Does this pass the smell test?

Dog-walking time this morning was about 5:15 am. SiSi and I headed down the driveway and then South along the township road.There was almost enough daylight to see by so I turned off the flashlight and humored SiSi as she explored and inhaled whatever aromas she was encountering along the road and the roadside. I'm still trying to figure out if dogs have some sort of mental filing cabinet they use to match smells with creatures.

SiSi relaxing after a walk

Photo by J. Harrington

As we walked about a 10th of a mile or so, the light levels increased enough that we could see about that far. We turned and started to head back toward the house. That's when the first whitetail doe came bounding across the field on the East side of the road, left across the road and disappeared into the woods on our property. SiSi was mildly startled, since we rarely encounter other critters during our morning walks. A second doe stayed in the field, headed North, parallel to the road, and was waiting in the neighbor's drive to observe SiSi and I as we passed by. The "driveway" doe didn't cross the road while we were still outside.

what does a whitetail doe in Summer's grass smell like?

Photo by J. Harrington

When we walked past the area where the first deer had crossed the road and entered the woods, SiSi had to recheck all the aromas she could find. Perhaps that filing cabinet simply holds smells until the dog can match them with flora, fauna, or individuals? I'm still clueless and SiSi's not talking.

The Past

Louise Glück- 1943-

Small light in the sky appearing
suddenly between
two pine boughs, their fine needles

now etched onto the radiant surface
and above this
high, feathery heaven—

Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine,
most intense when the wind blows through it
and the sound it makes equally strange,
like the sound of the wind in a movie—

Shadows moving. The ropes
making the sound they make. What you hear now
will be the sound of the nightingale, Chordata,
the male bird courting the female—

The ropes shift. The hammock
sways in the wind, tied
firmly between two pine trees.

Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine.

It is my mother’s voice you hear
or is it only the sound the trees make
when the air passes through them

because what sound would it make,
passing through nothing?

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Making some senses of Summer

The monarch butterfly caterpillars on our front yard milkweed have disappeared. Two likely options are that predators got one or both, or, that each of them is now healthy somewhere in a chrysalis. Since we've not seen any chrysalis, nor are we sure of where to look for them, we'll just continue to keep our eyes open and hope for the best.

monarch caterpillar on milkweed

Photo by J. Harrington

We're discovering more and more about how much we've never noticed in the world about us because, in large part, we rarely look carefully. A quick glance to be sure there's no bear lurking nearby in the woods, no cars or trucks on the road, and we're no about to walk into a tree or fall into a hole or trip on something underfoot is our normal level of observation. This seems to be in major contrast to the intensity with which our dogs scent the areas where they're walking us, although the dogs appear even less observant about what they see than we are. Then again, we rarely rely on our nose to check on who's about in the neighborhood.

turkey hens with poults

Photo by J. Harrington

Thinking about who's in the neighborhood these days, we're watching to see our first glimpse this year of hen turkeys with poults. The Better Half reported a sighting the other day but we've had no such luck yet. Maybe because few turkeys try to hide under milkweed plants, where we've been looking a lot recently?

Caterpillar

By Paul Hostovsky

After Ian Sanborn’s ASL poem of the same title

A man with eyes as blank

as the indifference of nature

is staring straight ahead

as the whole thing unfolds.

He has a black beard, black

shirt, black woolen cap — 

he could be a thief — you better

keep your eyes on his hands

which have begun clearing

a clearing. Here he plants

a seed as small as his own

fingernail, and shazam! it sprouts

roots, shoots, stems, branches — 

a whole tree shouldering up,

tossing and swaying in the air

between the sun’s magic hands

and the man’s indifferent eyes.

