Summer Tomatoes





I’ve decided I’m not growing summer tomatoes any more. I pampered my summer tomatoes at a level that was ridiculous, even for my high-absurdity tolerance level. I fertilized and watered, checked them each day for bugs and worms, squashed twenty big fat tomato horn worms (after the clemency I showed the first one was repaid by his or her trying to crawl back up the tomato plant). And what did I get for the encouragement and effort I gave my ten tomato plants? Three tomatoes.

I voiced my concern to everyone who would listen. There were flowers on the plants, but they would fall off. I found out that I needed to fertilize more, I needed to plant more flowers that would attract pollinators, I was watering too much, I wasn’t watering enough. Then someone told me: It’s just too hot. Tomatoes don’t hold their blooms when it’s this hot. This sounded plausible, but I just didn’t know if it was true. I continued my vigil throughout the hot summer days.

Then fall arrived. The plants were looking so scraggly that I thought this must be the time to pull them up and plant something else. (That’s the thing with new gardeners—you never are quite sure about two things: when is something ripe and ready for picking, and when is it time to pull something up and move on.) But there was still a bit of life in their tired old bodies, and I kept giving them a few more days. I walked past my tomato plants each day as I did other chores, but the time for intense scrutiny and care was over. I watered infrequently, gave them one last dose of fertilizer, and left them to the natural cycle of life.



Eventually, I began to notice a few new leaves, to see a few new flowers and a few emergent tomatoes. I began to give some credence to those who said the summer was too hot. Still, I was not going to get all excited and indulge the plants as I had during the hot days of summer. Then one day, for heaven’s sake, a tomato began to blush! And then in a few days, another one with rosy cheeks tried to catch my eye. What was going on!

I left the tomato plants where they were. I dropped all thought of pulling them up. They were actually doing what I thought they were supposed to do in the summer. Just goes to show you what an independent lot they can be. So now I’m probably the only person in my neighborhood whose tomato plants are beginning production at the end of November. I have seven Beefsteak tomatoes, a couple of Celebrities, and about thirty Green Zebras that are trying to ripen before a heavy frost puts an end to them. The absurdity of it all. Thank goodness I’m not a stranger to it!

Next year I’m skipping the hand-wringing and hard work of summer tomatoes. I’m going to sit back, relax, and wait for the cool days of fall to plant that most desired fruit. After all, if the weather allowed for tomatoes in November this year, surely it will do the same next year. Right?





Senate Passes Food Regulation Bill

Our lawmakers have at last shown some ability to think and act as lawmakers (instead of ever-campaigning political candidates) by passing, with a bipartisan vote, a-less-than-perfect,-but-better-than-what-we-had-which-was-nothing food safety bill.
Here is a link to the article in the New York Times:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/01/health/policy/01food.html?partner=rss&emc=rss

The Chicks Have New Digs!

Pictures of the chicken coop are on the page tonight. I'll be adding photos of the chicks in their new home in a day or so.

People Who Drop Off Cats...

Delivering cabbages to Wanda

You know what you think of people who drop off unwanted cats in front of unsuspecting neighbors' homes. They are not people you include in your social circle. You consider them to be unsavory characters, and you feel justified in avoiding their company. (Perhaps I should have changed the pronoun to I, but you know that I'm talking about me when I say you.)

Lately, I have found myself to have characteristics in common with the cat people. I find my social circle narrowing (though I thought it couldn't possibly get much smaller). I get no phone calls or emails. People seem to be avoiding me to the point of crossing to the other side of the street when they see me coming. I think it has to do with my Chinese cabbage.

Little did I know that every seed I planted would grow into a lovely, large Chinese cabbage. I knew I could eat some, and the bugs could eat some; but that left about twenty cabbages that needed to have homes. I began to think of neighbors and friends that might "appreciate" a head of cabbage. Every person I delivered a cabbage to smiled and said how happy they were to receive such a beautiful gift. That was their reaction for the first head of cabbage.

It was when I offered the second head that I began to feel myself moving into that "cat person" category. I got answers like: "Oh, I think we still have some left from the last one." "Wow, I don't think I could manage another one." "No, we didn't really like the first one."

