual dinner of fish and asparagus. And rhubarb caked baked a million times already this year. So old, but so good!

feels like July, only without the bugs

 Clearly our blood hasn't yet hit the summer reset: it feels so toasty warm outside! Dare I say it? Too warm! I do some work in a sunny flower bed, then check the thermometer to affirm my right to feel like I've just been sizzled over a campfire. 80F (26.5C). Seriously? That's it? We are expecting it to crank up to near 90F (32C) by the weekend. How did we get so quickly from "too cold to eat on the porch" to "maybe we should bring up the fan from the basement...?"

(morning walk)

Wait a minute. If it's already warm in the morning, would this be a fine day to reenter cafe life? Shouldn't we go to Finca? (On the terrace of course. We're not brave enough to enjoy a coffee moment indoors.)

Ed is agreeable. I am excited! I loved our leisurely hours at this local cafe run by lovely people who happen to bring in incredible coffee (and food ideas) from El Salvador.

It's a two minute drive for us. As we pull up, we notice that there are only five tables outside and only two empty ones are in the shade. Inside, it's so very familiar, so genuinely friendly and warm in the cheerful and welcoming meaning of the word. I note that they no longer carry croissants. I suppose that makes sense. I'm sure they're struggling. Why sell someone else's baked product. 

And then, in the two minutes that we're standing there, the two shaded tables fill and suddenly we're at a loss. Should we come back another day? 

We pick up a couple of sweet cheese quesadillas (they're like a Salvadoran pound cake) and head back to the farmhouse. I suppose you could say that our first return to cafe life was a bust. That we can't move ourselves from our own sheltered environment. But you would be wrong: we tried, after all. It's just that on this warm, too warm day, our own shady porch seemed so much preferable for a leisurely morning meal. With the quesadillas of course.

I worked a little in the flower beds, but I stopped in midstream to Zoom with my Polish friends. It was a superb excuse to get myself out of the sun, though the whole lot of them had little sympathy for my hot weather gripes. Poland and indeed much of northern Europe has had an unusually cool spring. I am in shorts (funky ones at that and not at all discreetly long as would be appropriate for a grandma), they are in sweaters. That tells you something.

In the evening Ed goes out on his bike ride and me, well, I do something that again I haven't done for quite a while, though for reasons having nothing to do with Covid: I go for a walk in our local county park. (We've been way too busy working the land to do any hiking this spring!) Oh, the familiar drive, with the sightings of the magnificent cranes...

 

And the deer staring right back at you...

 

Two months have passed since we've come to these favorite local trails. Time to see the forest with its young canopy of shade.

I think of it as a place that brought us the peace we needed during the tougher times of this past year. I suppose today I gave it my own small thanks. 

With love.