Yarrow Salve inspired by Taproot Magazine. I’m using Yarrow and Lemon Balm — the chopped herbs will soak in olive oil for two weeks.
Fermented garlic scales and garlic scape relish. Amabel is in training with the fermentation master. . .
The jars are already sizzling with bubbles.
Tiny terrarium necklaces for the Artists Market. More details about our preparations coming soon!
Two months ago I stopped working at an office. Surprisingly, it is taking me much longer to let go of that part of my identity, my routine, my focus . . . and reclaim my own mental space and home schedule again. Over the past decade I’ve always “worked” in some form or another, but something took ahold of me while I was working in an office for a couple of years and becoming part of an organizational culture — something that I didn’t quite recognize until I’d left it. It was so easy to point to my well-respected, local land conservancy and say, “I work there.” It was so official. Legitimate. I liked that.
Now I squirm a bit when asked, “Where do you work?” My answer is much more complex. I get to say, “I do this,” instead of “I work there,” which is not always an easy thing to explain.
The how and why I got here is a long story, but after a bit of mental turmoil I’m ready to admit the simple truth: I am so happy to be home again. I love to work at home. I say this with joy and also with a little guilt — because whether or not my current work will materialize into income is still an unknown. So, can I still call it work? Also, now that it is summer, my days are very likely to include a spontaneous picnic or two . . . and what would the boss say?
Spring is a windy beach, still clean from a half a year of ice and snow.
Spring is a handful of radishes fresh from the moist earth.
Spring is a half-grown chick — part bird, part dinosaur.
Spring is a baby with bare arms. And bare feet.
Spring is a morning in the garden.
Jeffrey gets up early to go looking for breakfast in the woods behind our house. In the afternoon, our neighbor, Mike, takes the girls on a mushroom-hunting adventure on the edge of the orchard. At dusk in the Gousty forest, Jeffrey and I search for the illusive morel.
I used to be easily discouraged while looking for morels. Accustomed to walking fast and covering a lot of ground with a dog, the pace of mushroom hunting didn’t come easily to me. But then our children came along, and I learned how to slow down. Now I love to meander through the woods and field edges, pausing as little fingers point out flowers, bird’s nests, berries, and — during the month of May — morels.
These days, the girls usually find more mushrooms than I do. But I don’t get discouraged any more. I like to watch them find morels perhaps even more than I like finding them myself.
I also like to hear Jeffrey’s stories when he comes back from the hunt. One night after an evening walk, he tiptoed upstairs to show me his treasure, including the biggest morel ever. He’d found a particularly large group of morels growing under a grove of poplar trees close to where we’d walked just the night before. Did those enormous mushrooms appear overnight or were they silently standing there as we ambled past?
And then sometimes they appear when we aren’t searching at all. Yesterday, Ellen found a lone morel (nearly 5-inches tall!) down by the hammok while the girls were swinging. After we documented it for uncle Chris, the girls ran over to the neighbor’s house to show Mike — because sharing the delight of discovery is half the fun of finding morels!
Tomorrow, my brother Chris arrives with his family for the summer — and I’m guessing the first thing he’ll do is head back into the woods with a mesh bag in his pocket. I asked my Mom and Dad if they’ve been out looking for morels recently, but my Mom said no, “We’re saving them all for Chris.”
Ellen woke up at 6:30 this morning — well before her usual waking hour — and crept downstairs to see the chicks. She stayed with them, and played with them, for over two hours (I am told, because I was sleeping in!). It was nearly 9:00 when I finally came down to the sound of two girls and six chicks happily chirping away.
Two years have passed since the first time we brought home baby chickens, and the girls want to be much more involved in their care this time. Amabel and Ellen are taking “the naming of the chicks” very seriously — thinking ahead into the future lives of their birds. Which baby names stuck last time? What will the birds look like and act like when they get older; how will their markings change and what personalities might they have? Who will be the biggest? Who will be the boss? Of course we talk about these things knowing how much we can’t predict . . . but I do think that the girls are considering the future of their chickens as they consider names, simply because they’ve watched a group of birds grow up once before and seen them through seasons of joy (the first egg!) and loss (unknown, and not so unknown, predators).
Mrs. P (short for Mrs. President) was a favorite bird from our first batch. She was the first to lay eggs and would proudly strut her way up to Harry and give him a good peck on the nose when he was getting too curious. Sadly, Mrs. P was mysteriously murdered at the tender age of six months. It was likely her fearlessness that brought her to her end — but we like to think that perhaps she protected the rest of the flock from harm in her last moments.
Who will be the “Mrs. P” of this group of ladies? (Or might one of them turn out to be a rooster? There is always the possibility that we’ll have a Mr. P!)
As of today, the chicks are called Fuzzy, Little Hawk and Big Hawk, Nickel, Little Jet, and Mashed Potato. The Australorp below is “Mashed Potato”. She currently resembles a tiny penguin, but the girls know from experience that she will grow up to be a very large solid, shiny black bird — and if she is anything like our full-grown Australorp, she will be shy but very sweet.
For now this bitty bird fits snugly in the palm of Ellen’s hand . . . reminding her (just a bit!) of a fluffy pile of Mashed Potato. A good name, don’t you think?