That's when I knew I would have to go to the recipients of last resort--family. Family are the people who have to take Chinese cabbages when no one else will. Lucky for me, I have a big family, and most of them really are glad to get my cabbages--at least that's what they told me at the time. I haven't heard from them lately.

Thanksgiving 2010

There is an insistence here, at this house, that Thanksgiving be celebrated as a day of doing just what the word implies—giving thanks. All of the thousands of circulars that arrive with today’s paper go unopened into the recycling bin. We place no Internet or telephone shopping orders.  We do not purchase a Christmas tree, nor do we string lights or blow up tacky Santa balloons for our front yard. This is Thanksgiving Day—all day, twenty-four hours worth.

Without a doubt, this is my favorite holiday. It is a day for celebrating family and sharing a meal unique in its traditions. It is a day for reflecting on riches, few of which have anything to do with the amount of money in your pocket. It is a day for gratitude. It is a day for expressing love. Turkey and cornbread dressing, cranberry sauce, pickled beets, and pecan pie are the words we use.

This Thanksgiving was one that I will remember as an awakening. This is the year that I realized the real meaning of celebrating a harvest. I know it sounds strange that I would not have understood this, considering I’ve had more than six decades to figure it out. But this is the first year I have had a real harvest to celebrate. And because I had a harvest, it is also the first year I really understood that fruits and vegetables have seasons. These new understandings led me to decide that this Thanksgiving would be one celebrated with fruits and vegetables harvested in this season—in this place.

Until now, I did not know about seasons. Everything is in season all of the time at the grocery store. Why would I know that tomatoes are a warm weather crop, or that broccoli likes it cold? I can find them both in the produce section: summer, winter, fall, and spring. But this year—there was to be no going outside of the season or locale for Thanksgiving dinner. Greens were in (no surprise there), sweet potatoes, beets, and green beans had places at the table. Pecan pie, thank goodness, made it. Everything was going well until I realized that my self-imposed pronouncements were going to have to give consideration to a little red berry that grows far, far away.

Cranberry sauce wrestled with my conscience because it is such a must for a Thanksgiving table. At first, my thought was to eliminate it from the menu. Then I began thinking about how teachers (remember I was one) were telling my grandchildren what the Pilgrims ate, and I knew they would wonder why their Thanksgiving table was so poor as not to include cranberry sauce. Weakling that I am about anything that might scar the psyche of my grandchildren, I gave in to tradition with the caveat that there would have to be another fruit, both in season and of this place, that would sit on the serving board alongside the cranberry. A kumquat marmalade made its entry into the traditional holiday fare.

At the end of this day, I can look back and say that our feast was not only grand and delicious; it was memorable for the practice of discernment that went into the preparation of each dish. The vegetables I served were harvested from seeds I planted. The circle closed; the connection made. A celebration of the harvest was truly in order.

As I reflect upon the nourishment I received from the soil I tended, I realize that people belong to the soil that grows their food. Until now, food was a commodity that could be found under fluorescent lights in the wide aisles of the grocery store. There is no connection that can be made to the soil that grows this food. We are too far removed from its origin. It has taken these many years for me to discover the importance of making this connection to the soil; and now that I have, this place that I have lived for so many years is, at last, beginning to feel like home. For this I am thankful.




Thanksgiving Day Menu


Appetizers: 
Bowl of Kumquats
*Kumquat and Satsuma Marmalade over Cream Cheese


Soup:
*Butternut Shrimp Bisque


Main Course:
Roasted Turkey and Gravy
Cornbread Dressing
*Cranberry Sauce
Chinese Cabbage, Turnips, and Scallions Mournay
Steamed Green Beans with Lemon Butter Pecan Sauce
Marshmallow Sweet Potatoes
*Pickled Beets


Dessert::
Pecan Pie
*Lemon Pie


*Look for recipes on the Cooking page--coming soon.
November 25, 2010

How Simple is That?

Simple is what I am always looking for, but so many things that look to me like a piece of cake…turn out to be a croquembouche (that’s a different story).  A pretty picture or an interesting story about the journey a recipe has made before it ends up in my hands easily sells me. I’m off to the grocery to get the ingredients…I can do that!

