In some cultures, Spring is almost here

We've entered what is typically the coldest period of the year here in the North Country. I'm hoping Mother Nature and the Fates will be kind this year so we don''t have to wait until Spring for ICE OUT. Meanwhile, paperwork that let's us know we've entered tax season has started to arrive, along with junk mail. Can you tell this is not my favorite time of year? On the other hand, at least there's lots to look forward to during in January and February, like the return of melting and growing and waterfowl. We just have to hang in there.

winter is also sourdough bread season

Photo by J. Harrington

In the interim, the Better Half has three (Christmas) amaryllis plants with multiple blossoms now on two of them and the third coming along more slowly. Plus, one of her windowsill orchids is flowering! But, the lavender plant I got for Christmas seems "under the weather" due to lack of sufficient sunshine and ambient indoor temperatures five to ten degrees cooler than ideal. (Our downstairs is always cooler during heating season since heat rises.) I honestly can't remember an extended period of cloudiness like we've had for the past several months. I'd move the lavender upstairs but the sunny windowsills are full already with amaryllis and orchids.

If we were wise enough to follow more of the old Druid traditions, in a couple of weeks we'd be celebrating Imbolc on February 1. That's the first of three "Spring" festivals and arrives a couple of weeks ahead of Valentines Day. I'm going to polish my ""of Irish extraction" credentials and get ready to celebrate and enjoy Imbolc this year. That feels like it fits nicely with rereading Gary Snyder's The Practice of the Wild, as I started to do yesterday.

As Sergeant Phil Esterhaus said each morning at roll call on Hill Street Blues: "Let's be careful out there," especially as long as Minnesota is territory occupied by hostile forces.

Imbolc by Damh the Bard

As the dark, cold morning gives way to light,
And the world shows its face dazzling in her nakedness,
So the twigs and leaf-bare branches,
Bow to the passing dance
Of old Jack Frost.
His crystal breath on the earth,
And the corners of houses weep icicles of joy.
But where is the Sun’s warmth?
Where is life?
A small flower, delicate and pure-white,
Looks to the earth,
As if talking to the waiting green,
“Not yet,” it seems to whisper.
“When I fall, then you can return.”
And she nods her head,
as the Lady passes by,
Leaving more flowers in Her wake

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

At Autumn’s door step

A few days ago we started to notice leaves had begun to change color. First were the sumac leaves in red. Plus, there were hints of color in a large deciduous tree on the north side of county highway 36 ay the Sunrise river bridge.. Then, on Friday, we noticed color in a clump of maples as we were driving home from Taylors Falls. We’ve had color change this early in other years but it does go nicely with the cooler temperatures we’ve enjoyed for the past week or so.

even some local maples are beginning to turn

Photo by J. Harrington

Hummingbirds continue to chase one another away from the sugar water feeders. According to our traps, more mice are trying to move into the lower level and the garage. Although we see sandhill cranes in the fields from time to time, they’re in clusters of two, three or four. No signs yet of major flocks forming for migration.

A boule of sourdough just came out of the oven. The last loaf I baked had, to my taste, almost no flavor, so I reformulated the starter using about half whole wheat flour and the other half bread flour. I’ll know, shortly after this is posted, if the flavor has been enhanced or if more fiddling is called for. We’ll report in our next posting.

I have made some progress on one of the other writing projects I’m starting, and Sunday seems like a good day to post if I decide to shift to a weekly blog schedule. Blogger aappears to have made whatever adjustments were needed to allow me to again include images in these posts so we’ll just play it by ear.

Fall Song

by Mary Oliver

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures. 

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Boules and boletes

This week just ending yielded a first for the Better Half and me, a previously unseen mushroom species growing along the south edge of the driveway, old man of the woods. Until this discovery, I had been the holder of that title around here. Finding photos to aid in identification was an issue until I thought to check Minnesota Seasons, mushrooms (select “The List” tab). Here’s an example of our specimens.

“old man of the woods” mushrooms

Photo by J. Harrington

The sourdough we made up yesterday baked up wonderfully this morning. I think the problems with the prior loaf were that the starter was overdue for a major refresh, that I “pushed” the starter before it had been freshened enough, and then I messed up baking it in an oven that was 50℉ hotter than the recipe called for. Each of those were avoided this time and the Better Half informs me this loaf is even tastier than the one before last, about which I was bragging recently in these pages.

today’s sourdough boule

Photo by J. Harrington

I suspect that the appearance of the old man mushrooms, together with several others thaat have cropped upp on the property this summer, is largely due to the abundance of precipitation we’ve “enjoyed” this summer. Better now than in January and February, I suppose.

We’ve been leaving the tray of bergamot seedlings out on the deck overnight, to harden them off. This morning they experienced their first ever real rain, some of which came down pretty hard. The more fully developed seedlings seem to have come through fine. It may take a day or two to see if those that were on the fragile side survived being pounded on.

