They're Taking Over

I had no more than sat down beside Sheila to milk than Tony showed up.  Anyone who watched "The Sopranos" will know Tony, head of one of the Families.  He went to the mouse food; I squirted him with milk.  He went back to the food; another squirt.  Food, squirt.  Food, squirt.  When he'd had enough of this, he came to the edge of the stand, stood on his hind legs, looked me in the eye and said with a New Jersey accent, "Hey, lady.  What's widchu?  Ya put the food down, I'm gonna eat it!  Quit with the milk business already!"  I think my laughing out loud hurt his feelings and he finally left the room, only to wait with his crew for the squirrel brunch I put out daily after I'd finished the barn chores.  He got the last laugh.

Frank now decides when it's time for me to get up.  He begins with a subtle approach, walking around on the bed talking in that unmistakeable Siamese cat way.  If I don't respond, he comes up to my face and says loudly, "Get up!  It's time to get up, I said!"  By this time I am awake, but choose to keep my eyes shut and try to ignore him.  No dice.  He is on a mission and determined, so begins to stomp up and down my back and legs.  He is not a small cat.  I get up.  Frank lies down and goes back to sleep.  His job is done.

I'm not in charge.

Small Things

Peeping and yeeping just outside the window in the morning caused me to stand and look out beyond the computer.  Eighteen little turklets were making their way up the drive, accompanied by mamas and aunties.  Like BBs on a plate, the little ones scattered here and there, causing their mothers no end of concern, which they voiced loudly.  It was not a quiet morning.

Looking past the Silkie pen, I saw that which I did not expect to see; an apricot on a tree planted years ago that had never borne fruit.  Putting down the feed bucket, I went for a closer look.  It truly was an apricot and even more astounding, it was ripe and the birds had not yet taken a bite!  It was just the one apricot with no hint of others to come, but, oh, the taste was heavenly, sweet and jammy.

The mice wait in their corner in the milking room for the grain thrown down for their breakfast.  The squirrels know they will get brunch after I finish with the goats and generally wait in the big room.  However, one brazen, impatient squirrel comes through the door, looking right in my eyes as he creepy-creeps over and pushes the mice out of the way to stuff his cheeks full of their food.  As punishment for his impudence, I've started squirting him with milk (I've got pretty good aim with those nozzles).  He's another one who has trouble with cause-and-effect and we go through the procedure several times before he gets the idea.  By then he's coated with milk.  I wonder how he explains that to the others.

Small things, yes, but they made for a good day.

Hot Tamales

"Hot tamales!  Get 'em here!"  I was a kid on a train trip when we pulled in to San Antonio, Texas.  I can hear the vendor's voices hawking their wares at the station.  As an adult with children of my own, we were camping on the sand at San Felipe, Baja California, Mexico.  Each evening a little boy came through the campground selling his mother's tamales from an enameled bucket.  I've got a long history with tamales.

Camille, Debbie K. and I got started a little late, but once we got rolling, it was Katy-bar-the-door!  Honey, ever hopeful, positioned herself so that she could clean up any mistakes while I shredded the pork.  I had three different recipes, so we were using bits from each and creating a fourth.  Debbie K. took on the masa and we ended up using all ten pounds of masa harina, with the liquid from the pork and from the boiled chiles for flavor.  Debbie had made tamales before, but it was a new experience for Camille.  It wasn't long until they were turning out packets like pros.  I was chief cook and bottle washer.  Lots of chatter and giggles and a slurp of beer now and then, and the tamales started piling up.  I didn't actually count how many, but I cooked five big soup pots loaded with dozens of tamales each.  We had time to sample the first batch of the pork while others steamed.  The ladies were mighty pleased.  Then it was back to work; we had yet to make the jack cheese and jalapeno pepper variety.  There was time for a much-needed break while they cooked.   Served with a fresh tomatillo salsa on top, they were really good, too.  As the sun started dropping, I packed to-go bags (sorry, Honey, no doggy bags) for Debbie and Camille.  We all agreed it was a worthwhile endeavor and a very good day.

Better Still

It was just a few days ago that I was sweltering and drained of all ambition.  Yesterday I needed a work shirt over the tank top most of the day, it was that cool.  Instead of taking advantage of the weather to pull weeds, I used the opportunity to sit on the deck and read and I make no apologies.  Those times will be few and far between as the season locks in and temperatures climb.  It was a good day to make plans.

Back in the early '80s, I was struck with the urge to try my hand at making tamales.  I was introduced to an older Latina woman who could give me a recipe and pointers.  When asked help, she said, "Oh, honey, I quit making them years ago; they're too much work.  I buy mine now."  She did give me a recipe that I wrote down, starting with eight pounds of meat and ten pounds of masa!  The Kids were all home then and they were recruited (i.e., drafted) into a production line.  The woman was right; they are a lot of work, but the end result is so good.