Next thing you know, an orphan

index finger is worming its way

across the stage that wasn’t

a stage until your eyeing it

made it so. It inches over

to the tree like a lost knuckle

finding its way home, its feelers

testing, feeling, sniffing, finding

purchase, finding a toe-hold,

the tiny, spiny, hairy, leg-like

appendages beginning to wiggle,

to climb, to shinny up the tree,

the elbow, the sheer escarpment,

pausing to send out a line,

a lasso, a long rope as fine

as the filament of a spider

launched from its abdomen

and hooking the thumb

of the lowest branch. A rope for

rappelling, for jumping off

this cliff, taking this dive,

twisting as it untwists, enfolding

as it unfolds, holding on for

dear life as it spins itself into

silk, those indifferent eyes

almost imperceptibly squinting

in sympathy with this closing

up, this cloaking, this cloistering,

this hanging upside down with

a pulse inside. A fluttering

pulse. A pulse like the flutter

of eyelids. Like the flutter

of wings. A heartbeat growing

stronger, stronger, breaking

out, breaking free, the wings

opening, the eyes opening as if

all this time they were closed — 

the blank eyes opening to the

wings, taking them in, incredulous,

in love with them — and the black

and white has grown iridescent;

the orphaned knuckle has found

the hands; the hands have found

their wings, and we are all

utterly blown away.

Ian Sanborn's ASL poem may be viewed here.

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Leavening our cold weather

Amidst the trials and tribulations transitioning from one year to the next, we pulled off a mitigated success. Our first loaf of Artisan Sourdough, using absolutely no yeast, turned out edible, and with decent crumb. The mitigated part of our success arises (see what we did there?) from the fact that we didn't follow directions carefully enough. The directions called for bread flour. We used all purpose flour. Our dough did not shape up, at least before it was about two-thirds baked. We also used too large a bowl for the overnight rise, making it difficult to see how much, if at all, the dough had risen.

first loaf of artisan sourdough

Photo by J. Harrington

But, for the first time ever, we baked sourdough without yeast! In the process, we also discovered a few other, a-hum, anomalies in baking artisan bread. The Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day formula calls for baking for about 30 minutes at 450℉. Artisan Sourdough calls for a total of an hour at 450℉. When we used the Five Minutes baking time with our gluten-free flour last week, the bread came out mostly unbaked with a nice golden crust.

So, one of our bottom lines are that we're having fun playing with following directions and learning in the process. Next time we bake some gluten-free artisan bread, we'll use the artisan sourdough technique and timing. We're also learning to pay more attention to adjustments that need to be made with flour substitutions. As some of the creative types we read from time to time declaim, if we never make mistakes, we're unlikely to learn anything new. Plus, as we were reviewing the Five Minutes contents, we rediscovered a Vermont cedar bread recipe we've been meaning to try. It had sort of fallen off of our radar screen. We'll get to it next week, since the forecast "January thaw" isn't likely to come close to putting a dent in our baking program. Winter baking warms the house as it fills the house with wonderful smells. That's almost enough to make us be more tolerant of temperatures well below zero. Almost!

       Aubade with Bread for the Sparrows

By Oliver de la Paz

The snow voids the distance of the road

and the first breath comes from the early morning

ghosts. The sparrows with their hard eyes

glisten in the difficult light. They preen

their feathers and chirp. It’s as though they were one

voice talking to God.

                                    Mornings are a sustained hymn

without the precision of faith. You’ve turned the bag

filled with molding bread inside out and watch

the old crusts fall to the ice. What’s left

but to watch the daylight halved by the glistening ground?

What’s left but an empty bag and the dust of bread

ravaged by songsters?

                                       There are ruins we witness

within the moment of the world’s first awakening

and the birds love you within that moment. They want

to eat the air and the stars they’ve hungered for, little razors.

Little urgent bells, the birds steal from each other’s mouths

which makes you hurt. Don’t ask for more bread.

The world is in haste to waken. Don’t ask for a name

you can surrender, for there are more ghosts to placate.

Don’t hurt for the sparrows, for they love you like a road.

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To the season bread #phenology

The Christmas tree is down. Dropped needles have been vacuumed up. The base of a replacement brush pile is in place behind the house. Snow showers are falling. Pure Winter is finally here.

snow showers

Photo by J. Harrington

Meteorological Winter begins December 1. Astrological Winter on December 21. Each of those is encumbered by the "Holiday Season." Now that we are beyond New Years and the Epiphany, real Winter can be experienced without distractions.