The next recipe that I am going to post on the Cooking page is one titled Gumbo Zeb (a greens gumbo). It comes from Crescent Dragonwagon’s book. (I know, the name has stopped you. She and her husband were flower-children who renamed themselves when they got married rather than submit to the usual name-changing custom. I’ve probably given you too much information. Would it help to say she is also a prolific author of beautiful children’s books?) Anyway, the Dairy Hollow House Soup & Bread cookbook was given to me by my sister-in-law, Wanda, a terrific cook and dear sister. Little did I expect that a cookbook author from New York City, now living in the Ozarks of Arkansas, would have anything really useful to say about gumbo, but her wonderful history of gumbo and her story about Gumbo des Herbes (Gumbo Zeb) sold me into trying it, and I’ve been making it ever since.

Basically, the recipe is for a gumbo base. The quantity is large enough so that you can cook one batch and have the makings for three or four pots of gumbo in your freezer. There are several steps to this recipe, so don’t let it scare you off. Once you’ve made the base and frozen the containers, it’s easy to have gumbo whenever you want it. You simply add chicken stock to the base, and you’re done.

But is anything really that simple? I guess you have probably figured out that I don’t get my chicken stock from the grocery store.

Remembering Walter

Now that I am really into gardening, I am learning how to hoe. It is not as easy as you would think. At first I was bludgeoning the weeds with my dull blade. Then I realized the hoe should be sharpened. That’s how you can get the hoe to scrape the ground without destroying the row.

It seemed that Daddy must have told me this once, but then I realized that it could not have been me that he was talking to—I don’t remember picking up a hoe until recently. No, he must have been talking to someone else within my hearing. Maybe my mother was the one who hoed. I do know that in his later years, my dad used to get his garden weeded in a fairly unique way—without ever having to touch a hoe.

Family stories are usually passed from the older generation to the younger, but this is one story that the younger ones gave to me. Because I lived away while my nephews were growing up, I did not get to see the events they described. It is this story, though, that makes me think of my dad each time I pick up a hoe.

Walter Moreau was the patriarch of our family, the glue that held all of us together. He loved us all and, at various times, hated us all. He laughed and joked, hollered and cussed, smoked and drank. He was real, and because he was real, we could be, too. His house was always home, no matter that we were grown and had houses of our own. Each day he could be found sitting in his rocking chair next to the heater in the kitchen, with one or another of the family sharing a pot of coffee with him. His children and grandchildren were in and out of his house as though they lived there, and a cohesiveness rarely found in families formed among the group who shared his kitchen and his coffee. 

In the years before he died, he didn’t leave the kitchen very much. He was ill, and his movements were limited. He still kept a garden. Of course, he could not do any of the work involved. He could not till or plant or weed. He could not hoe. Yet nothing was done in the garden without his direct involvement.  

Each day, the nephews who lived nearby would come in for coffee or just to visit. It was then that Walter would shuffle toward the kitchen window, point to some area of the garden, and tell whoever was visiting what needed to be done. Just his telling had the effect of a command to the person hearing. When the cup of coffee was finished, the visitor, on his way out, would do the thing that needed doing.

Not everyone, though, got through the task in the way Walter wanted it done. It was then that the tap on the glass could be heard from the garden rows. Walter would be standing at the window, tapping to get their attention. The person in the garden would look at Walter, try to decipher what it was he wanted (which was not always an easy task), and then do his best to get it right. It was this constant tapping, looking, tapping, looking, that finally got the job done and caused many of our young ones to become pretty proficient “cussers” themselves. That was the way he got his garden tilled, planted, and weeded. That is the way he got it hoed. His tap on the glass was the only gardening tool he needed.

In the years since his death, we have often laughed about his tapping on the glass. The young grandsons who worked in his garden now have grandchildren of their own. I don’t know how many of them have gardens. Maybe they are still too young yet. Gardening seems to appeal to the older generation among us. As of yet, none of us are in such poor health that we have to resort to Walter’s method of tapping on the glass. But it is good to know we have another alternative beside a hoe if we need it.

Walter stories are still a prominent part of our family gatherings. He has been dead for twenty-five years, and we still miss him.

Walter Paul Moreau

April 6, 1912 – November 19, 1985

Egg Sardou Recipes on Cooking Page

Actually, only three of the recipes are on the Cooking page. I have posted Julia's Bechamel and Hollandaise sauces and Marcella's Eggplant Patties. If you decide to make Eggs Sardou L'Acadien, you should be able to get by with these three recipes and some hired help to wash the dishes.