Mushrooming

Jeffrey Harrison

Christopher and Helen, our new expatriate friends,
meet us at their favorite winery
where they fill their plastic jerry cans from hoses
exactly like the ones at gas stations,
as though they were planning to go back home to Aix
and treat their lawnmower to a nice red.
Instead, they take us in their forest green Peugeot
to the home of their old friend Brigitte
in a village at the foot of Mont Ventoux—
actually, not a village, Brigitte corrects me,
but “un hameau,” a hamlet. The French
are exacting about such distinctions, but Brigitte
has a kind, mischievous smile. Back in the car,
we tear along a series of rutted, stony roads
that web the mountainside, with Brigitte
directing Christopher, “à droite, à gauche, encore à gauche,”
until we come to a grove of pines, cedars, and oaks,
where she says the mushrooms are hidden.
We fan out under the trees, searching the slope,
while Brigitte, looking elfin in her orange hoodie,
waves a stick like a wand, pokes at the dried pine needles
or the dead leaves under the wild boxwood bushes,
and sings, “I think there are some over here,”
like a mother leading her toddlers toward the Easter eggs.
We laugh and follow after her, cutting the stems
with a tarnished knife she lends us, warning
“Faites attention,” because the blade is sharp.
And gradually we fill our plastic shopping bags
with gnarled orange caps, stained green,
which, much later, back in the States, I learn
are called Lactarius deliciosus or
orange-latex milky, like a shade of paint,
the field guide commenting “edible, although
not as good as the name deliciosus suggests”—
but we already suspect that (they look awful),
and we will later unload most of ours on
Christopher and Helen who clearly think of them
as a delicacy… but right now we’re
having fun just hunting for them
among the sunspots on the forest floor,
filling our bags, and shouting through the trees
to one another, the whole afternoon gathering
into the giddy moment that Brigitte keeps
calling us back to—and it’s delicious.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

If at first ..., play it again!

As I measured water and flour to refresh my sourdough starter this morning, I realized that an adjustment of perspective was in order. I wasn’t doing a necessary, but annoying, task. I was playing with one of my toys. It would have been even better if I had felt like I was feeding a pet, but our two dogs are demanding enough that I doubt there’s room for another pet in my life at the moment. In any event, yesterday I had made a refresher batch using white whole wheat flour instead of all purpose flour and then made the mistake of putting it outside to gather more air-borne yeast. The damp towel I used to cover the starter dried out quickly, leading to the starter drying out. This morning’s play was to rectify and recover from yesterday’s errors. It seems to be working.🤞

[Pretend there’s a picture of my best loaf here. For the second day in a row, Blogger’s malfunctioning on inserting pictures.]

As a side dish to refreshing the starter, we made up a levain which is rising nicely. It looks like we may be able to assemble some sourdough this evening, let it do a bulk rise overnight, shape and bake tomorrow before it gets too hot. The last loaf we baked rose ok, but the favor was off. Hence, the refreshing the starter and related actions. It was frustrating, since the prior loaf had come as close to perfect as any I’ve managed to get in a decade’s worth of sourdoughing.

Ode to bread

Bread, 
you rise
from flour, 
water
and fire.
Dense or light,
flattened or round,
you duplicate
the mother's
rounded womb,
and earth's
twice-yearly
swelling.
How simple
you are, bread,
and how profound!
You line up
on the baker's 
powdered trays
like silverware or plates
or pieces of paper
and suddenly
life washes 
over you,
there's the joining of seed
and fire,
and you're growing, growing
all at once
like
hips, mouths, breasts,
mounds of earth,
or people's lives.
The temperature rises, you're overwhelmed
by fullness, the roar
of fertility,
and suddenly 
your golden color is fixed.
And when your little wombs
were seeded,
a brown scar
laid its burn the length
of your two halves'
toasted
juncture.
Now, 
whole,
you are 
mankind's energy,
a miracle often admired,
the will to live itself.

O bread familiar to every mouth,
we will not kneel before you:
men
do no
implore
unclear gods
or obscure angels:
we will make our own bread
out of sea and soil,
we will plant wheat
on our earth and the planets,
bread for every mouth, 
for every person,
our daily bread. 
Because we plant its seed
and grow it
not for one man
but for all,
there will be enough:
there will be bread
for all the peoples of the earth.
And we will also share with one another
whatever has
the shape and the flavor of bread:
the earth itself,
beauty
and love--
all
taste like bread
and have its shape,
the germination of wheat.
Everything
exists to be shared,
to be freely given,
to multiply.

