Full House

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The week walks like a little girl in a brand new pair of black patent leather shoes, in a full house, ready for a huge piece of pumpkin pie with real whipped cream.

1Wednesday Inge and I toasted to eight years of good health and friendship since her breast cancer diagnosis. There is no way to express what this person I trust with all my being, with whom I have shared every discovery in tandem, means to me.

2Saturday the five of us (Don, me, Lesley, Brian, Peter—six with Poppy Seed) squeezed into Don’s new Chevy Cruze to drive down and help Don’s 83-year-old parents move into their new apartment. While the men moved the heavy stuff, Lesley and I made three pies: two apple and one pumpkin that we roasted a couple weeks ago. (If you don't have molasses in your recipe, add two tablespoons; you'll thank me.) I made pie crust from scratch for the first time in I don’t know how many years, and it was well worth the effort. (Ina Garten’s recipe was perfect.) A rare-for-me baking fest felt so good. Then feeding it to the five weary men felt even better.

3Tuesday is my Rilke blog partner Lorenzo’s 55th birthday. (Oops, I didn't ask him if I could tell you that, hope he doesn't mind.) Who'da thunk I'd have a blog partner in Spain whom I've never met? It just shows that you don't have to be with someone physically to develop a close friendship. Lorenzo's blog The Alchemist's Pillow is a haven of art enthusiasm and history, poetry, Spanish culture and other beauties that belie categorization. Happy Birthday, Lorenzo!

4Wednesday is the Willow Ball, and the moon goes harvest-full. Last week I wasn't feeling the ball thing, and then I got inspired. I'll tell you next post. I hope you'll go, because if you don't you'll feel like a slug. Everyone's invited. Go to the link and look at the invitation.

5Friday is our son Peter’s 29th birthday. He is now back in Michigan to live after moving to L.A. in the summer. All five of us are in Michigan now (six with Poppy Seed)! After Peter's accident last month, you can imagine my feelings hugging him a couple of weeks ago. His jaw is healing well; just a couple of more weeks of wiredness, and then we'll cut loose and celebrate his birthday a bit late with SOLID FOOD.

Now if only the Detroit Tigers win the American League title in the baseball playoffs against our son-in-law's Texas Rangers, we’ll be "hitting on all sixes ." To "hit on all sixes" is Jazz Age slang for performing at 100%, as in hitting on all six cylinders. Don's new Chevy Cruze doesn't have six cylinders, but it is a six-speed, the new Eco model. Sweet (but claustrophobic for five, especially when one of the five has a sixth in her).

The Wes Montgomery Quintet gets the idea of this glee in "Full House," recorded live in Berkeley in 1962. On Piano: Wynton Kelly; on tenor sax: Johnny Griffin; on bass: Paul Chambers; on drums: Jimmy Cobb. I love watching Wes's five l - o - n - g fingers on his right hand on the strings and the left five on the frets, then Wynton's five+five fingers on the keys while sun flare music and Wes's smile drive headlong on all six cylinders into my heart.

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Ramon's Rapture

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"Praising Prairie Dogs" by Anthony Falbo
used with permission of the artist

Squeals and laughter bounce on the air between the school and the schoolyard's bordering maples. Mr. M. presides over afternoon recess. His fourth graders dangle from monkey bars, swing on canvas swings, huddle in gossipy conversations, or play tag. Some kids in this grade are feeling the first tugs of the exhilarating and mysterious upswing of puberty. One of them, Ramon, stands by Mr. M., watching his classmates. He happens to be OCD, perhaps slightly autistic, and is loved by everyone in the class including Mr. M for his sweet, funloving nature. For example, he does not allow Mr. M.'s desk to remain chaotic, as it is wont to do on its own, and he teases Mr. M. with mock sternness when it begins to pile up with unfiled papers and miscellany. Then he proceeds to tidy it up, promising not to throw anything away.

Girls are running around the big fourth grade teacher and the tall fourth grade boy, playing tag, especially targeting the boys. Occasionally Ramon takes refuge from tag, of which he is usually the center. Sometimes he needs to escape that decisive touch. Sometimes he wants to be caught. At this moment, he stands by his teacher, "safe" from the maelstrom of arms, legs and whoops. A few girls break from tag to catch a breath and come up to discuss something serious with Mr. M. — a minor dispute needs settling. Ramon stands close behind them listening, his eyes closed, face slightly tilted toward the sky. Then off the girls run, captivated by the next chase.

As soon as the girls are clear Ramon says with his eyes still closed, "Mr. M., did you smell their hair?"