The eggplant patties are very versatile. I have used them as the base for holding a ladle of crawfish etouffe or sauteed shrimp or crabmeat in butter and lemon sauce. I've also thought of them as a good vegetarian substitute for a hamburger patty. Use them instead of meatballs in spaghetti sauce, as well. These are terrific for so many dishes.

Notice also that I have now categorized the recipes. You will need to scroll down the page to get to Sauces and Vegetables to find the new recipes. More coming soon!

Go Ahead...Invite Mustard to the Party

This past weekend, I set out to prove that Mustard could be invited to a party and perform as well as her much-admired cousin, Spinach. The dish that was to be my proving ground was Eggs Sardou, a pedigreed creation with beginnings in 1908 at the famed Antoine’s in New Orleans. Jules Alciatore created this fine dish in honor of the French playwright Victorien Sardou and served it to him at breakfast (Roy F. Guste, Jr., The 100 Great New Orleans Creole Recipes). This little history lesson is being given so that you may appreciate the sacrilege it would be for someone to finagle with such rich culinary history. Sacrilege or not, I sauntered forth with determination. I was going to take lowly Mustard and turn her into My Fair Lady.

Eggs Sardou is not a dish that I had ever cooked, though I had eaten it in one or another of the New Orleans restaurants. At its base is a layer of creamed spinach, on top of which is nestled an artichoke heart, the perfect container for a soft-boiled egg and the drizzling of hollandaise that is poured over the top. A touch of something black is placed at the very top, truffles (for the well-healed) or black olives (for the hoi-polloi). It has seen some variations over the one-hundred years since its creation, but nowhere had I seen anything like the dish I am going to tell you about. This is my own version of this lovely, lovely, beautifully rich dish that should be prepared only for a small party—perhaps two—for one of those very special occasions—like a fiftieth wedding anniversary. [You will understand my reasoning as we go along.]

The dish begins with creamed spinach. Instead, of course, I got out the mustard greens I had stored in the fridge—and realized I did not have enough. They cook down so much that you must begin with a massive quantity. I went back to the fridge and pulled out the kale—two strong greens. Did I dare? Of course. I washed and chopped the combined mustard and kale, sautéed it in olive oil, and steamed it for a short while with a little water until tender (need I say that all massive stems were removed before I started—no point in pushing your luck). [To be washed: 1 pot, 1 salad spinner]

For sauces I go to my ever-beloved Julia’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Her recipe for Bechamel is basically the same as the butter, flour, milk sauce you have been making since you were twelve. Her technique is what makes it come out so velvety smooth, and yours can, too, as she set out to prove all those years ago when she worked on this wonderful book. So my Bechamel was lovely. I added it to the drained mustard and kale and set the pan aside. [To be washed: 1 pot, 2 measuring cups, 1 colander]

Instead of artichokes, I set out to find something local that would give the same texture to the dish. I thought of eggplant and remembered that some of the vendors at the farmer’s market were still bringing eggplants even though summer has long been over. I got a couple of pounds and got out Marcella Hazan’s (the Italian Julia) Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking. I knew which recipe I was going for: Eggplant Patties with Parsley, Garlic, and Parmesan (why would I look for anything else). These patties are fried in oil so they are crusty on the outside; they’re meaty and provide a contrast in texture to the creamed mustard and kale. [To be washed: 1 baking pan, 1 chopping board, 1 grater, 1 bowl, 3 plates, 1 skillet, 1 stove]

Poaching eggs freestyle is an undertaking in courage. You must bring the vinegar-laced water to the boil, then lower the heat so that bubbles gurgle up, but not so rapidly that they would demolish the egg that you so carefully lower into the hot water.  The spider or slotted spoon is a must for spooning the white over the yolk making everything neat and tidy. Poaching an egg in this manner is fairly easy once you’ve done it a couple of hundred times. Poaching is also a forgiving method of egg preparation since, even when the egg is blown apart (yes), you can still spoon the white over the yolk and make it somewhat presentable. (It just dawned on me—I’ll bet that was part of the reason Alciatore put that hollandaise over everything!) [To be washed: 1 pot, 1 slotted spoon, 1 small bowl, 1 plate]