This is why, bread,
if you flee
from mankind's houses,
if they hide you away
or deny you,
if the greedy man
pimps for you or 
the rich man 
takes you over,
if the wheat
does not yearn for the furrow and the soil:
then, bread, 
we will refuse to pray:
bread
we will refuse to beg.
We will fight for you instead, side by side with the others,
with everyone who knows hunger.
We will go after you
in every river and in the air.
We will divide the entire earth among ourselves
so that you may germinate,
and the earth will go forward
with us:
water, fire, and mankind
fighting at our side.
Crowned
with sheafs of wheat, 
we  will win
earth and bread for everyone.
Then 
life itself
will have the shape of bread,
deep and simple, 
immeasurable and pure.
Every living thing
will have its share
of soil and life,
and the bread we eat each morning,
everyone's daily bread,
will be hallowed
and sacred,
because it will have been won
by the longest and costliest
of human struggles.

This earthly Victory
does not have wings:
she wears bread on her shoulders instead.
Courageously she soars,
setting the world free,
like a baker
born aloft on the wind.

               -Pablo Neruda

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

The games we play

Today had been forecast to be cooler and wetter, so we made up some sourdough to bake. Today has turned out to be partly cloudy and quite warm (80℉ at the moment) but the dough had risen nicely, so it went into the oven. We’ll rely on the AC to get us through. If we believe the forecast, this may be the week that summer weather actually begins locally, no rain and the prospect of 90’s by next weekend. This isn’t a complaint. We’re not jealous of those who are experiencing wildfires and heat domes. On the other hand, we have been starting to think we understood how Noah felt around the 35th day.

if only they all turned out this well

Photo by J. Harrington

This looks like the time in the season to pick away at some outside chores and fit in a fishing trip or two, without overdoing either. But first, we have to rehang the horsefly trap, a big blue ball covered in sticky goo. The flies are back and last year we got a pleasant surprise when we saw how many ended up stuck in the goo. The dogs appreciate having fewer flies harass them at least as much as the humans. Then, if I get really ambitious, the Jeep could get washed, but that may bring back the rain. Sigh. I know, I’ll hold off Jeep washing until many of the flies are stuck where they can’t harass me as I’m holding a hose or a sponge.

For a recent birthday, I asked for, and received, a copy of Greg Brown’s wonderful album, The Poet Game. I already had a copy of Ani DiFranco's rendition of the title song and wanted to hear it sung by the writer. I’m very grateful I’ve never had to choose between, or among, fishing, poetry and music. Each brings considerable joy to my life. In these times, doesn’t each of us need as much of that kind of joy as we can get. Of course we do. Now, I hope you enjoy

the poet game

By Greg Brown

Down by the river junior year
Walking with my girl
And we came upon a place
There in the tall grass where a couple
Had been making love
And left the mark of their embrace
I said to her, "Looks like they had some fun."
She said to me, "Let's do the same."
And still I taste her kisses
And her freckles in the sun
When I play the poet game

A young man down in hill country
In the year of '22
Went to see his future bride
She lived in a rough old shack
That poverty blew through
She invited him inside
She'd been cooking, ashamed and feeling sad
She could only offer him bread and her name -
Grandpa said that it was the best gift
A fella ever had
And he taught me the poet game

I had a friend who drank too much
And played too much guitar -
And we sure got along
Reel-to-reels rolled across
The country near and far
With letters poems and songs..
But these days he don't talk to me
And he won't tell me why
I miss him every time i say his name
I don't know what he's doing
Or why our friendship died
While we played the poet game 

The fall rain was pounding down

On an old New Hampshire mill
And the river wild and high
I was talking to her while leaves blew down
Like a sudden chill -
There was wildness in her eyes
We made love like we'd been waiting
All of our lives for this -
Strangers know no shame -
But she had to leave at dawn
And with a sticky farewell kiss
Left me to play the poet game

I watched my country turn into
A coast-to-coast strip mall
And I cried out in a song:
If we could do all that in thirty years
Then please tell me you all -
Why does good change take so long?
Why does the color of your skin
Or who you choose to love
Still lead to such anger and pain?
And why do I think it's any help
For me to still dream of
Playing the poet game?

Sirens wail above the fields -
Another soul gone down -
Another Sun about to rise
I've lost track of my mistakes
Like birds they fly around
And darken half of my skies
To all of those I've hurt -
I pray you'll forgive me
I to you will freely do the same
So many things I didn't see
With my eyes turned inside
Playing the poet game

I walk out at night to take a leak
Underneath the stars -
Oh yeah that's the life for me
There's Orion and the Pleiades
And I guess that must be Mars -
All as clear as we long to be
I've sung what I was given -
Some was bad and some was good
I never did know from where it came
And if I had it all to do again
I am not sure I would
Play the poet game

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

the moon in June is the berries

Yesterday’s full moon, which was completely cloud covered around here, is called the Strawberry Moon by the Ojibwe and the Good Berries Moon by the Lakota. The community supported agriculture [CSA] share we picked up this morning included the season’s first container of strawberries. Coincidence? I think not!!