Mr. M. replies, "No, did it smell bad?"

Ramon moans out his answer, "Ohhhhhh" and hugs himself, swaying, his face upswung.

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Poem: The Great Gray Owl

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It was disappointing Sunday when I was sitting outside in the summery breeze, writing on the laptop, and Don came rushing up to call me back to the pines where he had seen a great gray owl. I went with him, also rushing, then creeping quietly when we got to the pines. We searched high and low in stealth, but he was gone. I have never seen an owl outside a zoo, though I have heard them at the farm. Don looked into eyes just like these. We did find three pellets on the ground, things that Don's third grade students dissected in his classroom last year, and that was thrilling. (Owl pellets are regurgitated; they're not poo. You can read about owl digestion here, it's fascinating.) As the experience worked in my consciousness, other things floated up and into a poem.

The Great Gray Owl

When I was a girl, at night
I stood in the shower
like a shivering field mouse
afraid of yellow eyes
behind the curtain, the man who wasn’t
there
          the man
not from the street, or the window,
but from the shadowed attic,
or the basement, clammy and dark,
the invisible one who came behind
my skittering heels
while I carried a can of beans upstairs. If only
I had the swiveling head of an owl to always
see the predator,
though what good would a swiveling head do
if he is invisible?

There was a great gray owl in the pines
on a summery day in April
when the wind pushed the bamboo
like dainty bending ballerinas in a row,
first this way, their thin arms up, swaying,
then the other way, leaning at the waist.
My husband came running to me, to pull me back
to the woods to see those black and yellow eyes,
staring as my grandfather’s
had from a sepia portrait
at the top of the stairs
when, the youngest, I had to go to bed
before everyone.
          A man
I did not know, a figment, a phantom.
Handsome, dignified, staring, terrifying.
How could I know — That he,
if he had really been there,
not just gray eyes in yellow skin, flat
man on a flat wall, if he had been full and flesh
as he was at last one year visiting from New Jersey,
that he would torment me on his aging,
bouncing wool gabardine knees with foolish mischief,
teasing until I would gasp
between a giggle and a sob. O too soon
when we buried him he was skin and bones, leaving me
to wonder if ever, ever
I would know for certain that a man was really there,
and whether he was benevolent, or cruel.

The owl was not there.
He had flown. On the ground we found
three owl pellets — hair-covered remains of mice, rabbits, moles —
cocooned bits of skull, white ribs, vertabraic knuckles, teeth.
No eyes. Nothing
but gray shrouds of fur.
What the owl could eat, he ate, then gratefully,
even compassionately it seemed,
delivered them up — whole, like small torsos
without need for arms or feet, beautifully
and purposefully wrapped, woven in wool, napped
and cowlicked, tweedy, suited for the earth,
elegantly prepared for burial.

one of the owl pellets we found; owls regurgitate them, they're not poo;
for more on owl digestion (fascinating), read here

Great Gray Owl photo found here.

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seven

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Seven is the number of wholeness and completion. This week we complete seven whole years living on this little farm. I've filled pages at this blog with farm joys since our second winter here. Today I'm planting wee memory haiku in the soil, like crocus bulbs. I was going to plant seven, but an eighth nudged its way in. Let's say the eighth is for the year ahead.

1shopping for a country house

here’s the driveway, stop!

tree embrace. seduced.

you’re ours, they whisper

2winter modesty

nothing but lace above

white sheet below

bare arms, chilly

3Pleiades orgy

cold night, hot tub

lucky man

one woman, and her seven sisters

4laundry joy

sun and wind call:
to Lake Michigan!
she replies, I'm coming!
as she hoists her sails

5how do you do?

let me introduce myself

come outside

I'm nature

6pendulous

heavily they fall

bounce in the grass

soften

7farm wedding

August rain
waters plum vows
100 people become one

8pharoah’s dichotemy

seven years

abundant leanness, or lean abundance

wet sky, dry sky

does it matter?

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Note: Image of the Pleiades found here.-

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My tongue speaks French and Chinese

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Chinese long beans

I have tried to keep up with my personal farmer and his vegetable garden this summer by gathering and preparing the goods for the table. Just a few footsteps from our door we've picked strawberries, rhubarb, tomatoes -- green for frying and red, yellow and orange fresh or in sauce -- green & red peppers, jalapeños, banana peppers, kohlrabi (oh so crisply satisfying dipped in hummus), beets, peas, carrots, garlic, scallions, sweet corn, cucumbers, zucchini, bush beans and pole beans. From the herb bed: basil, parsley, thyme, chives, sage and rosemary.