For the hollandaise, I went back to Julia. I read every word of her reasons why you should first make hollandaise with a bowl and whisk before using the sure-fire, no-fail blender hollandaise recipe. I acknowledged her wisdom and experience and got out the blender. [To be washed: 1 blender, 1 chopping board, 1 pot]

At last everything was ready to put the dish together. I took out two plates and managed to find space for them on the counter between the dirty chopping boards and the plates I used for rolling the eggplant patties in flour. I started with the creamed mustard and kale (which I had to reheat slightly), then added the eggplant patties, topped the patties with the poached eggs, and spooned the hollandaise over the entire exquisite creation. For the touch of black on top of the dish I used leftover black fish roe that we had gotten from Rouse’s for sushi night with the grandchildren. Voila—Eggs Sardou L’Acadien!

I turned to set the plates at our usual eating spots in the kitchen. Not a clean space to be found. I yelled to Harvey to grab the wine and meet me in the dining room—white tablecloth, comfortable chairs, dimmed lights. Mustard and kale were elegant in their new surroundings. No one would ever suppose they were meant to be anywhere else but in the finest dining rooms. The eggplant was a perfect balance for the greens—and what dish is not enhanced by the yolk of an egg, be it poached or in hollandaise.

While I may not go through the trouble of creating this lovely, lovely, beautiful dish at home again (even for our fiftieth wedding anniversary), I will definitely make creamed mustard (kale, collards, etc.). It can hold its own on any party or holiday table.  Harvey and I think it’s “just loverly.”

[Clean-up: 1 hour and 25 minutes]

Recipes will be posted on the Cooking page in a couple of days.

New Garden Photos

The updated garden photos are found at the bottom of the Garden page. You will have to scroll down to see the new pictures. Sorry, technical difficulties would not allow me to place them at the top of the page (the difficulty being that I don't know how to get the other pictures to move without messing everything up).

Been Here Since 1945--Not Going Anywhere

After writing about the feed mill, I felt it imperative that I introduce you to another place I have come to know-- the hardware store. My old image of a hardware store was that of an aisle marked by a blue banner hanging from the ceiling at Lowe's, printed vertically with white letters: H-A-R-D-W-A-R-E. This was the place to get all of the do-it-yourself materials Harvey and I needed to hang a picture, install a hook on the back of the bathroom door, or buy a length of chain to hang a basket of ferns. The projects were simple, and it was a place to go with anonymity, without a need to explain the reason or ask permission for the things you wanted to buy.

The chickens have changed that image for me. The store that I now consider to be my hardware store is one that I've been in only a few times over the forty plus years that I've lived here. The store is a relic from 1945--no air conditioning, screened windows all around the building, dust covering all the merchandise (some of which surely has been there for one or two decades, if not the six plus that the store has been in business), and an owner who waits on the customers in a matter of minutes from the time they open up the screen door and come on in.

But it is not a store you would be able to find easily. The sign posted on one of the main streets coming into town is not exactly a billboard, but it acts as one since it proclaims the name of the store and it's motto: Been Here Since 1945--Not Going Anywhere. The store isn't located near the sign; it's actually around the block from the sign, and if you were from here, you would know that.

Another thing you need to know is that there is no anonymity here. You must own up. Like enumerating your sins in the confessional, the owner wants to know what do you want to do with that thing-a-ma-bob you just asked him for. You might even have to tell him twice if he really thinks you don't have a clue about what you are doing. Then he will tell you what you need. It may or may not be what you asked for, but it will be what you need.

Harvey was building the chicken coop and needed to get a light socket for the warming room. Being the Nervous Nelly that I am, and fully admitting that I believe electricity to be magic, I had concerns that Harvey might kill himself putting in the socket. Are you sure you can do this? What happens if you hook up the wrong wires? Is there some sort of insulated glove you can wear the first time you plug this thing in so you can be sure you won't be electrocuted? Not only did I have life and death questions, I had questions about whether or not the light would be high enough so that the chicks would not touch the bulb and burn themselves, and if staring at a bare light bulb could cause blindness in the chicks, and whether frosted bulbs would be better for their eyes than clear glass. You can imagine the relief I felt when Harvey said we would go to the real hardware store to get the materials and the answers.