Strawberry moon of 2013

Photo by J. Harrington

Here’s a full list of this week’s CSA share:

• RHUBARB
• STRAWBERRIES
• ASPARAGUS
• GARLIC SCAPES, and
• LETTUCE

We almost collected a load of venison on the way to the farm. Just after we had rounded a sharp curve on a township gravel road, a couple of whitetail does came barreling out of the brush on the right-hand side of the road. Fortunately, the curve had caused us to slow enough that we could promptly brake and let the critters safely pass in front of the Jeep. In fact, there were surprising numbers of deer standing at or near the side of various roads this morning.

The day length today is 6 seconds shorter than yesterday, which was 1 second less than the solstice. It will take awhile before we really notice, but the days are getting shorter already. For those trapped under a heat dome, autumn probably can’t come soon enough. Some of us beleaguered by mosquitos and teeny little flies are already looking forward to the first frost. Plus, grocers this summer are selling peaches that look ripe but are firm as a rock and don’t soften sitting on the counter at home. Another case of mis- or dis-information?

I am pleased to announce that I baked a boule of high-hydration sourdough and it turned out to be one of the best loaves I’ve baked in a long time. If you’re looking for some good guidance on baking sourdough, let me recommend (again) Emilie Raffa’s Artisan Sourdough Made Simple.

Strawberrying

May Swenson
1913 – 1989

My hands are murder-red. Many a plump head
drops on the heap in the basket. Or, ripe
to bursting, they might be hearts, matching
the blackbird’s wing-fleck. Gripped to a reed
he shrieks his ko-ka-ree in the next field.
He’s left his peck in some juicy cheeks, when
at first blush and mostly white, they showed
streaks of sweetness to the marauder.

We’re picking near the shore, the morning
sunny, a slight wind moving rough-veined leaves
our hands rumple among. Fingers find by feel
the ready fruit in clusters. Here and there,
their squishy wounds . . . . Flesh was perfect
yesterday . . . . June was for gorging . . . .
sweet hearts young and firm before decay.

“Take only the biggest, and not too ripe,”
a mother calls to her girl and boy, barefoot
in the furrows. “Don’t step on any. Don’t
change rows. Don’t eat too many.” Mesmerized
by the largesse, the children squat and pull
and pick handfuls of rich scarlets, half
for the baskets, half for avid mouths.
Soon, whole faces are stained.

A crop this thick begs for plunder. Ripeness
wants to be ravished, as udders of cows when hard,
the blue-veined bags distended, ache to be stripped.
Hunkered in mud between the rows, sun burning
the backs of our necks, we grope for, and rip loose
soft nippled heads. If they bleed—too soft—
let them stay. Let them rot in the heat.

When, hidden away in a damp hollow under moldy
leaves, I come upon a clump of heart-shapes
once red, now spiderspit-gray, intact but empty,
still attached to their dead stems—
families smothered as at Pompeii—I rise
and stretch. I eat one more big ripe lopped
head. Red-handed, I leave the field.

br />
********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Summer’s thunder songs

We got lots of lightning and thunder and rain last night, but no hail nor tornadoes. As the storm(s) were moving east, the sunset sky took on some of the brightest golden-rose colors I’ve ever seen. We’re filing the whole episode under “Count our blessings!” We hope you were as lucky.

Earlier yesterday, I finished baking a boule of “Everyday sourdough” following the recipe in Artisan Sourdough Made Simple. It turned out to be one of the best loaves I’ve baked in quite some time. Even the Better Half agrees. Sometimes, returning to your roots is helpful when learning to appreciate what you have. Artisan Sourdough was my transition from no knead artisan to sourdough many years ago.

one of this year’s whitetail fawns with mom

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning we were gifted with another visit by a whitetail mom and her scampering fawn. This time we managed to grab a quick picture. Enjoy! We hope they become back yard regulars. It’s a treat watching young'uns grow up.

Have you marked your calendar to remember that Summer Solstice is a week from today? If you want to check the local time, try here. At least as important for many of us is Father’s Day this Sunday. All in all, after last night’s stormy excitement, I’m feeling summery lazy and sleepy. Until tomorrow.

Twelfth Song of Thunder [Navajo Tradition]

By Anonymous

The voice that beautifies the land! 

The voice above,

The voice of thunder

Within the dark cloud 

Again and again it sounds,

The voice that beautifies the land. 

 

The voice that beautifies the land! 

The voice below,

The voice of the grasshopper 

Among the plants 

Again and again it sounds,

The voice that beautifies the land. 

Source:The Mountain Chant: A Navajo Ceremony

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Making hay while ...?