While ordering seeds from his piles of catalogs back in January's blue ice days, Don discovered Chinese long beans and ordered some and even built a special trellis. These long beans are also known as long-podded cowpeas, asparagus beans, snake beans, chopstick beans, yardlong beans, dau gok in Cantonese and jiang dou (豇豆) in Standard Mandarin. They are thua fak yao (ถั่วฝักยาว) in Thai, right Dee Dee? (I sort of feel that I shouldn't say that out loud.) When the first beans were ready to pick, I was impressed with their length, but I asked myself, Does size matter? I am a green bean lover. When I go to Paris, a supper of haricots verts, baguette, Roquefort and a glass of red wine suits me very well after a day out on the rues. I like a thin, delicate bean, with a warm, mellow flavor and texture that is tender and smooth.

Chinese long beans next to a handful of bush beans; 

the long beans are about 18"

As we learned more about Chinese long beans, we discovered that they are all the rage in fancy restaurants. Chefs have fun sculpting them into different concoctions, like an entertainer does with balloon animals. I decided to create nests, and Don suggested the little onions that were strangely anchored on the surface of the soil under the scallion leaves, for "eggs".

I am trés heureux to report that Chinese long beans are délicieux! They are tender and warmly savory, the way haricots verts are. And you get to create something clever if you want. These are what I call bird's nest beans, which I believe my tongue tells me is les haricots verts d'un nid de l'oiseau in French and 鳥的巢穴豆子 in Chinese, but I could be wrong.

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Chicken Scrapbook Memories

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Two years ago, in the spring, Don's cell phone rang at 4:00AM. It was the Post Office saying his chicks had arrived and to please come pick them up. They were peeping like they had something to crow about.

Since then he has bought more, and some he raised from eggs his chickens laid.

The Polish chicken varieties have spiky head feathers that resemble Samuel Beckett's hairdo. My Dutch sister-in-law Astrid named this one Kuifje (which I believe means this kind of top-heavy hair).

The two chicks below left are Polish, Honey is in the middle. You can already see their dominant bird brains, ha. You'll see more of Honey, below, when she's grown up.

Memorial Weekend 2008 was the first time Don let his first flock of chicks, the Ornamentals, out of the coop. Honey already needed a feather cut, because she couldn't see. So Lesley held her while Don played barber. Peter was Dr. Doolittle.

Don has also raised quail, ducks and turkeys. Last Thanksgiving he gave his organic, free range turkeys to many families around Michigan.

After more than two years of feeding and watering twice a day -- including in the deep freeze of Michigan winters -- cleaning coops, brooding, hatching, and gathering eggs, Don has decided to gradually thin the herd and be done with raising birds altogether. We don't eat eggs or chicken any more, and so raising them just to give away or sell is losing its appeal. Plus, we can't stay away more than one night, so we're feeling tied down. Don has raised some birds for meat to sell, but the first batch we got, the Ornamentals, we raised for farmy ambiance, and eggs. We named that first group, like members of the family. We would never, ever eat them.

Bob the Crèvecœur raped and pillaged. Squanto and Khan bit the hand that fed them. They, um, got the axe.

Our girls who were named have all been sold in the last few weeks to nearby farmers, except Jolie, who got sick and died this past spring.

At full coop Don had 116 birds. Now, all that are left are 8 turkeys, 7 quail, 7 chickens and 2 ducks. All the birds we named are gone. He wants to sell the rest, and by Thanksgiving in November, when these turkeys will be 30-40 pounds dressed out on a platter, he plans to be featherless.

When Don told me he was ready to be done with birds, I asked, What about Honey? What about Floozie?

He replied with a question, "Do you want to feed and water them?"

Pause.

Pout.

"No."

I was like a head with my chicken cut off.

I miss Honey, Floozie, Dahlia and Jolie running around the yard. (I don't think Bishop does.) But I did little or nothing to keep them alive, and as the saying goes, I shouldn't cackle if I haven't laid. Is it worth all Don's hard work, just for the pretty atmosphere they create on the farm? Do I want to venture out to the coop every morning and every evening, spring, summer, autumn and winter?

Don has promised Lesley that when she and Brian start a family, he will get chicks before they visit, so their kids can learn about animals, play with them, and gather eggs, as many kids have done here, like Kaeley, our niece.

Until that happy day when Lesley and Brian start their own nesting, ours will be empty.

Don has a blog called A View from the Green Barn, where he chronicled his chicken and other farm escapades. It's wonderful. He doesn't post much any more, but there is still a lot there worth reading.

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