You might be saying to yourself, "Do hardware store owners know the answers to questions like this?" The answer is No. They know what kind of socket you need, and they have light bulbs that will be just fine for your brooder, but they are not concerned about whether or not the chicks will go blind staring at a light bulb; and if using a frosted bulb will make you feel better, they will sell you that one at no extra charge.

I went with Harvey to the hardware store. We went through the whole spiel about the coop and the socket and the light bulbs and ended up getting exactly what we needed, though we weren't really sure what it was we wanted. I think that might be a good motto for a hardware store: We give you what you need when you don't know what you want. I might suggest it to the owner the next time I'm in the hardware store. I know he will be there. His business has been here since 1945--he's not going anywhere.                                                    

The Chicks are a Week Old

See new pictures on the Chickens page!

Mustard Greens--They're Not Just for Breakfast Anymore!

A few days ago my friend Jim brought over some of his delicious yard eggs and told me he had had mustard greens for breakfast. I thought, "Wow, mustard greens for breakfast?" I had no idea anyone could summon that amount of courage so early in the day.

As I was thinking about what I could fix for breakfast this morning, knowing that there was a container of left-over mustard greens and sausage in the fridge, and being a firm believer in the "Ginger-Rogers-did-everything-Fred-Astaire-could-do, only-she-did-it-backwards-and-in-high-heels" philosophy, I decided to make a modified Eggs Sardou using my leftover mustard greens in place of the spinach called for in the recipe. And being so early in the morning, I did not go through the trouble of making the cream sauce--basically we had fried eggs over mustard greens. But was it good! The bright orange yolk from Jim's chickens' eggs flowed over the greens, making a sauce of their own. The greens that were so good yesterday had only improved overnight. I had an almost-gourmet mustard greens dish for breakfast! My next foray into Eggs Sardou with Mustard Greens will be for Sunday brunch. If it turns out as good as I think it will, look for the recipe in the cooking section.

Not Too Much, Just Enough

Family stories define our social group. We tell them over and over again at family gatherings, and each time they are related, we relive the experiences. No one would think of saying, "I heard that story before." We listen as though it were new to us, and those who were not yet born when the event of the story originally occurred incorporate the stories into their lives as much as the rest of us who were present.

The following story is not a family story; it is a teaching story. It is one that I have told many times to teachers and to some members of the family who are teachers, so I will ask that you once again suspend belief that you have heard this story before and read it as though you are hearing it for the first time.

The most profound lesson I have ever been priviledged to witness occurred in my classroom fifteen years ago. I had come across the lesson plan in a book titled Nobody Don't Love Nobody, a book by a young teacher who taught homeless children in New York. I read the lesson and knew I would have to try it, even though I had many doubts about how the lesson would turn out. Would my students be able to handle the situation I was going to put them in? Would anyone be hurt by the experience? I convinced myself that even if it did not work the way I had hoped, I would be able to make it work by addressing the things that caused problems.

On the day of the lesson, I asked my students to sit with me in a large circle on the floor. I told them we were going to have a snack, but that they should not touch anything I placed in front of them until I told them it was time to eat. In front of each student I placed a paper plate. Smiles of anticipation began to appear on their faces. Then I got out my carefully counted bag of twenty sandwich cookies and began to distribute them to my twenty-four students. The distribution was not simply one per plate, with four plates having none. I put two in some plates, three in others, four or five in a few. There were many students who had no cookies. Smiles disappeared and the beginnings of outrage began to appear. "Where are my cookies?" "You forgot to give me a cookie!" "This is not fair!"

I calmly went to my place in the circle and waited for the grumbling to stop. I observed the children's faces and saw what I had expected: grins on the faces of those with cookies, pouts on the faces of those without. Then I said the magic words: When everyone has enough, we will eat. Does everyone have enough? There was silence for a moment, then one and another of those without cookies said, "No, we don't have enough." My only response was When everyone has enough, we will eat. I waited. The children's eyes darted around the circle, not really understanding why I was behaving so strangely. I continued to wait. Then one little boy took a cookie from his plate and gave it to a child without a cookie. I smiled.