It rained (again) this morning. Thunderstorms are in tomorrow afternoon’s forecast. Lots of hay fields around here have their first cutting of hay lying in rows to dry or sitting in round bales. All of the above makes me glad I’m not a farmer trying to make hay, cause the sun isn’t shining much these days.

farmer baling hay

Photo by J. Harrington

Cornfields look happy, though it’s dicey if corn will be knee high by the Fourth of July. According to recent reports from the mosquito control district, this is becoming (has become?) a banner year for mosquitos. If the “hot sports” are several counties south of us, I don’t want to know how thick the flocks of the “state bird” are down there.

Since weather is, tragically😉, limiting today’s outdoor chore possibilities, I mixed up a batch of sourdough that’s now rising. Early tomorrow, before the day heats up, we’ll bake a loaf of artisan sourdough using a recipe we’ve neglected for a couple of years now. Slices of that’ll serve as breakfast for several days and help keep me away from too many cookies.

Haymaking

By Edward Thomas

Aftear night’s thunder far away had rolled

The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold,

And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled,

Like the first gods before they made the world

And misery, swimming the stormless sea

In beauty and in divine gaiety.

The smooth white empty road was lightly strewn

With leaves—the holly’s Autumn falls in June—

And fir cones standing stiff up in the heat.

The mill-foot water tumbled white and lit

With tossing crystals, happier than any crowd

Of children pouring out of school aloud.

And in the little thickets where a sleeper

For ever might lie lost, the nettle-creeper

And garden warbler sang unceasingly;

While over them shrill shrieked in his fierce glee

The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow

As if the bow had flown off with the arrow.

Only the scent of woodbine and hay new-mown

Travelled the road. In the field sloping down,

Park-like, to where its willows showed the brook,

Haymakers rested. The tosser lay forsook

Out in the sun; and the long waggon stood

Without its team, it seemed it never would

Move from the shadow of that single yew.

The team, as still, until their task was due,

Beside the labourers enjoyed the shade

That three squat oaks mid-field together made

Upon a circle of grass and weed uncut,

And on the hollow, once a chalk-pit, but

Now brimmed with nut and elder-flower so clean.

The men leaned on their rakes, about to begin,

But still. And all were silent. All was old,

This morning time, with a great age untold,

Older than Clare and Cobbett, Morland and Crome,

Than, at the field’s far edge, the farmer’s home,

A white house crouched at the foot of a great tree.

Under the heavens that know not what years be

The men, the beasts, the trees, the implements

Uttered even what they will in times far hence—

All of us gone out of the reach of change—

Immortal in a picture of an old grange.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

The reign of rain

Things the Better Half has heard me say in the past few days:

• We need the moisture to recover from the drought
• At least it’s not snow
• It’ll cut down on the wild grass fire danger
•  I hope this keeps up (then it won’t come down)

I can almost see the leaves growing as I look out the windows. The freshly opened buds glow with vibrant color. Come summer, green tree crowns will be old hat, but for now a transition from bare branches is new and refreshing. Our neighborhood is starting to look like this.

Spring leaf out and green up

Photo by J. Harrington

The wet spot in our back yard shows more water than is has for months (and months). Once the ground dries out a little, I’ll start to do a little tidying outside and hope for gentle breezes rather than howling ones. In the quarter century plus that we’ve lived here, the wind has been out of the east about a dozen times, four or five of them during the past couple of weeks. After a very unusual winter, spring has added a few surprises too.

Meanwhile, today’s sourdough boule has come out of the oven looking good. We’ll taste it shortly after this is posted since it should be cooled enough by then. For years I’ve been trying to create a much more open crumb in my bread. Last week I bought a loaf from a local bakery. The crumb was so open the when I toast a slice, the butter drips through the holes. I’m reconsidering my wishes about a more open crumb. It’s a classic challenge of “be careful what you wish for, you may get it.”

The Call of the Wild 

Alexander Posey
1873 – 1908

I’m tired of the gloom  

In a four-walled room;  

Heart-weary, I sigh  

For the open sky,  

And the solitude  

Of the greening wood;  

Where the bluebirds call,  

And the sunbeams fall,  

And the daisies lure 

The soul to be pure.  

 

I’m tired of the life 

In the ways of strife;  

Heart-weary, I long  

For the river’s song,  

And the murmur of rills  

In the breezy hills;  

Where the pipe of Pan— 

The hairy half-man— 

The bright silence breaks  

By the sleeping lakes.   

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Spring’s ap-pear-ance varies

A dozen years ago, the back yard pear tree was in bloom on Tax Day. Not this year. Plus, last year the blossoms were more abundant than the pollinators, so there were very few pears come autumn. From a handful of pictures I’ve taken over the years, the pear tree has been in bloom in May more than April. Another example of Minnesota’s erratic spring phenology?

pear tree in bloom on Tax Day

Photo by J. Harrington

According to the National Phenology Network, spring this year is barely ahead of typical in our region, despite a much milder and less snowy winter than has been typical. That probably means next month is when the majority of wildflowers will be blooming and colorful song birds arriving. Tomorrow’s rain should help green things up in anticipation. On a selfish note, a delayed warmup will provide more opportunities to bake sourdough loaves before it gets too warm to heat up the kitchen. Today’s loaf turned out pretty well.

