The Bunny Trail

Cottontail rabbits used to abound here.  They would congregate in the orchard for morning meetings and use the driveway as a freeway from here to there, always busy and going somewhere.  Occasionally there were also the big jackrabbits.  I haven't seen a cottontail in years, but lately, in early evening as I water the deck plants, I've seen more and more jackrabbits under the old fruit trees in the front orchard.  Large rabbits with long, long ears, they are perfectly camouflaged in the tall weeds.  After some unsuccessful, exhausting forays, Bessie Anne has learned it's not worth her effort to chase them, and so we watch them together.

Back in the 1980s, I was reading The Stand by Stephen King, in which he referenced another book, Watership Down.  I couldn't think that one author was actually touting another so felt it was part of King's fiction.  Rarely can I pass a book store without popping in, and one day there it was:  Watership Down by Richard Adams.  While all the characters are rabbits, it is not a children's story.  It is full of good and evil, romance and tragedy, deceit and triumph.  Just as Trekkies know the Klingon language, Adams put in a glossary of lapine language.  "Tharn" (frightened into immobility) and "Hrududu" (any motor vehicle) have become part of my own vocabulary.  If I could only hear the the rabbits, I know I could interpret what they are saying.

I realize that rabbits can be pests but, as with the other wildlife that visit or live on the farm, I do enjoy their company.  That said, I am glad the garden (such as it is) is fully fenced.  I wonder where the cottontails went.

Not Just Another Day

The day did not begin auspiciously.  "Hey, mister, you're scaring my goats!"  It was hot, I was hurrying, and had one last goat to milk.  Of course, it was Inga.  Inga was ambling her way to the barn when the herd turned toward the fence line and gave a few snorts.  It was Joel, walking the water line in his vineyard (which, by the way, is growing like gangbusters).  We exchanged a few pleasantries and I went back to coaxing Inga into the barn.  She was being a total butthead, coming to the door, getting as far as putting her nose in, and then backing away.  Almost at the point of walking off and leaving her to swell up and suffer, I gave it one last shot and she came in.  I made it back to the house just before Deb and Craig drove up.

 They came loaded with goodies from their garden:  tomatoes, basil, onions, an eggplant, and fresh buffalo mozzarella.  The aroma from the platter Deb prepared was enough to make the angels weep.  (Did I mention she does a beautiful presentation?)  Sighs of satisfaction were the only sounds at the lunch table.  It was a perfect summertime meal.

I am, once again, being dragged into the 21st century, this time with Craig's help.  I have a full cabinet of VHS tapes.  Thinking to play one a few weeks ago, I was more than distressed when the VHS player swallowed the tape and wouldn't give it back.  It happened to be a video of my wedding to Steve and was absolutely irreplaceable.  Imagine my excitement when I found I could buy a machine that would dub VHS onto DVD (new-age alphabet soup).  I had gotten so far as opening the box and looking at the installation manual, but it might as well have been written in a foreign language.  Craig to the rescue!  In what seemed like no time at all, he had the new machine in place and working and had retrieved the precious tape from the jaws of the old one with little to no damage.  Together, we watched the dear faces of many who are no longer with us and remembered a happy day.  Deb had been my beautiful Maid of Honor, and it was all four of my Kids who answered, "We do," when asked who was giving this woman away.  The conversion to DVD was successful, but just to make sure, we did another of home movies of several of long-ago camping trips and a bang-up birthday party.  Ain't technology grand?  Craig is my hero.

Time with my Kids is special, a memorable meal together, a dance at my wedding...it wasn't just another day.

Win Some, Lose Some

I did a little happy dance of triumph in the barn the other day.  After another major skirmish with the ground squirrels, I finally convinced them that their latest choice of a burrow was not to my liking.  It took a couple of weeks of them digging and me filling in the hole in the corner where the girls stand to look out.  I did not delude myself that I'd won the war; a good thing, as they almost immediately opened a new tunnel under the grain barrel in the little stall on the other side of the barn.  As this hole doesn't put the girls' legs in danger, I may let it stay in hopes that a small victory will keep them from expanding their territory.

I am less successful in the battle with ants.  I deal with the scouts on a daily basis, trying to stave off a full-scale invasion, but once in awhile I look down to find an army on the march, usually toward Bessie's food bowl.  They also go to the water dish.  I'd feel sorry for them if they weren't such pests.  I am severely outnumbered, but know this particular war will end when summer is over.

I can really get into this barter system.  A friend brought me cantaloupes and honeydews, more than I can use right away.  Camille had gone down to Slough House (everyone in the area knows Slough House produce) and offered some sweetcorn she'd bought.  I traded a melon for a couple of ears of corn, the first I've had this summer.  Works for me!

The house is finally put back together after a week or so of disarray, and just in time.  Deb and Craig are coming up today.  They're bringing the fruits of their labor from their garden, including eggplant.  (Aubergine sounds so much more classy.)  It's a sign of Deb's devotion that she will cook eggplant for Craig.  He and I are fans of eggplant; she is not.  I grew up with eggplant on what were then meatless Fridays.  I have enough recipes for eggplant to write a cookbook on them alone as I tried without success to get my Kids to eat eggplant when they were younger.  Not one of the four can or will eat eggplant to this day.  Evidently the liking for that vegetable is not hereditary.  Ah well, win some, lose some.