More cookies moved from plates with to plates without. Each time the children thought they had done enough giving, I would repeat When everyone has enough, we will eat. Does everyone have enough? They continued to move the cookies until twenty students had one cookie, but four did not. It was here that the lesson got critical (and why you will understand the reason for buying sandwich cookies). The students looked at me with questioning faces: What now? We've given away all of our extra cookies. My only response, once again, was When everyone has enough, we will eat. Then the same child who had begun the giving took his cookie, broke it in half, and gave it to a child with no cookie. It was here that I could feel tears welling. Then another child broke a cookie, until everyone had either a whole cookie or a part of a cookie. I then asked Does everyone have enough? Each child looked at their plates. There was only a moment of hesitation, then everyone said, "Yes." Then I specifically asked each child with less than a cookie whether or not they had enough. Some said, "I don't have as much as _____, but I have enough." Others simply said, "Yes, I have enough."

Then I said, "Now we can eat." The children took their time to eat. They knew they had only this one cookie, or part of a cookie, for a snack. They nibbled on their cookies, talked to one another, laughed about the experience, and at the end, one child said, "This is the best cookie I ever ate!"

The stories that stay with us are there for a reason. This is a story I revisit often. It is a story of a classroom, but it is also a story of a family that developed within that classroom. It is a story about the importance of  sharing, and it is the story of a meal made more bountiful and fulfilling by taking care that all are fed before we take a bite.

On Retirement

It surprises me when people sympathetically await an answer to their question, "So, how's retirement?", as though there could be any answer other than, "Great!" It is as though they are asking a person who's had a near-death experience what the other side was like: Did you see the light? Could you tell if you were on your way to heaven or hell? Did you see Jesus? Questions that reveal more about the questioner than any answer from the questioned could provide.

I retired almost six months ago, and it is just the life I began to dream about in my mid-forties. It was then I realized the mental picture I held of myself had aged from twenty to thirty, and I had to admit that even I would someday get old. Once that hurdle had been crossed, it was easy to begin imagining what the ideal life in retirement would be like. My plans included every activity I seldom had time for during my working years: traveling, gardening, reading, volunteering in the community, and hundreds of ideas more that came and went over the years. Now my life, and my health, affords me the time to do so many of the things I dreamed of doing--what's not to love!

This weekend, I volunteered to help at one of the big events in our community--the annual library book sale. I was assigned to help at a check-out station on Friday night. Friday is the night when Friends of the Library get to shop before the hordes of  "general public" arrive on Saturday and Sunday. Hundreds of people gladly pay the five dollar membership fee to join the Friends just so they can have the opportunity to get first crack at the thousands of books whose prices range generally from twenty-five cents to one dollar.

The night is usually pretty hectic. It is not unusual to have people arriving at the check-out table with five, seven, or even ten boxes filled with books. Being a people-watcher, I enjoy playing a mental game of trying to figure out which people I should try to get to know better based on their book selections. I always have something to say to people who are checking out cookbooks and art books. I try not to say anything to people who are checking out books by or about political pundits, politicians, or the lunacy in politics--a practice of self-control that would impress St. Benedict. I can spot a teacher who is filling boxes with books for her classroom: her boxes are filled with thousands of picture books. (I am only slightly prone to exaggeration.) The home-schooling couples wipe out the religion and bible study shelves. Chefs buy the classiques de cuisine, and book resellers clear out the literary classics. Overall, it is a fabulously entertaining  night for all of us.

About mid-way through Friday evening, I spotted a mother and college-aged daughter waiting to be checked out at one of the busier stations. I called them over and began unloading their boxes, glancing at the mother and trying to place where she and I had crossed paths. I knew her, but could not come up with either a name or a place. Finally I asked where I might have met her before, introducing myself at the same time. It was then that her daughter exclaimed, "Ms. Opal, I knew it was you!" I looked over at her with a quizzical look. "I'm Lauren B. You taught me in first grade!"

This lovely young woman was the precocious young reader I had in my classroom fourteen years ago. I remembered the first-grader as though it were yesterday. Today she is a biology major, continuing to study hard and, from the selection of books I checked out for her, continuing to read hard.

It was at the end of our brief visit that Lauren said, "Ms. Opal, I have thought of you so many times over the years. I remember all of the books you read to us. It was just wonderful." With those words, Lauren made all of the demands of the teaching profession worth the work. Teachers know before entering their profession that they will never be rich monetarily, but sometimes the reward of a job well-done comes to you in the words of a student. Sometimes, it's enough to retire on.