Tamales are not something I would ever want to make alone.  They are a community project.  Since the Kids are no longer here, I have enlisted Camille and Debbie K.  Heh heh, they don't know what they're in for.  I did a lot of the prep work yesterday:  putting a pork butt in the crock pot overnight, boiling, seeding and blending the dried chiles for the sauce, soaking the corn husks, cleaning the tomatillos.  In addition to the pork tamales, we'll also make some with cheese and green chiles.

That's the Plan For the Day.

Much Better

When I say I need to do some weeding, I'm not talking about pulling a few sprouts here and there.  I mean capital-W weeding!  To give this a bit of perspective, this barrel is over five feet across and the weeds are at least two feet tall.  Until TG used the weed eater on the paths, the barrels were nearly hidden.  I couldn't get this barrel cleared before barn time, but it was a start.

The birds are sitting around waiting for these grapes to ripen.  These are the Thompson seedless, and the Red Globe vine is just as laden.  A few more barrels with their bumper crop of weeds are in the background.  Call it job security.

Thankfully, the temperature stayed in the 80s yesterday and there was so much to do outside.  After watching the race at Pocono, I jumped on the tractor and got the front yard and a bit of the side yard mowed in the afternoon.  It's not nearly as pleasant to mow when the dirt has turned to dust and the weeds (laughingly called my lawn) are dry.  The breeze blows the chaff into my hair and eyes and down my neck, but it's got to be done before the star thistle sets its blooms and painful seeds.  Did I say job security?

Going out toward dusk to fill the hummers' feeders again, I saw this beautiful young buck grazing in the triangle going down to the woods.  Some time back, there was an unusually light-colored doe I named Tawny.  She returned for several years with her fawns, and this has to be one of her lineage.  Others in the herd are the more normal darker color.

This fine boy's antlers are just starting to sprout, covered in "velvet."  This is a black-tail deer, a subspecies of mule deer.  Not hard to see how they got that name.  The presence of Bess and me on the deck bothered him not at all.  Digital cameras are so great.  I took a lot of shots of him posing this way and that.  Bess takes deer in her stride; they still take my breath away.

The day was cooler and it was easier to sleep last night.  Until I had the dream where I was given $800,000.  I was so excited I woke myself up trying to decide where I was going to sink a new well!

More Of the Same

Five o'clock a.m.  Sixty-eight degrees outside.  Eighty degrees in the house this morning.  I find it more than irritating when the weather forecasters get so excited as they talk about "breaking records."  I have no interest in breaking 100 degrees at any time.  It was 110 at my daughter's house yesterday.  Since I had no intention of going out to pull weeds from the garden barrels, I watered deck plants and herb garden instead.  Turkeys lay in patches of shade with wings outspread, looking very much like open umbrellas set down in the yard.  As soon as I turned off the sprinkler, Frank found a cool spot in the tall, still-dripping marjoram to nap.  When a cat chooses wet, you know it's hot.  Bessie Anne went out several times to her pool, coming in to lie on the stone hearth.  It is important to stay hydrated in this heat.  I prefer my water flavored with barley and hops, or in the form of ice cubes marinated in bourbon.  The hummers went through more than two quarts of "juice" yesterday.

Palace Malice came from far back in the pack to win the third leg of the Triple Crown at Belmont.  Veteran jockey Mike Smith held him in until the last turn and then came thundering past Orb and Oxbow who had set the pace and were exhausted from the mile-and-a-half run.  I do love horse racing.

"They" say it's supposed to be cooler today.  We'll see.

Sum-Sum-Summertime

Yeesh!  I wonder for whom the "living is easy" in summertime.  I know it isn't me.  The thermometer is on an outside wall that is never in direct sunshine and it pegged at one-hundred yesterday and stayed there until after dusk.  Bessie Anne remembered the routine from last year.  "Bess, want to go in your pool?," and she runs to the right door.  At the pool, she carefully steps over the side and wades around, waiting for me to pour water over her shoulders.  Getting out, she barely shakes off, preferring to drip dry.  The summer influx of ants and earwigs has begun; they come in looking for shade and water.  It's an annual battle.  Squirrels in the barn ignore me and flatten themselves in the dirt, trying to keep cool, and the chickens take a dozen dust baths a day.

Tree Guy came over midday to weed-eat the garden.  Just going outside to show him where the equipment was darned near brought me to my knees.  The sun was like a physical force beating down.  He was done in a half-hour and I don't know how he lasted that long.  I did notice while I was out there that the grape vines (Red Globe and Thompson seedless) are loaded with fruit, more than ever before.  Now that the paths are cleared, I'll have to weed the barrels and hope it's not too late to plant something.  That will have to wait until I can soak the soil enough to pull those weeds, and that won't happen in full daylight.

The summer solstice is not until June 21.  That's what it says on paper.  The thermometer tells me that summer is here now.