I’ve noticed that the more I watch for what’s happening, rather than focus on one or two events and wait in anxious anticipation, the more I manage to enjoy the transition of the seasons. That’s kind of how I’ve approached autumn for years, but I tend toward antsy in spring since I really want winter to be gone. Becoming a bread baker hasn’t done much to diminish my aversion to cold and snow.

Since we’re in the midst of National Poetry Month, let me suggest, for your reading pleasure in these taxing times, a volume the Better Half suggested to me the last time we were at a book store, The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal. I’m about halfway through and find that reading a handful of its poems in the morning helps ground me for a good part of the day. It also offers a heartening alternative to the daily headlines.

A Blessing

James Wright
1927 – 1980

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Cast your bread upon the seasons

In celebration of Spring’s official arrival, I baked scones this morning and finished off much of what remained of the St. Patrick’s Day Irish soda bread. It was a very pleasant start to the day and the season. I wonder what would be appropriate for honoring the summer solstice, berry scones? Feel free to offer suggestions in the comments.

The buds on the maple trees in front of the house have swollen noticeably but I suspect the return of cold and snow will slow down bud burst and leaf out. A few ducks have shown up on the Sunrise River pools, but no signs of a major northbound migration yet. If we’re lucky, the snow and rain we’re supposed to get over the next week could actually mark the start of seasonal spring weather and a return to gradually warming temperatures with rain showers come April.

rustic, artisan, sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

Soda bread baking supplanted my rustic, artisan, sourdough bread efforts for the past few weeks. Time to freshen and feed (feed and freshen?) my starter and get back to it. The loaf that came out of the oven two or three weeks ago included about a third of the total flour amount from King Arthur’s regeneratively-grown climate blend flour and two thirds+ bread flour. The regen flour brought a nice nutty flavor to the bread. Now I want to see if I can increase the sour in sourdough, although I believe I’m the only one in the family that likes it that way, I haven’t tried such in quite a while. I think I recall a section in Sourdough by Science on making dough sourer. I’ll take a look after this is posted.

I feel as though, after our non-winter, followed by a wintry start to spring, we’re kind of in a holding pattern. I accept that it could be worse, but it could also be better. That’s something to look forward to.

An Earth Song 

Langston Hughes
1901 – 1967

It's an earth song,—
And I've been waiting long for an earth song. 
It's a spring song,—
And I've been waiting long for a spring song. 
    Strong as the shoots of a new plant 
    Strong as the bursting of new buds
    Strong as the coming of the first child from its mother's womb. 
It's an earth song, 
A body song, 
A spring song, 
I have been waiting long for this spring song. 

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

On St. Patrick’s Day eve

If I spend too much time staring at the treetops tossing in the tumults of wind, I could develop a case of motion sickness. A windy, gusty March day, that’s close to classic, makes me glad I have enough sense to keep the dragon kite in the house until more temperate breezes prevail. It also makes me look forward to flying that kite someday soon and wonder if it’s time to reread LeGuin’s EarthSea cycle.

Are you familiar with Gogi Grant's recording of Restless Wind? Does March have more than one meaning? It is usually a restless month and ....?

wearing of the green: shamrocks

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve experienced enough unsettled weather, politics, public health and environmental change over the past several years to make those of US with any degree of sensitivity unsettled ourselves, to varying degrees. Meanwhile, I’ve not yet gone looking to see if the current drought has affected the emergence of skunk cabbage. Red osier dogwoods in nearby wetlands are deepening their colors on the usual seasonal schedule. Coarse grass blades along the road ditch are greening and growing. Yesterday we saw a soaring eagle that might have been migrating North or might be a local just stretching its wings. We’ve no way to know at this time of year.

The University of Minnesota has a Season Watch resource about Minnesota's phenology. It’s worth at least a look, maybe more. I don’t think it has a section on dragons, though.

Tomorrow we’ll begin our St. Patrick’s Day celebration by baking a loaf of Irish soda bread and listening to the latest album by Altan. For yet another year I’ll wax nostalgic about my younger days and marching in the parade in Boston, where the weather is likely to bring showers tomorrow, a not unfamiliar condition during that parade.

St. Patrick’s Day

By Eliza Cook

St. Patrick’s Day! St. Patrick’s Day!

Oh! thou tormenting Irish lay—

I’ve got thee buzzing in my brain,

And cannot turn thee out again.

Oh, mercy! music may be bliss

But not in such a shape as this,

When all I do, and all I say,

Begins and ends in Patricks’s Day.

Had it but been in opera shape,

Italian squall, or German scrape,

Fresh from the bow of Paganini,

Or caught from Weber of Rossini,

One would not care so much—but, oh!