Check Out the Chicken Page

This post is very short because we have been busy all day. Be sure to visit the link on the chicken page. You will get to see what happens when new chicks arrive on the windiest and coldest day we have had yet. Enjoy the show!

Feed Mills

The chicken project introduced me full-faced to a world I had known only with peripheral vision. Never had I ventured into a feed mill. In fact, I didn't know that the weathered buildings standing next to large metal storage tanks, usually on country roads or outside of city limits, or within city limits after suburbia encroached, were feed mills. But I have learned that feeding chickens is big business and not so simple as my grandmother on Yellow Bayou made it seem. There I would throw out a scoop of corn (I suppose harvested from the rows my Uncle Babe planted next to her house) and stand back as the chickens pecked and scratched the bare dirt under the black walnut tree. No, now I have a book that tells me everything I need to know about feed and what I must do to raise chickens because, of course, I must do it perfectly.

I have read the chick-feeding section of Storey's Guide to Raising Chickens at least five times. I have worked out all sorts of formulas based on protein and energy requirements and whether or not feeding should be restricted or free-choice, so I felt pretty confident that I could go into a feed mill, tell them what I wanted, and walk out with a bag of blended food that would meet all nutritional and environmental restrictions I had placed on my feeding practices.

Not so fast.

A feed mill has a few requirements of its own. First, the things they sell are for real farmers. The packaged feeds for walk-in customers are in stacks on the floor or on shelves in the sales area, but there is a cavernous warehouse "in the back" where bulk orders placed at the cash register are relayed--sometimes by microphone, sometimes by shouting--to a group of workmen who load the orders in waiting pick-up trucks (in our case, the back of our hybrid Toyota Highlander--somehow I get the feeling that my new, shiny, eco-friendly vehicle is a mark against me).

The second thing a feed mill has is a language of its own. No matter how well prepared you think you are to talk "man-to-man" about the needs of your twenty-six chickens that will be coming in the mail, you're not. You begin to ask about the grain mix, whether or not it contains kelp or if beans other than soy are used in the feed, and you begin to notice the feed man's arms crossing in front of him, his shoulders moving away, his eyes beginning to squint. His mix has no field peas, is based on soy for protein, and kelp will have to be supplemented if you want high omega-3 eggs. He answers your questions, assures you he has no medications other than vitamins and probiotics, then tells you what the farmers "around here" use. That is the cue that tells you what you will buy, no matter how many books you have read, if you plan to do business here.

Yesterday Harvey and I went to a feed mill to buy some of the best feed we could find in our area. It's not organic, and it is based on soy--two requirements that I have had to compromise on. The starter feed I have used in the past is shipped from an organic feed mill in Virginia that uses field peas as its protein base, but a dollar a pound, the cost is just prohibitive.

I'm going to continue trying to reach my goal of finding affordable, organic, soy-free chicken feed, even if I have to make it myself. I did notice that the feed store sells feed grinders.

Like All Things New

Like all things new, I'll probably be making daily use of this blog for a while. In fact, you may see several posts in a single day, then thankfully, the posts will taper off to a reasonable number of updates before they eventually subside to occasional ramblings. Knowing the progression this blog is likely to take provides a sense of relief for both reader and writer--no long-term commitment required.

Rain has come at last! It started yesterday afternoon and lasted throughout the night--a calm, steady rain, with no wind to anger it. Lightning and thunder are in the distance, making the porch a perfect place to read in the predawn hours. The garden is soaking up as much of the water as possible while I try to soak up the words of Aldo Leopold's A Sand County Almanac. The cost of this book is written on the inside cover: 25 cents. I didn't pay that for the book. It's a loaner from my friend, Jim, who bought it at the library book sale.

I Said I'd Never Do It!

I promised myself I would never start a blog, but like most ideas I have nixed with the word never, it has, alas, come to pass. With that being said, it is fitting that I welcome family, friends, and visitors to this site where I will make an effort to organize information about gardening, cooking, raising chickens, and other ideas or projects that may take root as a consequence of my continued pursuit of  learning. I hope the information, anecdotes, and musings will prove interesting, useful, and/or moderately entertaining.