Last night I fed the sourdough starter, but I neglected to first remove a cup or so of the saved starter. Overnight, the newly fed starter grew faster and bigger than anything I've experienced before. This morning, once I'd cleaned up the mess of exploded sourdough starter droppings that were all over the counter, I made a fresh batch of bread dough and baked two loaves of sourdough bread. The house smells wonderful.

home made sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

Tonight we'll have beef stew. Tomorrow, split pea soup. Each thanks to the Better Half. My contribution is the bread that goes well with either. Soups and stews are hearty Winter comfort foods, best accompanied by homemade bread. The combination gives me a sense, however misguided, that in one small part of today's world, some things are as they should be, especially with a couple of dogs sleeping on the couch. I fear that will be a challenge to hang on to for the next four years or so and wish us all the serenity to accept things we cannot change and, to paraphrase another part of that prayer, the courage to change things we cannot accept. Meryl Streep set an example for us last night on things we should not accept but must make them as they should be in the larger world.

Bread

By Richard Levine

Each night, in a space he’d make

between waking and purpose,

my grandfather donned his one

suit, in our still dark house, and drove

through Brooklyn’s deserted streets

following trolley tracks to the bakery.

There he’d change into white

linen work clothes and cap,

and in the absence of women,

his hands were both loving, well

into dawn and throughout the day—

kneading, rolling out, shaping

each astonishing moment

of yeasty predictability

in that windowless world lit

by slightly swaying naked bulbs,

where the shadows staggered, woozy

with the aromatic warmth of the work.

Then, the suit and drive, again.

At our table, graced by a loaf

that steamed when we sliced it,

softened the butter and leavened

the very air we’d breathe,

he’d count us blessed.

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It's beginning to smell a lot like Christmas

There's lots of activity around the homestead: baking, both cookies and bread, shopping trips, present wrapping, and walking dogs through the "snain" (that's a snow rain mix). In the city this morning, it was coming down in big, wet globs of flakes (unfortunately barely visible in the photo. Funny, you looked much bigger in person Mr. Snowflake.) As we left Nina's, I caught a strong wiff of wood smoke that went amazingly well with the snow flakes tumbling down.

Christmas in the City

Photo by J. Harrington

In the country, our mostly snow "snain" added wonderful highlights and outlines to the reeds and rushes and heightened the sense of being alive with a fresh, damp smell.

snow-covered marsh

Photo by J. Harrington

But the highlight of the day, so far, was the trip into Penzey's, with all the wonderful spice smells inside. We make a trip each year about this time as part of our Christmas tradition. Now, what I want for Christmas next year is a new and improved smart phone that can capture the aromas of places like Penzey's, or the balsam and fraser fir scents at the tree farm or the alive dampness of the marsh. I don't know if anyone's working on that technology yet, but they should be. Many of our memories are entangled with aromas. It would be great to capture what our memories smell like as well as being able to photograph them.

Photo by J. Harrington

Smoke in Our Hair

By Ofelia Zepeda 

The scent of burning wood holds

the strongest memory.

Mesquite, cedar, piñon, juniper,

all are distinct.

Mesquite is dry desert air and mild winter.

Cedar and piñon are colder places.

Winter air in our hair is pulled away,

and scent of smoke settles in its place.

We walk around the rest of the day

with the aroma resting on our shoulders.

The sweet smell holds the strongest memory.

We stand around the fire.

The sound of the crackle of wood and spark

is ephemeral.

Smoke, like memories, permeates our hair,

our clothing, our layers of skin.

The smoke travels deep

to the seat of memory.

We walk away from the fire;

no matter how far we walk,

we carry this scent with us.

New York City, France, Germany—

we catch the scent of burning wood;

we are brought home.

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Tracking Spring

Yesterday, for the first time in many weeks, My-Minnesota took a walk up the road to the nearby pond. From the looks of it, we're still deeply embedded in Winter. We're planning on adding weekly updates of this scene to our tracking the emergence of Spring around here.

no open water here yet (March 9, 2014)    © harrington

Today, it smelled like Spring (a little bit) when I stepped outside to measure the snow bank's distance to the bottom of the feeder. The above freezing overnight temperatures left a pleasant damp smell in the air this morning. Last week the gap was about 9 1/2 inches. This week it's grown to about 11 1/2 inches. Whether through melting, compaction, or both, the snow bank has shrunk by about 2 inches. Progress! Over the weekend, something, or someone, broke the pine cone bell that had been buried in the snow bank.