The sad plebeian shame to know

An old blind fiddler bore away

My senses with St. Patrick’s Day.

I take up Burke in hopes to chase

The plaguing phantom from its place;

But all in vain—attention wavers

From classic lore to triplet quavers;

An “Essay” on the great “Sublime”

Sounds strangely set in six-eight time.

Down goes the book, read how I may,

The words will flow to Patrick’s Day.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

’Tis the start of the season of greening

Record or near record warmth today and over the weekend, tempered by howling, gusty winds!!: is March coming in like a lamb or a lion? In either event, I spent much of the morning fiddling with fly fishing gear, mostly cleaning lines. It felt incredibly good to be doing something other than sitting and bitching about world issues. Next week, or shortly thereafter, we’ll purchase new fishing licenses for this year. Frequent nature bathing along a trout stream should soon do wonders to improve this grumpy old man.

When listing March happenings in yesterday’s posting, we included St. Patrick’s Day but missed listing that March is Irish American Heritage Month. Shame on us. To make amends, we’ll bake an extra loaf of Irish soda bread and play our Irish music a few “extra" times and get back to our Druidry readings ASAP.

fresh-baked Irish soda bread

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m debating with myself whether it’s worthwhile to vote in Minnesota’s primary. On the Democratic side I doubt there’s any question that our current President will win. On the other hand, if everyone thinks like me and stays home, some incompetent pol might squeak by, and we don’t want that since it’s what we can expect from the other party. I suppose, unless we get a blizzard, Tuesday’s primary will get my vote and, I hope, not my goat.

Politics

By William Butler Yeats

'In our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in political terms.'

                                                                                            THOMAS MANN.

How can I, that girl standing there,

My attention fix

On Roman or on Russian

Or on Spanish politics,

Yet here's a travelled man that knows

What he talks about,

And there's a politician

That has both read and thought,

And maybe what they say is true

Of war and war's alarms,

But O that I were young again

And held her in my arms.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

It’s out and poke about time

This may be (one of) the nicest February days ever in the North Country. Blue skies, sunshine, temperatures in the mid-40’s, little breeze and lots of melting have historically been rare during this month. Perhaps not so in the future. I hope and pray we don’t end up with more freezing rain instead of snow in our winter patterns.

time to look for British soldier lichen?

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve already gotten antsy to get out and poke about. That directly conflicts with feeling catlike lazy and wanting to curl up in a warm sunny spot and, although not as much, with reactivating my sourdough artisan bread baking cycle. I can sometimes multi-task but only in one place at a time. I’ve got a couple of pounds of King Arthur Climate Blend regeneratively grown flour I want to try out. Plus, the local flour mill, Sunrise Flour Mill, has some new products from heritage wheat I want to check out. A long, slow, spring this year may be just what I need to fit in all my play time. Wonder what we’ll get.

The dogs and I enjoyed an early morning peek at the almost full, ivory-colored, moon today. It’s almost beautiful enough to make it worthwhile to get up and out a little after 4 am. You’re probably thinking I’ve been reading too much Ben Franklin if that’s when I get up. (“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”) I wonder if Ben had dogs with large stomachs that needed feeding and small bladders that needed emptying.

I’m not sure how I ended up on his distribution list, but I’m glad I did. A Vermont legislator, Tristan Roberts, newsletter yesterday makes me, and the Better Half, wonder if we could convince him to run for president. You can get a feel for what we’re talking about here. I wish Minnesota had a bunch of legislators that think like him.

Late February

By Ted Kooser

The first warm day,

and by mid-afternoon

the snow is no more

than a washing

strewn over the yards,

the bedding rolled in knots

and leaking water,

the white shirts lying

under the evergreens.

Through the heaviest drifts

rise autumn’s fallen

bicycles, small carnivals

of paint and chrome,

the Octopus

and Tilt-A-Whirl

beginning to turn

in the sun. Now children,

stiffened by winter

and dressed, somehow,

like old men, mutter

and bend to the work

of building dams.

But such a spring is brief;

by five o’clock

the chill of sundown,

darkness, the blue TVs

flashing like storms

in the picture windows,

the yards gone gray,

the wet dogs barking

at nothing. Far off

across the cornfields

staked for streets and sewers,

the body of a farmer

missing since fall

will show up

in his garden tomorrow,

as unexpected

as a tulip.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Wanna play baker?