Foodie Isn't A Bad Word

Mother was not a memorable cook.  Other than baking spices, I can recall that she had only chili powder and bay leaves in the cupboard, and used onion and garlic sparingly.  Married at 18, I couldn't boil water.  One of my new sisters-in-law, Dorothy, gave us a wonderful wedding gift.  She took me to the spice aisle in the grocery store.  As she pulled herbs and spices I'd never heard of from the shelves, she explained their taste and use.  Indian, Chinese, Mexican, Italian; the cart began to fill.  It was a great crash course in cookery.

Those were the days of "waste not, want not," and with all those little jars and bottles with exotic names and scents, I searched for ways to put them to use.  Jim, the Kids' dad, liked to eat, and would bring home recipes to try.  I made some real clinkers along the way, but slowly gained success.  My own sister was an accomplished cook and shared her expertise.  "What does it mean to 'knead the dough until silky?'"  My first attempt at baking bread involved many phone calls and must have driven her nuts.

One thing I never had time for was elegant presentation.  Four children in less than five years required that I cook a lot and get it on the table.  Over time I gained confidence and learned to love cooking.  With little money to spare, a good meal was one gift I could give my family.  As I was always trying something new, the Kids developed educated palates and a taste for eclectic foods.  While they might still call home for what they call "Dial-A-Chef," each has surpassed me as good cooks.  Deb could put Martha Stewart to shame with her attention to detail and Dave can cook Mexican food that would make Aaron Sanchez drool.  Pete sends me his recipes and Larry has cooked in fine restaurants.

Cooking for Steve was a challenge.  Garlic was okay, but onions were out.  Spicy, not s'much.  Fried meat, fried potatoes, and white gravy was gourmet dining.  His idea of a green vegetable was spinach noodles.  We both learned to accommodate to a degree.  As I said, a challenge.

Someone recently called me a foodie, and I guess I am.  Too hot to do much else lately, I've been watching and clearing programs I'd DVRd and realize that most of them are cooking shows, the ones from which I can learn something.  I still love to cook.  Mother would be so proud.

Home Stretch

At some point in time, this project from hell will come to an end.  Finally all those windows and the lace curtains are washed.  (They looked so pretty dancing on the line.)  Camille came last evening to help put up the two longest rods.  I'm not vertically challenged, but do need to get up on the step stool to reach the fixtures.  Camille is taller and just popped that end in.  Harrumph!  She had to go back to her place for a forgotten item and left Honey with us.  Honey suffers from separation anxiety and was frantic when she realized Camille was taking off on the quad without her.  Bessie Anne did what she could to reassure Honey, lying by her side when Honey quit running from door to door.  That dog was a picture of true happiness when Camille rode up again.

Brown, brown, brown.  The only green left is that of the danged star thistle.  No wonder the dust lies thick everywhere.  What I wouldn't give for a patch of lawn to rest my eyes.

No Hope

There is no light at the end of my tunnel.  While successfully avoiding washing the last windows, slipcovers I'd ordered arrived yesterday.  Heat notwithstanding, I was anxious to see how they'd look on two recliners and a loveseat and once again I was pulled into the vortex.  Moving furniture to fit the covers meant vacuuming underneath.  Couldn't just sweep patches, so did that job too.  That highlighted the dust.  Okay, fine.  As an impetus to getting those windows finished and the curtains back up, I invited Camille to dinner tonight.  Nothing like company coming to spur me on.  There must be an end to this madness.  Soon.

Note to self:  Do not put the laundry basket down on an anthill while taking clothes off the line and then carry it back on my hip.  Ants do not like to be transported and relocated.  Man, those little boogers can bite!

I Got It

"Be careful what you wish for."  How many times I've heard or said that, right along with "Ask, and you shall receive."  I asked for relief from the days-long illness that had struck.  It seems the antidote for exuberant housecleaning is heat, and it arrived yesterday.  Stopped dead in my tracks, the step stool sits in the dining room, the growing pile of lace panels lies on the living room floor, and more pigs to wash are on the kitchen counter.  (Those 36 clean ones done the day before are just the tip of the pigberg in my house.)  Much as I dislike going to town, driving in an air-conditioned truck seemed the lesser of two evils compared to washing more windows.  It was 101 degrees in Diamond Springs.  At 9:30 last night it was 80 outside and 86 inside here, and that was after running the whole-house fan.  My efforts at sprucing up have ended in a bigger-than-ever mess.  I shall be more careful in phrasing my requests in the future.

In the beginning, I was a veritable Birdie Hicks about the barn, swiping down every cobweb before the spiders could catch a bite to eat.  I still rake up and haul out two buckets of goat poo every day, but now the rafters, corners, nooks and crannies are festooned with spider webs.  When I was in my neat-and-tidy phase, I had to hang sticky fly strips in an attempt to keep down that population, a losing proposition if ever there was.  And then one day it dawned on me; I was buying fly strips to do exactly what the spiders would do for free.  I like free, and I've learned to like spiders.  In fact, I encourage them by catching flies and tossing them to the nearest waiting daddy-longlegs.  I'm never going to win the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval down there anyhow, and I appreciate the help.

Given the forecast, I can't hope for a relapse of my malady before next week.  By then, the pile of curtains and the step stool will be dusty.  I can't win, but I'll be careful what I wish for.