March 10, 2014: 11 1/2 inch gap under the feeder   © harrington

We'll wire the missing piece onto the top after the snow's melted / compacted enough for it to swing freely. Meanwhile, let the thaw continue!

"To the Thawing Wind"

Robert Frost

Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door. 

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Winter warmth

The chair being slept in belongs to the dog's owner. The dog obviously doesn't care. You don't need to ask me how I know this. She isn't recuperating from a highly stressful week, but from a play session in the dog run when the temperatures were mild enough to make such activities fun instead of punishment. The only problem was that her toys were buried under several inches of snow and so she had to settle for running in circles as fast as she could and sometimes pretending she was a small, blond moose charging her owner.

Let sleeping dogs ?        © harrington

Today's posting on woodbird reminds me that heating via wood stoves hasn't been relegated to times past. Something else I've been reminded of again this Winter is that the smell of woodsmoke, when I'm outside in the cold, usually makes me feel warmer. I've read that aromas are one of our strongest triggers for memories. I'm not sure whether it's projection or memories or some of each. I remember driftwood fires in the front room fireplace in an old victorian house we once lived in when I was young. The smell of wood smoke, the beautiful hues from the salt in the burning wood, carpet on wooden floors and comfortable chairs to curl up in (like some dogs I know), created a feeling of security and well being that I'm still trying to recapture. I need home and hearth because I'm not as brave and creative as a chickadee that grabs sunflower seeds during a snow flurry, sleeps in a hollow without either fireplace or furnace and keeps warm through the beating of what must be one of the stoutest hearts in the animal kingdom.

chickadee feeding in a snow flurry    © harrington

Nancy McCleery shares her December Notes from a day, I suspect, much like today.

December Notes

By Nancy McCleery 

The backyard is one white sheet

Where we read in the bird tracks

The songs we hear. Delicate

Sparrow, heavier cardinal,

Filigree threads of chickadee.

And wing patterns where one flew

Low, then up and away, gone

To the woods but calling out

Clearly its bright epigrams.

More snow promised for tonight.

The postal van is stalled

In the road again, the mail

Will be late and any good news

Will reach us by hand.

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Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily. (Have you noticed there are fewer rants during this season of Peace on Earth?)

The scents of seasons

© harrington

Old tracks and daily dustings of snow create snow dimples. The tracks lose all definition and become simple depressions in fresh snow cover. Unless, that is, you're a dog or have a sense of smell that works as well as a dog's. Taking Franco the Rescue Dog (we needn't go into who rescued whom) for his afternoon walk, I noticed he was determined to explore what used to be there -- in those tracks -- and left behind those wonderful smells. I wonder -- if I could sniff the way he does if it would be useful, enjoyable, or just sensory overload? When there are fresh deer tracks, he is ever so eager to follow them. Other times he uses the same pattern I was taught to follow if I lost a blood trail, mark the sport where you're starting and make wider circles until you cut it again. I remember reading, over the years, that some scenting conditions are better than others, as I recall, warm and damp were better than most others. Winter's cold and, sometimes, damp, so I suppose that benefits Franco explorations ("But it's a dry cold" he says).  Would that I had his enthusiasm for most things in my life. Having a pet like Franco makes me aware of how much pleasure I can miss just because I'm not in the mood. That, in turn, reminds me to work on my Zen acceptance of what is and enjoyment of the pleasures that are mine if I'm just open to them. I don't recall ever seeing anything about Buddha's reincarnating in rescue dogs, but neither have I read everything there may be on this subject. Stop by again some time soon and see what other wonderful aromas are arising in My Minnesota. (Hint, imagine Spring coming soon full of fresh, damp earth smells. What about the aroma of mucking out and spreading the manure from the barn across the road? Can you tell if its a cattle or a horse barn?)