The bread I baked this morning is about the best tasting I’ve produced in a decade or so. Unfortunately, it wasn’t on purpose. I’m still challenged by the routine of when and how much to feed the starter and how bubbly it really should be and are there tradeoffs between open crumb and real sourdough flavor? As my mother, if she were still here, would tell you, patience and organization are not my strong points. To which I would reply that I’m trying to be organic and artisanal, not mechanical and industrial. Bottom line is that replication of process doesn’t guarantee replication of results. Isn’t that like most of life?

loafing around and playing last year

Photo by J. Harrington

Perhaps children learn so much through play because, for the most part, they avoid perfectionism. I’m slowly adding a sense of play to my bread baking and accepting that, even if I never “master" sourdough baking, I can still have lots of fun learning, especially if I treat it as play and not as a “major production.” I believe the same philosophy may fit well with fly fishing, too. Didn’t someone, sometime, point out that "life is too short to be taken seriously,” or something like that? I hope so because that’s how I intend to approach lots of things from now on. For example, today I tried, for the first time ever, using a flour stencil on the bread dough before it went in the oven. The results were far less than spectacular. So, when the boule came out of the oven, I brushed off the flour, sliced the bread and really liked the taste and crust.

I’ve learned over the years that it’s unrealistic to expect to catch fish every time I go fishing. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t lots of other things to enjoy on a fishing trip. Have you ever seen the saying that poems are never finished, just abandoned? What else might that apply to?

Playthings

By Rabindranath Tagore

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.

I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.

I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.

Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"

Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.

I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.

With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.

In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Find happiness in the last place you look

I’ve noticed that the news and social media do a much better job of informing me about things of which I disapprove than things I like. I can find lots of things to like, even these days, but I have to go looking for them. I’m going to share a couple of examples in hopes they inspire you to find a way to minimize gloom and doom even in the depths of winter.

I enjoy baking sourdough bread. I also like to support regenerative and restorative agriculture. Did I mention I like to eat scones made from King Arthur Flour mixes? A short while ago, King Arthur sent a notice of a new flour produced from regenerative farms. I wanted to try some but the shipping cost would have been twice the cost of the flour. Some time later, there was a different announcement: free shipping of you bought a certain dollar amount of goods. Today a box with a bunch of smaller packages of scone mixes and Irish Soda Bread mix and the flour arrived. Instead of forcing an issue, I tried to “go with the flow.”

Regeneratively-Grown Climate Blend Flour

This afternoon brought a different example involving two of my favorite activities: poetry and fly fishing. For the past several weeks I’ve been poking around the corners of the internet looking for poems about fly fishing, mostly without much success. For reasons that aren’t obvious to me, I hadn’t done a search on the web site of the Poetry Foundation until today. I need to double check my bookshelves but I think I discovered a poet (Robert Haight) whose published works look like something I want to read and don’t yet have. I’ll be surprised if any of the local libraries have a copy of any of his works, but I’ll check and, if not, add one or more titles to my list for Father’s Day and/or my birthday. Meanwhile, I’ll do some more searching and document what I find.

There’s no way I’m ever likely to become pollyannaish, but it is beginning to look as though I may have overdone the cynicism and pessimism bit. See if you like today’s poem by the aforementioned Mr. Haight. It fits the season.

How Is It That the Snow

By Robert Haight

How is it that the snow

amplifies the silence,

slathers the black bark on limbs,

heaps along the brush rows?

Some deer have stood on their hind legs

to pull the berries down.

Now they are ghosts along the path,

snow flecked with red wine stains.

This silence in the timbers.

A woodpecker on one of the trees

taps out its story,

stopping now and then in the lapse

of one white moment into another.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

January’s half gone!

Yesterday we left some of you in suspense about our bread in the oven. The best way to describe the outcome, after the Better Half [BH] and I taste tested the results, is to say we’ve found a different rye bread recipe that looks promising. That’s probably what I’ll try next.

Baking with rye flour is very different than with wheat. I hadn’t realized how much rye dough lacks oven spring. I think I over misted the dough and the crust turned out excessively crusty. So the end result was overly dense and moist with too firm a crust and a taste I found more okay than did the BH. My most significant “learning experience" in more than a decade of baking artisan bread reminds me of the ancient saying “Fall down seven times, get up eight.” That leaves me with six downs and seven ups to go.

Although we’ve passed the below zero high temperatures, single digit highs are barely better. When gassing the Jeep today, I sat in the vehicle instead of cleaning the windshield. We’ll tackle the cleaning chores next week when the temperatures are forecast to climb above freezing and we may get some rain mixed with snow. Does it seem to you it’s almost like someone has broken the climate?

winter evening: red bird

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday evening, after sunset, I got a glimpse of two cardinals perching in the trees behind the house. Since we’ve seen nary a sign of such birds for weeks, I was heartened by the sighting. It may be one of the  few good things to come out of our current cold spell.

Red Bird

By Mary Oliver

Red bird came all winter

Firing up the landscape

As nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows,

Those dun-colored darlings,

So hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds,

I know he has many children,

Not all of them bold in spirit.

Still, for whatever reason-

Perhaps because the winter is so long

And the sky so black-blue,

Or perhaps because the heart narrows

As often as it opens-

I am grateful

That red bird comes all winter

Firing up the landscape

As nothing else can do.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.